Sigma Madelline or Bust

Sam chokes on the nutrient drink, his throat muscles still rigid and unresponsive for the long hibernation. He calms down after coughing some.

It takes him a few moments to get his bearings. Right. I'm still in the tin can. He sits up and sighs, feeling the familiar sense of mild claustrophobia - the void and blackness just beyond the thin walls of the craft too vast and hostile to contemplate.

Sam has slightly impish features, reminiscent of classical art depictions of a faun, or of the pagan God Pan. He is short of stature, and - when fully awake - moves with quick and precise gestures.
He is slightly awkward with other people, this trait probably an influence on his chosen professional path in life. Sam always found machines and engines easy to be around.
He finds human interactions tricky, but a little easier to negotiate through humour and jokes. But a sharp observer will read the slight social anxiety the veneer of the jests conceals.

The others know him as a talented tinkerer, constantly smudged in grease and engine oil. He comes across as focused and laborious on the job, joking and a little nervous off duty.
His companions know he was born on an asteroid colony, and that all he knows about Earth is second-hand, from videos, popular culture and books.

"Rise and shine, sleeping beauties," he mutters in a croaky voice.

Doc nods a very human thank you gesture to the synth as he accepts his nutrient-filled liquid delight. "Cheers," he says quietly to himself.

Knowing the disorientation and nausea will pass, the Doc begins to gather himself and get his bearings. The familiar sense of anxiety and wonder begin to take him, who knows what new scientific frontiers await in the vastness of space. Each trip is unique in its potential, and to a scientist like Dr. Driscoll. . .a chance to gain some renown for a new discovery.

Dr. Driscoll is a tall man at around 6'3" with milk chocolate-like skin. He is often serious and logical in his overall demeanor. His slick bald head often reflects the overhead lights of the ship, which may sometimes make him the brunt of a joke or two, but his overall look would be considered distinguished to some. More often than not in a white lab coat, it is hard to miss the "good" Doctor.

As the crew's Scientist and ad-hoc medical officer, he takes his position very seriously and the crew has come to trust him. His pedigree includes various degrees, including a Ph.D. in both Biochemistry and Ecology. Other areas of his academic study have included Medicine, Biology, and Botany. He is an earthling.

He turns to Sam after hearing his morning salutation. In Doc's own croaky-just-now-awakening voice he responds, "Good morning to you Sam." He looks around to see the others stirring.

Rising and shining about as well as one might expect after months in the tube, Fry roused from his slumber with all the grace and panache of somone who'd spent an intense week of binge drinking, ears ringing and the world spinning. This was the worst part of every trip -- the one part Fry absolutely hated. It wasn't the sleep that was so bad, but waking up? To say he felt like death would be an understatement, and it showed all over his face.

Stumbling out of the cryosleep chamber and onto the steely floor, the lanky pilot shivered as he danced from foot to foot half-heartedly to ward away the discomfort of the chill; nothing quite like waking up to the cold, cruel reality of the ship after spending months in a cold, cruel sleeptank. Groggy, nauseous, and definitely not happy to see Teller's smiling face, the pompadour-sporting navigator snatched the foul-tasting brew from the SAM thanklessly. The artificial thing made him nervous every time he caught a glimpse of its face; like it was always watching him. Which, admittedly, Teller probably was. That didn't make Fry feel any better.

"Gee, Sam. I didn't know you thought I was pret-- pret--" Fry began, his typical sassiness cut short by a sudden welling sensation in his gut as it rocketed up his throat. Unceremoniously and unpleasantly, the ill-feeling star-jockey hurled all over the floor, wretching and keeling over as what little contents survived the trip in his stomach splattered onto the floor. "... pretty. Blech." He gave Doc a feigned smile, then turned his attention back to the disgusting nutrient-rich beverage he still clutched in his hands. Downing it profusely, Fry swished it around, preferring the disgusting taste of the vital cocktail to the one he just experienced. The lesser of two evils, or whatever.

Notoriously snarky, antiauthoritarian, a braggart, and more than a little reckless, Friday "Fry" Jones isn't exactly a by-the-books type. It's no secret he grew up on a space station, and he's more than happy to divulge all the dirty deets of his ne'er-do-well antics when he was running short-range shuttles across the station's exterior (as well as other, more risque things). It's also no secret the only reason he signed his contract was because he wanted to do some real flying with some real starships, and none of that mom-and-pop skimmer garbage. Of middling height at a modest five-foot-ten, Fry's a well-built, good-looking twenty-something with a passion for flying through the black, vain to a fault with his dark brown pompadour haircut immaculately maintained. Despite his abrasive attitude, he's surprisingly well-educated, with a degree in astronavigation, a graduate of the Halley Flight School near Luna, and a certified asshole. He might not be a nice guy, but he is damn good at what he does, and Fry is more than happy to cockily point that out.

