Jean-Baptiste lay about in his bed, door unlocked and shades and beret left on the nightstand, restlessly flicking the blade of a pocket knife back and forth. He had several very good reasons, he felt, not to mingle with the newcomers: he'd already gotten his shot and earbud back when he'd first signed up with Creed as a test pilot, he'd disliked the welcoming speech back then (a regular bunch of army recruitment bullcrap were his exact thoughts) and, having caught a short glimpse at some of the crew's profiles the previous day, he had absolutely no desire to socialize with a bunch of emotional rejects that would probably get themselves killed at the drop of a hat.

No, Jean-Baptiste was already annoyed enough. Whenever the helicarrier lifted off or was otherwise decided to be on service by Mr Masky it meant no shore leave, no alcohol, no easy women and no "stimulants" to pass the time with. The nanomachines in his system, while effective, only detected some irritation and restlessness in him, perfectly normal in soldiers between combat zones. Only a psychiatrist, and an very good one with a lot of time on their hands at that, might've sensed that Jean-Baptiste was not nervous about combat but instead craving the opportunity to crush something and get the itch out of his system. In the meantime he lay there, flicking the blade back and forth, back and forth. Waiting.