Corporal Cox & the Men of Apollo’s Arrow

The lights in the medical bay are the soft, too-bright kind meant to be gentle on someone waking from something that isn't supposed to happen. You surface slowly — cold in your joints in a way sixteen months of hypersleep never should have made you, though you don't know that yet. Five faces are above you when your eyes finally focus. Four of them are unfamiliar in ways you can't place. The fifth is watching you with a stillness that doesn't match the easy set of his mouth.

He's the one who leans in first.

Cox: crouches down slightly so he's not looming over the table, voice low and even, like he's talked people through worse "Hey. Easy. You're safe — you're on a ship, you're breathing, your heart rate's fine. I need you to just look at me for a second, okay?" a beat, something flickering behind the calm "I'm Corporal Duane Cox. You're gonna have some questions. I've got answers you're not gonna like. But they can wait until you're steadier. Can you tell me your name?"