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Dennis Werner - a tall man of mixed German and Native American descent, as well as the night supervisor - sat in the back of the van, reading the book he'd brought along for the ride - "Pushing Ice", by Alastair Reynolds, to be precise. Always a fairly quiet man, he had barely paid any attention to his comrades' conversations. However, from time to time, he'd look up from his book, just to see what his fellows were up to. On the most recent "look-up", he saw Henry spit into his bottle, before drinking the water again. That sight had made Dennis grimace - few things had managed to get that reaction from him, but this was definitely one of them. "For fuck's sake, man, how can you DO that?" he asked.

In his mid-twenties with a slim but muscular frame, almost omnipresent goofy grin and tanned complexion Jake Colt looked more like a surfer than anything. Waking slowly as the van hit another bump in the spotty excuse for a road he raised his head. A hand going to massage a kink in his neck before the vain rifleman ran a hand through his hair making sure none of it had fallen out of place. Making a face at Henry spitting back in his bottle before reaching for one of his own. Unscrewing and taking a generous swallow sitting back down he looked back at Henry's bottle before scratching his own "J" into his. Glancing at Lucius he smiles trying to strike up a conversation. " So you've done this before?" He asks curiously." Me, most of my jobs kept me on dry land before this." Adding a slight deprecating laugh to the end of that. "Not that I'm a complete sod or anything, I swear." He hastily adds.