[ John should probably look far less darkly amused at McCoy's mutterings. It's not his fault that the synthetic chromosome helps him recover from the post-jump stasis side effects almost immediately. It's also not his fault that he missed the grumpy doctor who shares his face (with less stubble and longer hair, but details), just like it's not either his or McCoy's fault that every time a member of Starfleet looks at him, they have a moment where they look like they've seen a ghost. ]

Showers are that way, [ he says, pointing with a thumb. ] After that, you'll want to go to your locker to get dressed. It's the number that matches your nanites on your arm. [ He taps his own, ignoring the fact that his are on a different side than most thanks to the Grim Reaper tattooed on his left forearm. ] Those'll open your room number, too. And no, you're probably not hallucinating, we really do look that similar.

[ Anything else? Hmm... Oh, right. ]

Staff Sergeant John Grimm, United States Marines. I'm about two hundred years before when you're from, which isn't an uncommon thing around here either. If you're lucky, your locker will have alcohol in it.