Fiddling inside his coat, Bob groaned with distaste. No money right now it would seem, but pressing him would be a bad idea. Jean-Baptiste was unstable, currently unable to satisfy his urges, and the last thing Bob needed at the moment was a “semi friendly” battle to the death. "What you spend on "company” could feed a small nation, yanno”. Finally reaching what we hoped was the correct pocket,he pulled out a large syringe of a clear red color. Throwing it to his comrade, Bob began to mentally tally the interest that he would deduct from Jean-Baptiste’s next pay. 
"I’ll take that bet if only because our female companion seems to the type to remove a man’s bal----"
Suddenly Creed's voice blared over the alarm system, cutting him off mid thought. "All pilots to the mech bay. We got an emergency on our hands people. War dogs are breaking through the gates on the Seattle, and California refugee bunkers. We will be splitting you into two teams." Bob visibly brightened.
"---oh there we go. The boss has a job for us. We should really get on that". Adjusting his glasses and motioning for Jean-Baptiste’ to follow him, Bob continued to gab. "We should seek to mentor them! You never know when you’ll need “backup” against a near innumerable alien menace, and the longer they live the more bodies between us and the horde!"