Sam grins seeing Fry throw up, then is reminded to check himself for potential tube accidents... luckily none have occurred.

He waves drowsily to Driscoll "Hey Doc. Looks like you got your first patient already. Fry must have eaten too much ice, in cryo..."

Deacon takes his time coming out of the tube. Standing up he slowly stretches and tries to work the kinks out of his body. Moving forward, Deacon heads over to where the others are heading.

While he's serious about keeping everyone safe, everyone knows he's just as quick to tell a joke. With a secret love for anything engineering, Deacon is just as likely to be found with his nose in a tech manual as he is monitoring the security cameras.

Morning everyone...you guys look like I feel.

Sam looks at the to do list and sighs, "I missed you too, Teller. Within normal specified tolerances, that is..." he says sarcastically.

He scrolls the data on the terminal, his attention focusing on the supernova burst. "Can you give me more info on the sensor array incident? Was this an unexpected energy burst? When did it happen?" he asks the android.

"Well that's just super," mused Fry as he rolled his eyes, finally getting his bearings enough to not imitate jello stuffed into a skin suit after managing to hold down his drink.

"When you say 'malfunction,' how bad are we really talking here, Tell? Like, short-range-uh-oh-there's-a-loose-thermal-plate-but-we'll-never-know bad, or oh-god-we-can't-see-those-asteroids-hurtling-towards-us-and-we're-about-to-die-from-explosive-decompression-when-they-hit bad?"

"Better get started then..." he says. "Good job I had a good few hours' sleep."

Walking slowly to allow his body to keep up, he collects his things from the locker by the cryo pod and leaves the LongSleep area.
"Care to join me, Deacon?" he asks the Secondary Engineer as he exits, "in case I forgot how to use a screwdriver?"

He will head to the Workshop to collect pertinent equipment for the diagnostics, with the intention to proceed from there towards starboard, to take a first look at the malfunctioning sensors.

Sure, two heads will be better than one. Deacon follows Sam as they leave the Cryo bay. As they do Deacon begins to run possible scenarios through his head.

Listening carefully to Teller"s technical jargon, Doc knows it is a bit out of his wheelhouse.

*I'll head to the lab and check on things there. Come see me if you're still feeling I'll after an hour or so Fry."

Benton Rogr Leaves the bathroom, having been the first one to awake and to find his shorts spoiled. But that is nothing new. Every time He has gone into cryo, he has soiled himself, so... its par for the course. He returns to the Longsleep room to see everyone already up and already leaving. He walks over to the Trash composter and throws his travel shorts in. 'Travel shorts' is a euphemism for adult diaper. He is an old man. He has been on trips like this many times, traveling the stars, and seeing almost none of it.

Benton (A.K.A. Ben to people who know him. Not many friends per se, but he does have a few acquaintances) is an older man, in his mid 60's if you count time NOT in cryo. If you do include cryo time... well, he is a VERY old man indeed. He is slightly tall at a whopping 6'. Good even number, that. He studied medicine in college, and joined the program right after graduating. He had met a lot of people in his stint, and that has changed him. Not for good or bad, but changed him none-the-less. He has always been a bit cynical, but overall, he is an accomplished medical doctor with a way of getting people to relax. And as a doctor, getting people to relax when you are working on them after they punctured their suit, or they got exposed to the reactor, etc.... Well, it can be the difference between life and death. and it is in bentons best interest to keep everyone alive, because EVERY life counts on a piece of steel out in space

"Do not worry doctor Driscoll. A certain level of sickness is normal after awakening from cryo. I am sure Fry will be fine in a few minuets". Bentom takes in a slow, slightly accented voice as he moves in the same direction as Doc, headed to the medical bay .

OOC:
I went ahead and gave myself a fail on the soiled check. sorry for the late join! had a busy weekend

Sam checks the diagrams on the terminals to find the correct access hatch that will get him to the array unit. Opening the metal hatch, he wears a head flashlight and crawls with his tools in the cramped, dark passage revealed. It is narrow and progress is hindered by the many wires and components all around him. He has to crawl flat on his belly.
Damn... These maintenance passages seem designed for rats, not humans...

He finally reaches the back of the array unit and starts unscrewing it from the rack it is secured in.
Now, let's see what's wrong with these babies...