The minutes ticked past, and eventually the assortment settled in. Most were laying claim to their bunks:

 The Asian with white hair, painfully feminine in Carrie's opinion, was stashing his carry-on and sword under the bunk. She assumed it was a ceremonial weapon, of which the practice of carrying was regaining popularity in many Eastern militaries, but something about his demeanor and the way that he delicately slid the katana out of sight denoted a sincere personal attachment to the weapon, and she wondered if he expected to use it or not. More so, she wondered if he was worth a shit with it, in the sense of swinging it around in gimmicky, ritualistic training. The thought of using it in a fight seemed out of the question, bringing a sword to a gunfight was tantamount to suicide in a modern gunfight, but you could never really tell anymore with the Asian countries. Admittedly, they'd made large strides in terms of military prowess as of late, but as far as she was tracking they still clung to tacky strategies, Banzai charges and shit like that.

 The American Airman sat alone on his bunk, not attempting conversation with anyone. He was half-way through a sandwich, the sight of which made Campbell's mouth water and stomach turn. She hadn't eaten in a while, and she struggled to decide between snooping around the mess, galley, chow, whatever it was called in this place for a sandwich of her own, or sneaking off to find a place to smoke in order to subdue her hunger. The wild haired British man was pacing back and forth down the center of the room for what appeared to be no reason, and as he reached the far end of the room and turned, marching back towards her bunk, she realized that his eyes were equally wild. Though he could be SAS, explaining the thousand-yard stare, he had more the look of a mad scientist, and she thought he'd heard him loudly babbling about something or other back at the elevator. He could just be an idiot. Probably. 

". . .We'll ride them someday. . ", The Stones' closing chorus played through her generic white earbuds, a song by The Misfits beginning without a pause, assaulting her ears with grating guitar and aggressive drums. She'd been on an old punk kick lately, the new stuff was too poppy for her tastes, having been turned on to it by Corporal Willis, her team leader. The Mexican woman had fallen asleep against her bunk. Campbell couldn't blame her, and considered doing the same. She recognized the ROK Army uniform, but the rank stitched onto the Korean woman's collar was about as distinguishable to her as a Rorschach. She met eyes with the Korean once, Carrie's displaying an almost harsh apathy, before the latter took a seat on the bottom bunk, the metal frame swaying with the additional weight. She'd hoped that an American would have taken the bottom bunk. South Korea was still allied with the United States, but the mutual disdain between the United States and the majority of Asian countries was contagious, and it was a distinct possibility that she'd have to endure her bunkmate's bitching and scheming. Carrie smirked, the image of her scarred knuckles drilling into the Korean's nose drifting through her mind, though maybe she was getting ahead of herself.

The doors swung open, and all of the attention in the room was shifted to the new group who entered. They carried about them an air of authority, and the two men in charge separated themselves from the others, two peons carting in bags and small furniture items. All were Chinese, a fact that troubled Carrie deeply. It was like the newfangled superpower was this shit-show's core supporter. She could see the chevrons on the Sergeant's shoulders, and though as unfamiliar with the PLA's ranks as the ROK Army's, it was obvious that he was an NCO. He appeared on the verge of frenzy, for no real reason, and Campbell instantly recognized his leadership style, a bullheaded Sergeant flexing his nuts to prove that he's in charge. Before he had a chance to start screaming in gibberish, she quickly climbed down from her perch and assumed a rigid parade rest. Feet shoulder-width apart, hands locked behind the back, right hand over left, head and eyes straight forward, face expressionless. Her uniform was crisp, her boots were clean. Despite her attitude, and as much as she already hated this asshole, who didn't look like he was very good at not getting shot, she was a Marine, and she would proudly display it. Reminiscing about her psychopathic DI's on Paris Island, the Marine stood like a statue, waiting for instructions, yelling, or most likely, both.