It was not the first rough flight Dimitri had been through. And being in a seat inside sure beat sitting in his Wanzer's cockpit, while being flown around on one of those heavy transport helicopters. That's one experience he would never admit to never having gotten use to.<br/><br/>But no, this was a breeze compared to those times. He just sat patiently, and tuned out the world around him. Their was so much chatter and back and forth, and he didn't throw his own voice into the fray. Some might even assume, incorrectly, that he had drifted off into sleep at some point, but he remained ever aware.<br/><br/>And then they were finally disgorged, out into the rain. Something not entirely unfamiliar to him; it was kind of refreshing, really. "At least it's not snow." He would say to the men and women that would be his comrades, for a time, as they hurried along to find shelter indoors.  Mostly, though, he figured that not a single one of them had ever been to his beloved home country during the snowy season. If they had, they'd probably be laughing.<br/><br/>Once they were inside, he took only the briefest of times to get excess water off of him. Then it was back to marching along the corridors, and eventually entering into the meeting room which, he imagined, they would not be leaving any time soon.<br/><br/>He claimed a seat somewhere in  the middle section of the table, his wet clothes a nuisance that he did not allow to throw off his Zen. He was wearing black leather boots, and night camo'd fatigues.  The black beret on his head was, in a strange twist, unadorned. The back of his fatigues also<em>lacked</em>any of the typical OMON identifications, which meant that the others would have to guess at what he was; though, definitely not where he came from. When he had spoke earlier, his accent had  been too thick and too uniquely Zaftran to be mistaken for anything else.