Utterly Mad

Locke lets out a rumbling electronic laugh at the young guard's words, nodding as he watches the rabble-rousers get led on over to the airlock. "YoU're RIght a#out th#t one, bOy. All in A g##d day's wORk, I suppose. NOW th#n, I've got dr#nking to do, if you don't mInd me h#ading on back to your oRIginal p#st." He says with a conciliatory pat on his protege's back, turning dismissively to the assumed captain of the guard and her flunkies. "YoU lot c#n thAnk mE l#ter. Was just dOing m# part as A m#mber of this fIne sh#p." Locke shouts across to them, turning on his heel with a flip of his coat and heading on back to the officer's lounge.

Locke strolls through the door with a heap of confidence, seemingly bolstered after beating five men half to death before watching them get casually executed. He passes by two of the men he'd boarded with, giving them a brief, cursory salute and striding straight to the bar. "New YOrk sour #nd a stEAk, r#re, my frIend." He grunts in the politest manner he can muster, leaning against the bar lazily with his mammoth arms.

It's right to assume this'll mostly be where Locke hangs out for the entirety of the jump, drinking, eating, listening to jazz, and disturbing anyone within ten feet of him.