[Finally: someone who had done their research before coming to ask her the exact particulars of how she'd shoved her foot in her mouth. That it's Crichton shouldn't be a surprise - she knows he's smarter than he looks (and acts and blahblahblah) - but it is.

A beat. She studies him for a fraction of a second across the fabric of the jacket, the line of her mouth obscured behind it and the angle of her arm. After a moment she lowers the tough fabric, balls up the jacket and tosses it on the bunk beside him. When she speaks, her tone is clipped but neutral - a recitation of facts:]

Grey or not, I can't organize any formal checks without getting kicked in the ass for it. Medical team scanned everyone coming onto the ship, but no one's interested in doing second round sweeps for anything that might have mutated since then for us. [--Well.] For me.

[She's not ignorant to the possibility that someone else asking might get it (though it doesn't and won't occur to her that tone probably has something to do with it), but it's not really a rope she wants to put her weight on either. There's something heavy and dangerous at the other end of it that might end up falling on her head.

But there's an itch at the back of her neck and between her shoulder blades that won't just let her leave the issue either. Not like there's an option to - they're all stuck in a goddamn tin can with whatever's killing recruits. Ignoring the issue for the sake of a little peace and quiet among the ranks isn't something she can swallow.]

What's your approach?

[Because he must have one. He's here.]