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     Her ears flicked back against her head firmly as she slipped into the ship's workshop.  The machinery tweaked her nerves with its insistent squeals, shrill and discordant.  Thankfully the earplugs quickly responded to the noise and filtered the worse of it out.  It wasn't completely canceled out, enough always got through to irritate the back of her mind like some half-remembered bad dream, but at least it was bearable.

     Which was much more then she could say about the stench of the place.  Aside from the musky odor of sweat that almost, but not quite, covered the slight tang of blood there was the slippery gut pulling scent of the oils used to keep the machines lubricated.  The stink of it worked its way into fur and clothes, refusing to let go unless the proper soaps were used in excess.  Otherwise it seemed to be a constant companion, the heavy scent eagerly curling up deeply in the back of the nose and throat where it almost seemed to start clawing inward.

     Humans never seemed to really understand why marines hated to enter the engineering decks; like most tools on a ship the machinery was designed with their senses in mind, not a NeoDog's.  Perhaps that was for the best, though.  When working around so many moving parts even closely trimmed fur became a very real -- and painful -- liability.