Only a piece of bright blue fabric was between his skin and the cool metal of the sleek, tall backed chair.. Having arrived fashionably early, punctuality practically etched into his skin, the young military marksman pressed his shoulders against the black, no-nonsense leather seating. Letting his head lull back and heavily over it's edge, his soon to be shipmates had yet to make any appearances, and thus Nixon was left to stare up, rather than around. Behind tinted lenses of a respirator mask, amber optics illuminated as thermal vision kicked into gear. Blobs, various shades of reds and blue transitioned steadily into existence. A hidden brow quirked, albeit with more of a lazy disinterest and desire to pass the time rather than any actual curiosity. Above the briefing room was a hallway parallel to some sort of administrative office. To the left, a bathroom. The right, probably conference rooms. Of course, this was all just general speculation, given the grid and division between those red blobs, and those other red blobs. It could have been an oddly designed laboratory for all he really knew.
For a few minutes though, he observed what seemed to be aimless shuffling from cubicle to cubicle, but soon shifted his attention to the bathroom where strings of cold and warm water occasionally eased through his line of sight. Two particular red blobs seemed to be fraternizing, this assumption based almost soley on the fact that he could barely distinguish one from the other - as well as their apparent movement. A smirk might have cracked on the would-be-voyeur's lips, but his blob watching had absurptly come to an end. Someone else had arrived, in fact multiple someone elses had. Nixon's already lulled back head swiveled slowly, cocked at a slight angle like a curiously low-hanging Spiderman. One after the other filed in and soon enough, the gang was all there.
No names given, the sharpshooter could only continue with his speculations. That one looked like she could pack a punch, and that one not so much. That other one looked a bit stiff and stuffy, while that other other one - well, who knows. As the door shut behind the final arrivals, personalities became apparent and titles were given accordingly. Interesting.
Captain; front and center. Nixon would lift his head, sit a tad straighter and offer a mock salute by way of passing introduction. Lab Rat and Med-Head followed suit, and just like that the greetings and who's whos had begun. One of which sounded particularly 'Bond'-like. Somewhere amidst the pleasantries though, Nixon would make himself known all the same. A calloused hand smushed against the green material strapped about his face, and promptly tugged it on down until it hung 'round his neck. Subtly clearing his throat, the man would shift in his seat and hoist a hand in the air to garner the appropriate amount of attention. A three-fingered waggle would occur in unison with the voice that rumbled from somewhere deep in his chest. "Moreau, Nixon Moreau." He stated, facial expression unrevealing of the fact that he may or may not have been mocking Sato, Minerva Sato. Regardless, he continued as such. "Designated Marksman, present and accounted for. Shaken, not stirred." The latter part of the introduction might have been uttered an octave lower, simply for effect.
A few inconspicuous eyebrow twitches and lip curls later, he'd made note of everyone's name and general demeanor - to which he thought they'd all mesh rather well, as far he could tell.
Joke and jest aside, Nixon proceeded to straighten his posture and sit casually, while still giving the appropriate amount of respect deserved by whomever would be delivering the crew their briefing. Sliding his mask back into place, the barbell in his tongue would click habitually against the back of the man's teeth as he otherwise fell silent for remaining duration of the meeting.
For a few minutes though, he observed what seemed to be aimless shuffling from cubicle to cubicle, but soon shifted his attention to the bathroom where strings of cold and warm water occasionally eased through his line of sight. Two particular red blobs seemed to be fraternizing, this assumption based almost soley on the fact that he could barely distinguish one from the other - as well as their apparent movement. A smirk might have cracked on the would-be-voyeur's lips, but his blob watching had absurptly come to an end. Someone else had arrived, in fact multiple someone elses had. Nixon's already lulled back head swiveled slowly, cocked at a slight angle like a curiously low-hanging Spiderman. One after the other filed in and soon enough, the gang was all there.
No names given, the sharpshooter could only continue with his speculations. That one looked like she could pack a punch, and that one not so much. That other one looked a bit stiff and stuffy, while that other other one - well, who knows. As the door shut behind the final arrivals, personalities became apparent and titles were given accordingly. Interesting.
Captain; front and center. Nixon would lift his head, sit a tad straighter and offer a mock salute by way of passing introduction. Lab Rat and Med-Head followed suit, and just like that the greetings and who's whos had begun. One of which sounded particularly 'Bond'-like. Somewhere amidst the pleasantries though, Nixon would make himself known all the same. A calloused hand smushed against the green material strapped about his face, and promptly tugged it on down until it hung 'round his neck. Subtly clearing his throat, the man would shift in his seat and hoist a hand in the air to garner the appropriate amount of attention. A three-fingered waggle would occur in unison with the voice that rumbled from somewhere deep in his chest. "Moreau, Nixon Moreau." He stated, facial expression unrevealing of the fact that he may or may not have been mocking Sato, Minerva Sato. Regardless, he continued as such. "Designated Marksman, present and accounted for. Shaken, not stirred." The latter part of the introduction might have been uttered an octave lower, simply for effect.
A few inconspicuous eyebrow twitches and lip curls later, he'd made note of everyone's name and general demeanor - to which he thought they'd all mesh rather well, as far he could tell.
Joke and jest aside, Nixon proceeded to straighten his posture and sit casually, while still giving the appropriate amount of respect deserved by whomever would be delivering the crew their briefing. Sliding his mask back into place, the barbell in his tongue would click habitually against the back of the man's teeth as he otherwise fell silent for remaining duration of the meeting.