[b]0400 Hours[/b]

Hyperion rises early. Whilst not the only one in this crew of mercenaries with a background in the rigors of military doctrine, Hyperion is orthodox in his application of these matters. Once he had the chance to synchronize to shiptime, his schedule was set. The day begins with PT. Hyperion begins with intense equipment-assisted weightlifting and cardiovascular activities, before transitioning from the high intensity portion of his exercising into the disciplinary portion; One hundred pushups, one hundred and fifty situps, and a five minute plank. Finally, approaching the end of the hour, he concludes the sweat-inducing work by entering the cafeteria in the midst of the third-shift dinner rotation and engaging in a stretch routine.

[b]0500 Hours[/b]

Hyperion religiously fills a thermos of coffee at the end of his exercises. He takes his breakfast as the third rotation crew take their dinner, keeping himself abreast of the goings'-on of the ship. Whilst he is no skipper, a career of ship-life has made him keen on knowing what's ticking in the Engineering sections. His demeanor is standoffish, and the crew is merely polite with him rather than cordial. His eyes are dull and his engagement seems structured, perhaps rigid, rather than organic in this regard. However, the regularity and dutiful attention he gives these questions and their answers is not the empty pleasantry of idle chatter and he takes to it with the same vigour he does his exercise routine.

The only part of his days that seemed to bring any light to the dullness of his eyes was when Hyperion insisted upon cooking. Precisely halfway through his thermos of coffee, he rises from the table with and proceeds to commandeer the cookery. The cafeteria fills with the smells of breakfast even as the third-shift finishes dinner, and by the time Hyperion manages to sit down with his plate of eggs, bacon, sausage, and grease-skin-gravy, he has already served several plates to the vying crew members who hassle him for food.

His methodical approach to eating the meal always ends with cleaning his plate with a swab of the final length of bacon to acquire the remnants of the rest of the meal, as well as one final gulp of coffee. What little light filled his eyes while cooking has since faded and the aura of grim obligation has once again settled over him.

[b]0630 Hours, Onwards[/b]

Shower and hygiene. Equipment maintenace. Crew dossier review. Target location review... Everything fit into his schedule. Except R&R.

It was on this day, after the umpteenth day of file and map data review, as the ship came into sight and shadow of Faringor, that the squad would find Hyperion at the ready in the Operations HQ.

[i]You've done more with less, Severn.[/i] was the main thought that repeated itself in the man's mind. As he awaited the squad's arrival, he checked his Omni-Tool one last time. Five members; himself, two wild cards with penchants for the bombastic, an unknown reported to be a crack shot, and a woman who gave him the sensation of gazing into a mirror whenever he looked up into her Turian features. [i]You've done more with much less.[/i] his mind repeated.

In preparation of the squad's arrival he prepped the central command screen to a map display of Faringor. Synching it to his Omni-Tool, he idly scrolled through the astronomical data points one last time. Satisfied that the information was complete, as limited as it was due to the nature of the job, he remained at parade-rest and set himself to awaiting the others as he stood at the head of the table.