As the other members of the nascent crew were going about their morning routines, Wex was still tucked securely into his bunk, snoring in a manner that sounded not unlike a bucket of raw fish being suddenly and violently upended onto ferrocement. The little pilot did not believe in alarm clocks, having always been a light sleeper and confident in his ability to wake up when he needed to. At the moment on the captain's cameras, however, he looked a bit closer to death than consciousness.
In his dreams, he was running. Whether away from or toward something wasn't clear, but he was intimately aware that it was dark, darker than the deepest parts of the oceans of Hane Jhal where neither suns nor aurorae could reach, and that something was watching him.
He wanted to run, to take off at blinding speed like he knew he could, but the air - water? - was thick and he could hardly move. He felt himself slowly surrendering to that merciless gaze...
He turned, abruptly, and saw all the stars in the Galaxy spread out before him.
The crackle of the intercom coming to life woke him just in time to hear Captain's message.
"Rise and shine, crew. Get your asses to the Mission Deck in ten, gotta brief everyone before we touch down."
With a long, low groan, Wex unzipped the thermal wrap covering his body and slid down to the floor. The comparatively chilly air of the ship cut into his flesh like a knife. Quickly, he zipped up his dirty pilot's coveralls, buckled on his gunbelt and then wrapped himself in a long coat lined with synthetic animal fur. From under his bunk he procured a massive thermos, pouring something steaming hot into a beaten metal travel flask. Somewhere along the spacelanes, in some grubby diner module attached to a backwater refueling station, he had tasted the human drink called coffee, and now found himself hopelessly dependent on it for the immensely satisfying feeling that the heat and acidic bitterness brought him. The reported energy boost seemed to not have any effect on him, though. He kicked around next to the thermos until locating a pair of soft, flexible boots that may or may not have originally belonged to him. Lastly, just before stepping into the corridor, he touched the neural band clamped onto the back of his head just to make sure everything was still in place. Satisfied, he put on his trademark wide-brimmed hat, obscuring the band, and hurried towards the bridge.
"Coming, coming," he muttered, ostensibly to some imaginary version of the captain floating in front of him in the empty corridor. He didn't see much point in timeliness. "Not like there's a clock to punch or anything, is there, boss? Sure, sure, I don't trust the autopilot either. No style, no fresh thoughts, and, get this, the shittiest sense of humor in the Galaxy."
As he slid through the door onto Mission Deck, he noticed the majority of the crew already standing there, the air heavy with expectation. Wex elected to ignore this. The engineer was standing close to the entryway, apparently having run all the way here. The pilot scooted carefully under his outstretched arm.
"Fucksake, save some atmosphere for the rest of us, man."
With that, he made his way quickly across the deck (keeping everyone within sight as much as possible) before reaching his chair and leaning against the back, eyes on the captain.