It's clear that before boarding (or being boarded upon) the Ask, Symon was a man who walked at the apex of humanity, a Michelangelo statue made flesh; he is tall and broad-jawed and glassy-eyed just like an old movie star. (Steve McQueen comes to mind.) And because the jumpsuit grazing across his body is so baggy and excessive, once upon a time he must have been well-built, too. He withered some during cryo-sleep, but he still has an ox's neck and shoulders: thick, sinewy, meaty, tough.

But physically the man manages to be subtly imperfect furthermore, quite unlike the McQueens and the Newmans and the Grants of the world: his eyes are too far apart, his teeth slightly gapped; and these two features combined bestow upon his face an air of backwoods inbreeding. He's also balding, not that it's terribly noticeable with his red-blond hue of hair, and the short style in which he has sheared it. His Ukrainian accent is thick and hearty like a meat and potato soup.

The man gets crippling headaches at seemingly arbitrary times, with no set schedule or pattern to their onset. When one has struck, he locks himself away, wishing not to be seen in that vulnerable state; but his moans are coarse and animal, audible through any of the cabin's doors. When not in pain, though, he is an explorer, almost childish in his quest to know every surface of the ship, and every secret squirreled away in the motherboard, the cabinets...

He's not terribly talkative, but when he does speak it feels weightier than would most men's words. Through no deliberation of his own, his voice carries a philosophical cadence and a profound naivete, extremely patient with points of view which disagree with his own. If there's one area to which this patience does not extend, it's his opinion on hierarchy and power: whether the man is a control freak, or a sexist, or simply stressed by his circumstances, he firmly believes in the discrepancy between ruler and follower. He wants the crew, as small as it is, to coexist not as a democracy but a dictatorship, with a clearly defined leader who all others should obey. Perhaps it's natural for a man who was born in an Eastern Bloc nation, with a rich history in oppression and suffering.

He has an intense craving for something. He knows not what, but he hypothesizes he was addicted to a substance in his old life.

Have you ever seen a stray cat slinking its matted body around the shadowy corners of an alley, or a well used dumpster, like a criminal in the night? Jillian could very well be the physical embodiment of that kind of hissing, spitting, low-to-the-ground creature. Arms and legs; long and lithe but not graceful at all, extend slimly from a lengthy body. All awkward corners and angles in her jumpsuit which now hangs off her frame like a fathers too-big jacket; what may have once been a charming body is now reduced to an admittedly skeletal shell. Blacker than black hair, like a seeping oil spill, piles out from an unnaturally pale head to frame a face which hides two morose eyes nestled on top of a bed of purple semi-circles.

Her voice is quiet, perhaps even hesitant; but powerful. It lends the feeling that her lack of volume is not due to her reservations about her own worthiness, but her reservations about yours. She is intensely observant, amber eyes darting around much like the aforementioned animal to record the miniature details which may otherwise go unnoticed. The name of the game with Jillian is to "speak softly and carry a big stick"; though that stick may be more metaphorical than physical.

She is given to fits of occasional bizarre daydreams. In the midst of these it is akin to psychosis; speaking to her will render no response. It is almost as though in those moments, there is no one else aboard the ship besides herself. Upon "awakening" from such an event, she becomes intensely creative; often drawing wild designs and writing with a depraved intensity late into the night.

Despite her reclusive nature and odd habits, Jillian is no antisocial or raging sociopath. She enjoys the company of others like anyone else; though she may contribute less to a conversation than some. She does become worn out if she cannot find a moment to herself after some time of interacting with others, often becoming more irritable than usual. Little did she know, this would soon hardly be an issue.