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Definitely Finn: give him who knows how long in complete stasis and he'll still wake up grouchy. "Just take a deep breath first . . . It's a little hard coming out of the pods, I know." Stormy fixed him with a look somewhere between horror and surprise, and maybe with a dash of concern still.

She clutched her clipboard close like it was a shield.

"You're in the Life labs of Deus Ex Machina, a hidden military group comprised of people like you and me who could see shadows in the world. Someone came and recruited you a while ago, and you had to do some tests that were probably pretty painful--you'll end up remembering better after a couple of days," she recited, wary now but still needing to fulfill her duty. "I know you probably have a lot of questions, and I can totally answer those as we move along. My job is to help acclimate you to a new life."

But she waited rather than jumped on stuffing information down his throat, much as she wanted to. Maybe it would be easier to let him ask what he wanted rather than give him all sort of tidbits that wouldn't stick.

Why was he here again? Oh...yeah. Life labs... something about training? They all did this. he guessed. Either way he was currently with two people he didn't know at the moment. Well that isnt entirely true, he was introducing himself to the lady with the braids when the floor collapsed on them on the ship...

Hopefully this will not be a repeat performance of that.

Either way he stood back, eyes wide and almost silent, watching curiously. It was rather fascinating, and yet very Matrix-like, to know they all came from these pods. He was also reminded a little of fern gully... Pod people. Hah.

As the newly 'born' hunter spoke, Quinn let out a soft laugh. Was he like that when he was awaken? What happens now? There was a lot of cords and screens around... He would let Lucky and Mimsy show him what they were doing. Right?

[quote+"Astarael"]

< < You should put him in his place. > >

Thane offered a tantalizing image: the greatsword at as throat, runes flashing ominously. No shield to cover him, only a sharp edge and a clear warning of who was in charge. That ought to solve this one's attitude issue. But Stormy knew what good conduct meant: patience, understanding, and a willingness to aid even if Finn had no particular interest in being amicable about it.

But she couldn't suppress the small thrill she felt, knowing she could have done such.

"Your memory will come back within a few days," she explained levelly. "That I can guarantee. You will remember you were put through a trial that tested your limits, and you will remember that you almost died doing so--that's necessary for your initiation."

Stormy stood quite still as he surveyed her, scanning him in return. The features were the same, if a bit haggard and mussed from his time in the pod. Absolutely Finn. She didn't know how to feel about an old acquaintance showing up.

"My name's Stormy Ortega--hopefully you'll remember that part too, because I remember you, Finn Conner." She made a gesture with her head. "I need to take you to a class and let you hear the general lectures so you know more about Deus, but first things first: you'll need to get your weapon."

"We didn't date, but we knew each other."

She stiffened at the very thought of ever having dated him, even as inwardly she imagined giving an odd laugh as well. First Mark, now Finn? What an island this was. No other details were given, because Stormy realized the more she talked, the more fodder she was giving him to say things like that--or otherwise snark. The simpler this was done, the better.

"In a way I sort of am your superior," she replied, "but I'm just an intermediate. You report to your division leader or division assistant for the most part. There are five divisions--Mist, Sun, Moon, Life, and Death--one of which will be selected for you. When you get to your dorm, your uniform coat will have the symbol on it." Stormy's enthusiasm was gone, replaced with an almost aloof if formal tone. "As for your weapon . . ."

The clipboard was tucked under her arm as she turned, gesturing for Finn to follow. "We need to go to the cave. Once you're there, it'll find you--that's the best way I can explain it."

Not at all. She could do much better, but her economy of words was the only way to control him, in a sense--dangle just enough information over him to keep him going. I know more than you.

"We're the last form of defense for humanity against things like those shadows, even if they don't know it. That is the sort of military we are."

Ah. All the alerts, and then the tell-tale thump and scuffle of someone falling weak-kneed out of a pod and making a clumsy go at returning to something approaching vertical. It was followed by a convulsive-sounding cough.

He remembered the desperate clawing for air through a crushed throat, feeling the breath flood his nose and his mouth only to be dammed up before it could get to his burning lungs. That was it.

The new arrival was slumped, half-standing, half-leaning against the pod he'd just emerged from, his forehead pressed to the cold glass, and he had the look of someone about to be sick.

Don't think about. Don't remember it. Save it for later. Find out where you are. Get your bearings. The same instincts he always had on the shamefully-frequent occasions where he'd woken up confused about where he was and how he'd gotten there--a constant inner mantra of "don't think."

He tried to look around. He tried to notice anything.

He had the sort of body, jutting through his too-loose, filthy clothes, that brought words like "freeze dried" uncomfortably to mind: a brittle, sun-brown, arachnid sort of body, made of straight lines with the skin stretched too taut over the bones underneath so that his eyes were sunk into the shadows of an overhanging brow above and dark circles below. Even the hollow of his cheek was the sort that you could have pitched a tent under, although the effect was diminished greatly by the brittle shock of an unkempt beard that made him look older than he already did.

He was wearing a blood drive T-shirt and it must have been secondhand, because no blood bank no matter how desperate would have taken anything out his veins, except possibly for the sake of science. He looked like he might be incubating eight kinds of viral infection. When he spoke his voice was rough as though from long disuse or habitual coughing, but it was surprisingly softspoken: not the grumbling bark that might have been expected. It instantly placed his age several years lower than his appearance would.

"I really," he said flatly to no one, just for the relief of hearing his own voice come out of an intact throat, "need a cigarette."

The result was a violent start and a mangled half-curse, half-blasphemy. Nerves on edge, still, or possibly always that way--hard to tell.

"I'm going to assume the ******** part is an unofficial flourish." Well, sassy and rude, at least. Maybe also a b***h, in his own way. He didn't have much energy for snark, though, blinking blearily at Rep. On second thoughts, Rep didn't look like the sort of person to snark too hard at anyway. Probably could stomp him into a mud puddle. He tried to straighten up, to look like less of a cringing target. A skinny stray dog raising his hackles and standing his ground.

A number of obvious questions to ask flitted through his mind, but whoever this guy was, he wasn't actively trying to kill him, and he'd used the word "welcome," so he assumed information was forthcoming. To hell then with the subservience of asking. Better to be blunt; better to be aggressive than to ask "where am I" and "who are you" and "what happened to me?"

He eyed him warily, like he was afraid he'd bite. "Well?" he demanded.

The new arrival was acutely aware of Rep's upper hand also, and was giving him the same sort of flat, defiant stare. Too much testosterone, too much history: they'd sized each other up and he'd come out the loser, but he wasn't going to put his tail between his legs just because of that.

He wasn't going to snap at him either, though.

He took the welcome speech in without a single flicker of expression, perhaps because it was all far too ludicrous to react to anyway, and his eyes drifted to the clipboard with a measure of apprehension. Clipboards boded more ill in his life than monsters had, thus far. "I'm not here to make any enemies," he said, in a voice that suggested he wasn't out to make any friends, either. If he didn't look like such a wreck the quiet of his voice might have been more effective than it was. "I'm just here to do my ******** job. Whatever my job is. Give me whatever you're arming me with and tell me where to stand." And maybe I'll consider it, was the inevitable but unspoken postscript. All superficial obedience and eyes that said everything but.