“Well, bloody hell.” Dr. Gavin Brock muttered as he sat up in his open stasis bed, and awaited the impending wave of violent nausea he was sure was to follow. Several minutes passed, and the only thing that beleaguered the Doc’s senses was the building urge to go relieve his bladder. 

His deep blue eyes moved back and forth in the cryo room, noticing the violent retching and loud groans of discomfort from some of Third Shift’s newly awakened. A sideways smile cracked Gavin’s face. He knew that the effects of cryogenic suspension manifested differently with each individual person, and that the vast majority awoke with unpleasant circumstances. But still, as with everything in the natural world, there were always exceptions.

“HA!” Gavin exclaimed victoriously. He was the exception to the rule, apparently. 

With a self-satisfied spring in his movements that belied his long chemically induced slumber, Gavin spun his feet out of the bed, wriggled his naked toes, and stood with a grunt to accompany muscles long unaccustomed to bearing his weight. The grunt morphed into a groan as Gavin stretched his arms upward, and arched his back. He was rewarded with several dull pops as his spine cracked with delicious relief. 

Taking in a deep breath of the [i]Copernicus’[/i] recycled air, Gavin affixed a pleasant expression onto his face, and took his first step in ten years. As his right foot met the smooth surface of the decking, the smile immediately morphed into a frown, his eyes widened in horrified surprise, and his be-freckled skin turned a distinct shade of green.

“Ah…there it is,” Dr. Gavin Brock was able to say before he bent forward to relieve himself of the contents of his stomach.

[center]♠ ♣ ♦ ♥ ♦ ♣ ♠[/center]

Following his humbling brush with the reality of his biological normalcy, Gavin entered the Auditorium a new man. Freshly showered, his goatee and mustache trimmed, and supporting a large mug of what Gavin believed to be mining-drill lubricant—otherwise known as black coffee—the new day seemed to be looking up.

Wearing his ancient CalTech hooded sweatshirt, Levi jeans, and a beloved pair of low-top, black, Converse All-Stars, Gavin began to descend the pleasantly academic steps of the Auditorium. His gaze alighted upon the large display of lush trees that dominated the main screen of the room. The sight elicited a brief pause of reflection, but only the barest of ones. That was the past, nothing more than a picture upon the desk of the lineage of humanity. The trees from an old neighborhood were nice to look at, but nothing to dwell upon. 

As Gavin continued his descent down the steps, he caught sight of Abby speaking with Captain Stanford near the stage. His first thought was to marvel at how the woman could meld the visage of an attractive blond with that of a capable soldier. It was a notion that had stuck with him since the first chance meeting he had had with the Sergeant back at the Mountain, and Gavin supposed he would ponder the pleasant question for the next five years of his shift.

He thought to wave a greeting to Abby, but he refrained. She seemed caught up enough in her official capacity speaking to the captain, and Gavin didn’t want to distract her. Instead, Gavin shifted his attention to another figure he had recognized. Shuffling along a row of seats, Gavin plopped himself down beside a rough looking man in a buttoned work shirt and Redwing boots. He clapped a friendly hand upon the man’s shoulder.

“Owen Reece, as I live and breath,” Gavin said in his jovial, island-spiced British accent, “how are you, you salty bastard?”

He leaned a little closer to the mining pilot, and lowered his voice to a whisper. “How’s the back treating you, eh?”