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     On very rare occasions, when he’s stressed out (even more so than usual) and doesn’t have enough free time to unwind properly, or if something negative is really nagging at his brain, Jack will sequester himself somewhere isolated and have a smoke.

His usual brand is made from cloves and imported all the way from Cronus-7 (he won’t even go near the menthols), in a cheap little packet he keeps squared away in a desk drawer to pull out whenever he gets a moment to himself. He can’t ever bring himself to buy something more expensive, even when he’s got more money than he knows what to do with.

There’s something he finds nostalgic about them; an addiction to a simple pleasure (and subtle self-destruction– burn it all down to build it up better).