Place: Apartment 27B<br/>Date: Jan 15th, 2116<br/>Time: 5:20 am<br/><br/><span style="text-decoration: underline">Peter Aldo</span><br/><br/><span style="font-style: italic">Damn it</span>. Peter clapped his roughed hands to his face and rubbed slowly, His brain felt foggy, which wasn't a surprise since he hadn't slept the night before, except for a brief fifteen minutes where he dreamed that he was falling from the sky. Normally Peter was an extremely heavy sleeper, to the point of constant hypersomnia. Today was different, filling him with so much stress that he had laid awake, counting the number of stains on his ceiling and imagining launching into space over and over again.<br/><br/>The day that Peter had applied to join the colonization program seemed like a far off dream. It was a strange decision to make for someone who hated the idea of space travel, to volunteer for such a mission. But still, the psych tests had been clear that he'd be a perfect fit for the mission.<br/><br/>He just wanted to get away, really.<br/><br/>Hurtling in a tin can, far off from the planet's surface, or any surface, for that matter.<br/><br/>Was it worth it?<br/><br/>Peter forced himself out of the covers and made himself a cup of coffee. After pouring in a cow's worth of milk he chugged it, dropping the mug in the sink and looking at the clock above the oven. It was too early to leave, but too late to sleep. He groaned and opened the fridge, searching for the familiar Styrofoam box of last afternoon's Chinese. As a cook, he rarely made anything for himself, preferring takeout and microwaveable meals. If not for his obsessive exercising, Peter likely would have been over 400 pounds.<br/><br/>Grabbing the box, Peter clunked down at his kitchen table and began devouring the sweet-and-sour chicken by plastic forkfuls.<br/><br/>When he had emptied the container, Peter dropped it in the trash and looked back to the clock. Still too early. It was hard to expect that Chinese food would take over two hours to eat anyway. But Peter could hope.<br/><br/>Packing had been done the night before, so there wasn't anything to occupy his time with. Peter could grab and go. He always tended to be prepared early. It was a trait developed by years of cooking. The most arduous task was always the cutting, peeling, soaking, dicing. Once that was done, he just needed to turn up the heat and wait. This time, the wait was excruciatingly long.<br/><br/>All of his belongings for the next forever, in a single black Duffle bag by his door. Half was filled with cooking supplies; knives, pans, and spices, to name a few. Peter couldn't trust the crap they'd likely have on board the ship. Sure, it was a mission funded by the government, but anything that wasn't Peter's personal equipment had to be crap.<br/><br/>The other half was filled with personal belongings. Two pairs of jumpsuits, one green and one tan; 2 pairs of jeans, a thick flannel shirt, and three tee-shirts. Everything else was an assortment of oddities.<br/><br/>Peter looked around the apartment for anything he could have missed. He was glad he had when he saw that the picture of a little girl was still on his dresser. He snatched it and wrapped it gently in his flannel shirt.<br/><br/>He was ready to go.<br/><br/>Place: Space Agency Mission Control<br/>Date: Jan 15th, 2116<br/>Time: 6:00 a.m.<br/><br/>The walk felt like a journey of eternity to reach the Space Agency building. As he reached the entrance booth, he suddenly realized it might not be open so early. As he approached the door, however, it was clear there was already plenty of activity. As he entered he was spotted by some woman with a lanyard, who stopped him and asked him to provide identification.<br/><br/>Peter provided the proper paperwork and held back his disgust as the woman rifled through his belongings. He was eventually cleared and walked out into the hall. What had she been looking for? Dangerous weapons? They let him keep his knives, so the check seemed more like a formality than anything else.<br/><br/>As he sat down on the farthest of the chairs that lined one wall, Peter wished he had had a second coffee. His head was pounding and his eyes felt heavy. He didn't expect any of the other crew members to arrive very soon. He found it strange that none of them had met yet. What sort of idiot planned that? Complete strangers isolated from the rest of the world, in close confinement. It wasn't that he disliked people. He simply didn't trust most.<br/><br/>Peter let out a long, drawn-out sigh and put his head against the wall. He let his eyes slowly close.<br/><br/><span style="font-style: italic">Let's not fall this time, shall we?</span>he thought as he began dozing off.