Karate Bastard passed the submarine ride in stony silence. It was partially to more quickly recover from the strain of using Buddha's Palm- simply using the technique had killed lesser men. Much, much lesser men. But mostly, he was taking stock of his new allies. If teamwork was to be forced upon him, it was best to know who was capable of what. 

And it seemed teamwork was indeed being forced upon him by this mysterious Mr. Sinister, whoever he was. Unlike some of the others, KB did little more than raise an eyebrow at the mention of the nanites- which, it turned out, were poised to release enough curare and cyanide to kill twenty normal people into KB's bloodstream should Keith try anything. Enough to kill him two times over.

Oddly enough, he was not insulted in the least by Mr. Sinister's need to put a leash on him. Instead, KB took it as a mark of respect. A gesture between equals. Mr. Sinister was clearly aware enough of KB's abilities to feel the need to take extreme precautions. The older rogue knew exactly how dangerous Keith could be. So much the better. There would be no misunderstandings. 

When Jenkins finished their briefing, Keith found his marked bunk. He shook his head at the laundered sheets and soft pillow, before tearing them off the bed entirely and leaving them in a heap on the floor. KB would sleep on the bare mattress. A man ought not have too much comfort. It makes him soft. That's how men became sooks, like that whimpering little girl. He couldn't believe that weakling Ellie had come along with them, asking other people to fight for her. Pathetic. That bizarre creature, though, the General. The one who had thrown the tantrum. Now that was a creature Karate Bastard could respect. The big pale one seemed alright as well. Maybe working with these people wouldn't be quite so bad. 

He spent a few minutes cursing as he tried and failed to work the tablet, before giving up and tossing the thing carelessly onto the bed. Still bare-chested, KB made his way to the lounge in search of food and drink.

He was not disappointed on that front. A fully-stocked bar and a table greeted him. After months of prison food, both looked sumptuous. Although Keith was generally suspicious of luxury, he felt mealtimes were a good time to indulge. Good food was part of a strong body, and good wine part of a happy soul. Smiling genuinely, KB piled a plate with high-calorie, high-protein offerings, then ambled over to the bar and had a look through the glassware. He briefly contemplated a small shot glass before tossing it aside with a sneer. Instead, he grabbed a large water tumbler and filled it to the brim with Lagavulin. KB had picked up a taste for Scotch during his whirlwind tour of Scotland. He had left knowing how to fight with claymore, Lochaber axe, and dirk, not to mention a bevy of traditional wrestling techniques. And of course, he had left behind twelve dead martial artists. He smiled at the memory. Good times.

With gusto, he began to wolf down the food, pausing only to slurp down mouthfuls of expensive whiskey. Keith Blackwell was enjoying his newfound freedom.