The announcement got a grunt of discontent from the unhappy looking mechanic sitting in the lounge. The cheap whiskey was not doing much for him, hence the reason it was probably [i]cheap[/i] but that didn't mean he had to appreciate that fact. Slamming the last of the bottle that was left, since he wasn't going to leave a mostly empty bottle of whiskey laying about, he was good to go after that.

Church, the mechanic in question, stood up with an angry mutter, cracking his neck while he looked over what he had with him. Usual attire, thick black cloak over his crude form of body armor. It did not look impressive, fancy, or elegant but lead the kind of life he did, and ask him again if he cared about looking good. He didn't, and as he heaved a massive two handed wrench onto his shoulder with one hand, he checked his sawn off shotgun, illegal in so many ways, to ensure it was loaded. Good to go, and his mind turned to the man speaking to him as they both walked out of the lounge.

Malone, kid was at least ten years his junior, if not more, far too kind and peaceful for his liking, and got far too damn melodramatic once drinking. But he could do his job, so that redeeming factor was good enough to be a coworker. That, and he wasn't the captain so he couldn't say who came aboard and who didn't. He did need a response though, so he grunted and shrugged.

"That pisswater drink you think was worth calling Whiskey won't put me out of commission that easy, pup. 'Sides, I work better up close and personal. Aiming isn't a concern then, just putting this fine ol' wrench into some stupid tossers head."

Using his longer legs, he strode ahead of the kid Malone to lead the way. With what sounded like the EMP going off, it was their cue to work. They had slaves to free, and he was looking forward to cracking the skulls of every slaver and collaborater between the [i]Washington[/i] and the holding cells.