Damn straight he's not, and that's never going to change as far as he's concerned.

"Very good. You too, Cuthbert." It's a strange name, but it sounds out to about eight letters in his estimation, so it's not too strange. He shuffles his upper body out of the sleeping bag -- his shoulder is still smeared with blood, though it's hard to see against his black clothing now that it's dry -- and reaches over to the bundle of supplies. He unwraps it and pulls out an orange.

"We can share it. To celebrate."