Lance Corporal Jennifer Mitchell hated cryosleep, she hated it even more then firewatch on liberty. Every time she had a good dream, she woke up destined to drop into some mud-stained shit hole that God had forgotten and the Corps was destined to conquer. She breathed a deep, long breath of her first fresh air in a while and sat up slowly, looking around through squinted eyes to get that fucking buzzing out of her ears from the air cyclers firing up. Her body chilled with the first contact she made with the floor, her toes involuntarily curled and she stood up, shaking it off like usual. Everything was as usual, just another day in the Corps. The damp, foggy haze that filled her mind, left over from her cryosleep, began to dissipate, and she realized how actually refreshed she felt. It wasn't unusual, but a welcome feeling for her, she slept like a log whenever the opportunity presented itself.<br/><br/>The cold floor did not stop her as she moved towards her locker, shaking her feet away from the cold floor, and as her eyes finally opened, she yanked open her locker and swiftly dressed into her skivvies. Jennifer let out a quiet yawn, rubbing her eyes and stretching her arms then her legs, the sweet attraction of chow becoming less and less resistable as her stomach threatened the growl. She put on her boots and trousers, closing her locker and walking out towards mess. The ship itself was nothing new, though she did take in the sights.<br/><br/>Warmth was finally a sensation, not a dream, as Jennifer strolled into the mess deck, glancing around the rather empty room, she noted her CO and the synthetic were already here, and she left them to their devices or otherwise. The chow line was particularly appealing, neither good nor bad, among the many things the Corps did well it was make one want to eat the worst food in the universe.