"Mmmm... yaaahhherlll... huhhh...mrrr... unnngh... "

This may or may not have roughly translated to, [i]"I'll be along later Dr. Lasker. Nothing would make me happier, than to have you adjust a thing or two on my... Equipment."[/i] Then again it may also have translated to, [i]"On the way, Captain Pretorius, wakey-waking this very minute - right on it ma'am."[/i]

Or really it may have been just a string of nonsense syllables that burbled past John Paul's lips as his conscious mind attempted to drag itself from the morass of cryosleep (this latter option being the far likelier choice). With no small effort of will, he tried to focus on something that was not the bile creeping up the back of his throat, leaving a nasty bitterness coating his mouth. He smacked his lips and cringed, not entirely sure which sensation was worse: the foulness that turning his tongue all fuzzy and thick, or the way his stomach roiled in his gut like a seriously pissed off and rabid chihuahua. 

But through it all, one voice still managed to push through the queasiness and the ache. One dark eye opened slowly, the tiniest glimmer of something mischievous playing in their depths as one corner of his mouth lifted almost imperceptibly. It was a soft feminine voice, lightly and exotically-accented to the man born and raised in the deep South, and it was a really nice way to wake up, even if it was a simple report: no deaths in transit, the [i]Aphelion[/i] was on course and the navigator would be confirming their trajectory imminently. John Paul was grateful Lena sent the android, because while he definitely did need the captain's report? Yeah, he needed Sara's expert help even more.

But that wasn't really going to stop him from some cryo-waking grins. 

"OH GOD! Sara? [i]Sara!?[/i] OH GOD [i]WHAT'S HAPPENED!?"[/i] John Paul wailed as he sat up straight in his cryobed, his mouth a rictus of horror as he lifted his heavily-inked and handless left arm to his face. "SARA! What... WHERE'S MY HAND?" 

Dark eyes wide, his gaze darted to his shoulder, and he let loose with an inarticulate howl. "MY ARM!?" he screeched, his gaze darting between the roadmap of scars and ink, and the impossibly beautiful face of the android woman. [i]SARA WHERE IS MY ARM!? IT WAS ONLY SUPPOSED TO BE CRYOSLEEP! WHAT HAVE YOU DONE? [b]WHAT HAVE YOU DONE!? AHHHHHHHHHH... ![/b][/i]" 

That last [i]crie de coeur[/i] was belted out to the ceiling above, head back and mouth wide - but he really couldn't keep it up long. The cry of horror slowly turned into a throaty laugh, as his head fell forward to his chest, dark eyes glancing up to Sara's face with a wicked little grin. Nothing pleased him more than the realization there was [i]some[/i] sort of genuine reaction on Sara's face; though whether it was a grimace of disgust, or horror, or if she was simply wondering what the hell could have happened to the Executive Officer's brain during his long sleep, that she somehow missed... 

"Good morning, Sara," Preacher murmured in his thick Alabama drawl with a grin, his one arm lying in his lap now as he swung his legs up over the edge of the cryobed, feet dangling almost to the ground. "I've missed you, and thanks for the report, and... Would you be a doll, darlin'?" He nodded toward the prosthetic hand and arm, lying next to the thoughtfully laid-out bucket. Only organics traveled in the cryobeds, non-organic materials not faring so well in the primordial soup that bathed and nourished the human body during its long, cold sleep.

"Please, give me my hand at least," he asked with a sheepish grin as he held out the stump of his wrist, the organic surgical interfaces along bone and nerve and muscle radiating around the scarred flesh. "Or I'm afraid I'm going to have to put you out, ask you to hold the puke bucket for me. And you are looking [i]far[/i] too lovely and pulled together, to get all... Spattered... "

[center]**********[/center]

Two functioning hands made a lot of thing easier, thank heaven for the fact Sara had a solid sense of humor for an android, or... Or well, maybe she just didn't give a good damn - a thought he didn't like near so much as the first, but it wasn't like he'd ever really know for sure. 

The uncertainty didn't make his shower and shave feel any less amazing, or the sudden hunger snarling in his empty belly any more manageable. Dressed in a long-sleeved black Wey-Yu T-shirt, tan cargo pants and Burberry replica aviator boots, Preacher stalked his way to the cafeteria.

"Ooorah Devil Dogs!" Preacher barked as he passed the security team with a wide grin, and then headed straight toward the coffee dispenser not a few of the others had already helped themselves. He didn't think twice about the so-called "quality" of the stuff - he'd long since lost his taste buds to the Corps. He nodded to most everyone in the room, his wide, easy smile greeting each in turn.

"Morning, ma'am," Preacher said to Lena as he lifted his coffee cup with a respectful nod, and then settled easily into one of the chairs around a large table. "I'm hoping coffee counts as water... Sorta... In a way... Sara's already let me know about the importance of vitamins and electrolytes, and I swore I'd be all over those nutrient-dense donuts as soon as they're up!" 

He grinned as he set the coffee cup on the table, reaching into his cargo pocket with only a whisper of a whir from his prosthetics when he pulled the Bible from its confines. One booted foot across his knee as he settled in his chair, Preacher easily pulled the ribbon from where he'd left it in the book of Isaiah, and nodded over to the Security Officer. "Morning, Diego, and isn't it another lovely day to be floating in a tin can in the void of space?" He chuckled softly, his dark eyes falling back to the smaller print of Chapter 40.