A fifth snapping of hinges and hissing of air gave way to a less than graceful thud in the far corner of this dry hall of pods. Against the wall in an equally elegant fashion slumped a man, who seemed to have collapsed much like the third awakened. In the poor lighting, the others could only see a black and grey clad figure hunched over on the floor, their face buried in the dust, and both hands hastily weaved through unkempt hair, cushioning his head against the metal floor. After several moments, anyone who continued looking would see him push himself onto his hands and knees, and eventually stand upright. The Cradle's preservation did a less than perfect job staving off atrophy, and his weak posture did even less to hide it.

He glared down the hall in sluggish confusion, clenching his eyes every so often to avoid the dull zombified lights as if they were blinding suns. His legs wobbled as he tried to step forward, and his hands shot out to the sides, looking for anything to hold him upright. After his first step however, he froze. That step. That soft clap against the floor, was that sound? Is that what something sounds like? All he could remember was shrouded in silence, the still faceless visages of people close to him, names and relevance now lost in time.

He shook off the trauma as best as he could, and pressed onward towards the group. With each inch closer, the lights over their pods stung his eyes more and more, but his posture had managed to right itself by the time he reached them. Now the could see him for all he was; a black wind-breaker, gloves, and boots accented a blank grey shirt and jeans. The only bit of color about him were his eyes, which shone with a stark contrast of blue against his otherwise dull attire and distressed expression.