Sam Jack Dunn looked up from his disassembled gear and with his one good eye, met the Captain's gaze. The heavy, disfiguring scarring on the side of his face and the implant in his eye socket on display for all to see, his expression carefully neutral - in fact, he almost looked bored. Sitting in one corner of the room, he listened without comment as their fearless leader outlined exactly what they were going to be doing for the next few days, his hands still moving the rag over the leads that would connect his HMS to his implant as he kept his faze fixed on the Captain.
So, they were losing one of their most veteran troops, and picking up some raw recruits to replace him. He was forced to suppress a disapproving grunt, managing to maintain his noncommittal appearance. Well, there went their medic. He watched as their chances of survival dropped like a rock, and when the rest of the unit cheered about the prospect of some leave, he remained pointedly silent. He had learned in his time with the Easy Eights to keep his opinion to himself, but that didn't mean he had to pretend to like it.
In truth, the thought of a few days idle was a scary prospect for him. All he could remember during the past year was a terrifying blur of running for his life, fighting for his life, and recovering in a Weyland-Yutani hospital after a very nearly successful attempt on his life. He didn't know if he could adapt to a civilian environment, even if it was only for a few days. Especially not with the Eights. Despite what Dugan had said before the mission, the much-vaunted bond between soldiers that was forged in the heat of battle had never formed between Sam Dunn and the rest of the squad. He still didn't want to get close to them.
The last time he'd gotten close to anyone, they'd all died before his eyes...and left him broken for a good few months. Not just physically, either. He waited until the Captain stopped speaking and he was damn sure no-one was paying any attention to him before he let out a long, resigned sigh. He'd just have to spend his leave at the firing range, then. Or maybe showing the new guys the survival tricks he'd had to learn the hard way - not because he cared, but because if they were more prepared, that meant he was less likely to get killed because of them.
He shook his head. Getting soft already, Sam. Didn't Outback Platoon teach you anything? He mentally berated himself, before he shrugged his shoulders and started to re-assemble his head-mounted sight, snapping the parts together and eventually connecting the whole thing to the implant in his eye socket. It hurt like hell for a few seconds, and even he, with his hard-earned fortitude, couldn't help but let out a whimper as a jolt of electricity fired up the connection between his nerves and the wiring in the HMS, grating against still-healing nerves...but really, it was the ghost-pains that hurt the most. The feeling of molecular acid eating into his face, for a terrible second, replayed itself.
He bit down on his lip and fought it down until it was manageable. He then turned to re-assemble his M56D 'Smartgun', hoping like hell no-one had seen his moment of weakness. Eventually, he had his kit repaired, and shouldered it with the ease of someone who knew his gear better than he knew himself, and sauntered out of the room without a glance at the others, heading towards the gym. He didn't want to let this R&R make him soft, so he decided a few brutal sparring matches and some knife drills would help keep him sharp.