As the other new security staff disembarked, a figure sat at the front, idly strumming the same three chords over and over on a battered old guitar. Scratched dark brown veneer leading into a dark fingerboard inlaid with a vine design, some of which was missing, strung with fresh strings. The seats around him were vacant, and he was sat facing the door of the shuttle, as if waiting for something. When most of the others had disembarked, he placed his instrument carefully into the solid, black case it called home and locked the clasps on it. The straps had long since come away, lost to the rigors of whatever road this soldier had come along. He grabbed it by the handle and slung his other bag across his back before turning to climb off, casting a glimpse around him.
The Id-Sol soldier's face was dour and he made no attempt to mingle into the crowd, standing out like a sore thumb. He glanced around the docking bay, at the old security staff seemingly desperate to get out of this space-crate and back to terra firma.
Stovaa almost wished he could be with them, he already disliked this place. A glass trash can, floating in the blackness of space. Only the facts that he'd probably get to see some form of action soon and that he'd be court marshalled if he left now kept him there. He was, he remembered, still earning his freedom. His hand slipped to his belt, checking that his knife, larger and more vicious than the standard issue one, was still snugly attached to his belt. Finding it to be so, he turned his attention to the other newbies around him.
"Anybody else getting that sinking feeling?" he asked to no-one in particular.
(OOC: I did say I was rusty ;P )