<strong>Name</strong>: Alexander Carter<br/><strong>Species</strong>: Human, male<br/><strong>Status</strong>: Undressed<br/><strong>Location</strong>: Second Floor, near the Cryo-statis pods.<br/><strong>Time</strong>: Unknown; a few minutes after the others were revived.<br/><strong>Content</strong>: Waking up<br/><strong>Tagging</strong>: Open<br/><br/><hr/><br/>To Alexander’s mind, genetic manipulation was the way of the future, more so than pure robotics ever would be. It went beyond mere insecurity about being obsolete to machines (well, beyond<em>just</em>that). Machines were fundamentally static, but animals were made to respond to new conditions, to change throughout the course of lifetimes, and to evolve between them. The rigours of cryo-travel provided the perfect example. The disorientation, the blurred vision, the muscle weakness… they could be fixed. The human body could be retro-fitted<em>so easily</em>, with nothing more invasive than a single injection to deliver a bout of gene therapy. Alexander could never understand why so many of his crewmates were squeamish about it, preferring to stubbornly endure the symptoms of cry-sickness simply because of some ill-informed belief that gene editing was somehow transgressive. For his part, it was no different to getting a vaccination, or undergoing physiotherapy. In fact, he’d made a booking for the full suite of spacefaring gene therapies the same day he’d been accepted into his first off-world mission.<br/><br/>Simply put, it all meant that Alexander had an easier time of waking from cryo-sleep, at least compared to some of his peers. For him, the process was gentle, if still a little uncanny. It started as cold night with strange dreams, the latter surreal but too fleeting to be remembered. As his mind stirred, the dreaming became more lucid – memories that were softly misremembered, rather than disquieting fever delusions. He saw himself revisiting a beach party from his youth, where dune grass met with a river outlet to the ocean. He heard the voice of his spouse telling him, as she had on many occasions, that the bloody hound had someone got out again. The words were said with more humour and endearment than actual frustration. He glanced over a field of modular shelters on the vine-riddled fields of Ingris VIb, springing up from the tangled undergrowth like mushrooms.<br/><br/>The dreams receded, giving way at last to the waking world. Acting on training and muscle-memory more than conscious thought, Alexander immediately bit back the instinct to cough spasmodically. There was a trick to emptying the goo out of one’s lungs. Rumble and purr, like some singer performing a bunch of weird warm-ups. Fight the urge to cough. Wait until the tickling in the lungs was almost unbearable, knowing that every second would make the next bit better, and<em>only then</em>, hawk and give a single almighty cough. Supposedly, a person could get the stuff out of their lungs all in one go if they did it right.<br/><br/>Alexander managed it in two: a hugely, phlegmy glob to open with, and a mere mouthful for the second. It mingled with the rest of the viscous slime being washed away, as the cold and heavy grip of suspension fluid was replaced by the warmer spray of revitalisation mixture. He flexed his fingers and toes, and hefted his weight against the pod floor. A little grin was already starting to form on his lips. There was always something of an informal race to see who could clear themselves from cryo the quickest, and for Alexander, it was a point of pride that he always won with ease, smugly waiting for the rest of the crew in the ready room with mugs of steaming tea already on hand…<br/><br/>Except that something was wrong, very wrong. Awful as the implications were, it still took a few long seconds for him to notice. There were two kinds of revitalisation pods, affectionately nicknamed ‘the water slide’ and ‘the sarcophagus’ respectively. His ship – the one he went to cryo-sleep in – had one type of pod; he’d woken up in the other. When the realisation finally struck, no amount of warming jet fluid was enough to stop his blood turning cold. Wherever he’d just woken up, it wasn’t the same place he’d gone to hibernation.<br/><br/>There’d been a training session for that too – Unknown Revival Protocols – though the learning modules had always seemed a bit of a joke at the time. Now, Alexander found himself trying to recite the main points with grim sobriety, his smirk long since lost.<em>Stay calm</em>, he told himself.<em>If it’s slavers or pirates, just cooperate. Give them your insurance details for the ransom; treat it like any other financial transaction. People with professional-grade cover are overwhelmingly likely to be released quickly and without harm…</em>Contorting in the confines of the pod, he checked is wrists, neck, and temples for the presence of any restraints or monitoring devices – the sort used by prison wardens and illegal slavers alike. There was surprisingly little consolation in finding them bare. Wracking his brain, Alexander tried to dredge up the rest of his Unknown Revival Protocols, but the memory was foggy; mostly, he remembered idling his way through the automated training session, and cheating on the competency quiz at the end. If he’d had the time, maybe he might’ve remembered something useful, but a faint mechanical hum signalled that the titular ‘water slide’ mechanism was engaging. The revival process was almost complete, and whatever fate was awaiting him, he was about to meet it.<br/><br/>The contents of the pod – goo, occupant, and all – were flushed downwards, into a sealed tub on a lower level; Alexander knew he was being moved from deep storage to the entry/exit bay. A final set of sprays (simple water this time) heralded the last step of the revival process. Alexander slowed his breathing, trying to steady his pulse as he stared up at the fogged glass. It was tempting to linger, to hide in the tub and try to gather his thoughts a bit longer… but whatever was happening, it was always better to know sooner rather than later.<br/><br/>“Well, no point playing possum,” he murmured to himself. He pressed his palms against the fogged glass, and pushed. With a little click, the mechanised hinges engaged, and Alexander stepped out to meet whatever was waiting for him…