The first chance Adrian had, he retreated to his quarters and shut the door behind him. His two briefcases, both roughly half his height, were still sitting on the bed, their contents neatly packed inside. Most of it included clothes, magazines, a few blank notebooks, and other odds and ends. Somewhere in the nondescript mess of luggage, he found not only a small box of capsules and what amounted to a self-heating thermos.
When Adrian finally mustered the courage to head out and into the mess tent for some food, he peculiarly requested what, relative to the others, amounted to air and water. When he reached the others, he sat as out of the way as possible without appearing detached from the group, dumping his water into the thermos. Combined with the capsule, the end result was a thin (and rather poorly prepared) tea that the small pilot claimed would help him fight mild insomnia in a few hours. Sure, he'd be a bit slow on the draw, but it was better than staring at the ceiling.
Adrian fell into his own little world, blankly staring at his squadmates' plates as he idly chewed a vegetable that had long since lost its flavor. He couldn't blame them for it. It was only natural that they would all be eating meat—and it took every last ounce of willpower to suppress the sick feeling in his gut that came around when his eyes nearly popped out of their sockets. He pointed out to himself that Arvarans were mostly of the lean category with a little bit of paste when it came to edible flesh—and nothing being served looked very lean or pasty at all. Even if there were that slight possibility, they were all eating something, and it wasn't him.
The rabbit credited the tea to his lack of further consideration of himself as a food source. Despite his extra confidence, he averted his eyes from anything that might shatter the shell of reason he'd constructed for himself.