The sleepy emptiness of hypersleep unconsciousness was washed away from Diego, both smoothly, and with a rising sense of disgust. It was like cleaning mud from a root: the initial form was unclear, and potentially disconcerting, but the root itself, once clean, was just as ambiguous, and ugly anyway. It could make you wonder, somewhere in that unorganized id, what the point of cleaning the thing was in the first place.
The Aphelion was not a root, and it was not ugly, but the feeling of activity and consciousness after so long of severe stasis could certainly make it feel as such. Diego retched quietly into the pan next to his bed, coming up with nothing but a little foamy spittle. It was mostly dry heaves, so he drank water, and found he felt better in no time. He waved away the bot and anyone who dared come near him as he settled himself. Diego opened his eyes with a faint sense of control, his breathing seemed to return to normal and his heart had steadied. He lifted his hand in front of his body, and stared in dismay. It twitched and shook of it’s own accord. Diego felt a little shame then, but mostly fear.
“Would this be permanent?” he asked himself. “No, couldn’t be.” he rationalized. Diego could continue without worry if he just assumed it was a side effect of the hypersleep, albeit an unprecedented one. Diego noticed Juan moving over to his storage compartment at the wall. The two had become rather close since they met a year prior to the mission. Juan was an admirer of Diego’s work in Columbia, beside that he was intelligent and respectful. It was all that was needed to form a friendly bond—well, that and their shared tongue.
“Juan , ven conmigo después ya está. Debemos bajar a la armoria y llevar el equipo para todos los demás. ¿Tienes cigarrillos?” Diego spoke with a rhythmic, rolling Spanish, the one he’d been speaking all of his life. The question, which punctuated his move to his own storage compartment, came as an afterthought.
“No, Boss, sorry. There might be a machine around here somewhere.” Juan responded.
“I doubt it,” Diego said with a sigh, his voice a creamy mixture of a Hispanic and English accent, of generally indecipherable origins. He opened the storage container to find his clothing, high leather boots, and a Wey-Yu security badge. Beside those were his 10mm glock, and an extended magazine, both tucked neatly into a velvet upholstered box.
After Diego and Juan had their clothes on, the two made their way down the hall to the armory.
“Don’t you think we should head to the bridge? Meet with the Captain first?” Juan asked as he walked up to one of the cages.
“Maybe. I don’t want to take any chances, though. The Prometheus was lost for a reason, and it wasn’t because they took the wrong turn in Albuquerque.” Diego quipped as he opened the cage and started placing some pistols in a crate, along with extra magazines. Juan piled body armor on a cart after arming himself.
*****
The duo came into the newly christened security crew quarters armed and armored, with more armaments to share. The rest of the security team members began arming themselves, cracking wise and complaining, as was the soldiers right.
“Ladies, Gents, this is it. This is what we've been working for, our lives have led up to this very moment. Whether this is the moment of your lives, just another job, or the pathway to your dreams I expect the same out of all of you. Don’t fuck it up. Stay vigilant, stick to teams of two, remain calm, and be judicial. Head to briefing with the Captain after you’re ready, then we’ll meet back here in an hour. Check-in every hour on the hour. You know your orders.”
Diego spun on a dime and exited the room.
*****
Diego entered the cafeteria as he tried to attach his Wey-Yu security badge, made even more difficult by his unstable hands. By the time he had it fixed on he was in front of the coffee machine. He poured himself a cup then turned back to the rest of the room, realizing there were people in it.
“Well, morning Captain.” He said with a little smirk just before sipping on the coffee. Diego made his way over to the table with a little bit of a swagger, his glock’s magazine swaying with his hips, just barely jutting out from his bulky form. His arms were free of any protection, aside from the scarred skin on his forearms, which were harsh reminders of his night in that doomed station. He rested them on the cool table as he sat in the chair nearest the captain. He sipped on his coffee a few more times, peaked back up at the captain, and spoke with a childish self-consciousness, “fancy meeting you here”. He chuckled with a tinge of shame, and managed to entertain himself with the half-decent nourishment of the shit coffee.
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