<div class="floatleft">(https://i.pinimg.com/236x/4d/e4/db/4de4db0d36edeae01e2a43ba666d29aa--deus-ex-mankind-divided-jensen.jpg)</div><br/><strong><span class="bbc_font" style="font-family: arial black;">NAME:</span></strong>Jacob "Sink" Sinclair<br/><strong><span class="bbc_font" style="font-family: arial black;">RACE:</span></strong>Human<br/><strong><span class="bbc_font" style="font-family: arial black;">OCCUPATION:</span></strong>Chief Engineer<br/><strong><span class="bbc_font" style="font-family: arial black;">WEARING:</span></strong>Dark Green overalls with oil stains.<br/><strong><span class="bbc_font" style="font-family: arial black;">LOCATION:</span></strong>Kalanhai | Cargo Bay<br/><strong><span class="bbc_font" style="font-family: arial black;">CONTENT:</span></strong>Preparations for departure<br/><strong><span class="bbc_font" style="font-family: arial black;">TAG:</span>Councilors Tevos Araeus, Tus Penin.</strong><br/><br/><br/><div align="center"> ___________________________________________________________</div><div align="center"> ___________________________________________________________</div><br/>The human in question stands by a set of crates wearing a worn set of overalls stained with oil, omni-tool flared up, and running, incoming messages by the dozen on display. His attention not even shifting from the displays, one of which is showing info-stream coming from a floating eyebot that hovers inspecting the many boxes.<br/><br/><strong>"That depends, councilor, entirely whether or not you are prepared to tell me where are we going?"</strong>His answer loud enough to be heard, but not by much. His hand moving to poke on a checkmark on of the info-screens next to a list item, then his yellow cyber eye zooms to a new part in the info-displays.<br/><br/><strong>"And since I'm assuming I'll find out that part after we've departed and are beyond communication range with the citadel,  the answer is no. I can't possibly bend the laws of physics enough to fit in everything we need."</strong>This is the point where he finally tears his attention from the omni-tool's displays and towards the roof, hand setting itself on his hip, his good leg tapping on the metal floor.<br/><strong>"But, we have enough supplies to last four months, six if we ration, and enough weaponry start a turian style border skirmish. I am confident we'll manage."</strong><br/><br/>Sink's attention snaps to the still present omni-tool, then head turning immediately after towards the cargo bay at a Drell setting down a crate.<strong>"Medi-gel to D3 not B5."</strong>His attention and face finally shifting to the two councilors.<strong>"I wouldn't mind getting an extra million credits on my account, tho?"</strong>A human or someone versed in human expressions could easily spot the tell-tale signs of jest on his request, including that playful smirk on Jacob's lips.