: Prompting Needed_

REPOPULATOR 56412

Beeeeeeeeep.

He knew he had heard the tone before. A tone that started like the beeping of his roommate's old twenty-first century alarm clock but then pierced his ear with a two-second-long tone that made him grunt every time. Or least try to grunt. Dry, he thought as he tried to work his mouth around to squeeze out some moisture.

Beeeeeeeeep.

His eyes fluttered, eyelids fighting against some of the worst crust he had ever had. He tried to lift his hand to wipe his face, but something kept his arm by his side a few inches from the bed. It's the gel, a stray thought said, floating past his waking brain in a lazy, mental pirouette. The gel that had kept his eyes from drying out during the sixteen-month journey. His outstretched fingers touched smooth, shockingly cold glass. Or plastic.

Beeeeeeeeep.

With what seemed a Herculean effort of will and stamina, Mathiam raised first his right then his left eyelid open with a ripping sensation. The filmy goo gave way with tiny pinpricks of pain as eyelashes gave way. He could almost feel his irises constricting as he fought to see. What he got for his efforts was darkness. Darkness tinged with little splashes of red.

Beeeeeeeeep.

A solitary light was oscillating somewhere over his head in regular intervals that were irregular with the beeping. At least now he could see the sound and light were connected, if only due to both being warnings. That told him something. But he could not remember what. Something about... He opened his mouth to find his lips pulling against their own coating of gel. Oh, right. He pushed against the seal with his tongue and finally forced the tip against the gel beyond his lips.

Beeeeeeeeep.

He retched and immediately wished he had kept his tongue in his mouth. The taste of the gel – though designed to be odorless and tasteless when first applied – had taken on old skin cells, sweat, and saliva. The tangy, sour taste made his mouth recoil. Using the reaction, Mathiam worked his jaw and felt a patch of gel become a bit loose on his upper lip. He shoved his jaw downward. Air only slightly fresher than his own mouth's rushed over his tongue as the film gave.

Beeeeeeeeep.

He could feel the gel flap against his chin as it hung to his lower lip like a fileted section of flesh. At least he could move his mouth. Progress. His throat worked as he tried to say something, but the air rushed out of him dryly without so much as shaking his vocal cords. He worked his tongue for a bit, feeling the dry, scratchy organ swipe uselessly against smooth, unworked cheeks.

Beeeeeeeeep.

His teeth were unrecognizable slabs of rock in his mouth. Somehow, though, in contrast with the lack of moisture, all Mathiam could sense was the lingering aftertaste of yeast. Reflexively, he swallowed and felt the support tubes in his throat pull against the clips on his nostrils. A sharp spark of panic spiked through his heart and became a deepening sense of dread in his gut. The support tubes. How am I supposed to get the support tubes out? The beeping changed pitch and speed as if heightened by Mathiam's worry. A new sound joined it now; the sound of escaping air hissed, a variable snake without the venom.

BEEEP-BEEEP-BEEEP-
-ssssssssssssssssssss-

Mathiam's mind raced as his feeble hands tried to press open the pod's door. The straps on his biceps and wrists prevented him from finding much leverage, but the tops of his knuckles pressed against the insulated glass. He jerked back. He did not know if it was extreme heat or cold that had shocked his skin just then, but... He upturned his palm and slowly pressed his fingertips to the canopy.

BEEEP-BEEEP-BEEEP-
-ssssssssssssssssssss-

Knowing that the temperature was going to hurt either way, he readied himself for contact. Severe, leaching cold tore through his fingers and he cried out in a soundless wheeze, jerking the hand back to his side. There was a moment of resistance as his fingertips stayed behind. Oh-shit-oh-shit-oh-shit... Mathiam mentally repeated his old coping mantra from the Corps as another section of his brain calmly assessed the situation.

BEEEP-BEEEP-BEEEP-
-ssssssssssssssssssss-

Leaky canopy? Check. Possible hull breach beyond said canopy? Check. Premature cancellation of the hibernation cycle? Check. Have we landed on Titan yet? Mathiam held his breath, closed his eyes, and tried to notice any movement or vibrations that belied what was beyond the darkened canopy. Everything felt as silent as a tomb. Tomb, tomb too-too-too-too... The word bounced through his brain like a wayward bullet that left behind furrows burning with panic. Idly, he felt other thought processes detach and float around like unbuckled cargo.

BEEEP-BEEEP-BEEEP-
-ssssssssssssssssssss-

The word 'Titan' loomed in his mind's eye. Its massive connotation spun off connective thoughts in its wake like forgotten atmosphere. Which titan was Titan named after? Mathiam had always bet that it had been Kronos. Who cared if the idea was canon or not? The moon needed a proper name, not just a noun turned proper.

BEEEP-BEEep-beeep-
-ssssssssss...-

And what about Ms. Jones? When had she retired? She had been the one to teach him about proper nouns. She had always made the best lemon cakes. Or had that been Terra, his stepmother? Oh, how he had hated that sow of a woman. Man, he was tired. And cold. Where was Hashim? He was supposed to come turn on the heaters. And that beeping!

beeep-beeep-beeeeeee......

The electronic tone had reached a fever-pitch now, practically a klaxon alarm. But Mathiam found he was getting real good at ignoring it. In fact, he barely even heard it now. Well, fine. If Hashim was going to take his time opening the pods, Mathiam was just going back to sleep.

That'll teach him, he thought. Mathiam took one long, last calming breath before letting the cold hug him tightly into a sleep he found he preferred much more than where he had been a lifetime ago.

[TO THE FAMILY OF MATHIAM CLACK, AGE 42, VOLUNTEER REPOPULATOR 56412, WE OFFER THE FOLLOWING APOLOGY/(EXPLANATION) AS TO THE DISAPPEARANCE OF YOUR KIN:

AS OF 1556 CST, AN UNCATEGORIZED METEOR STRUCK THE CRAFT P.S.M. GILLEAD. THE DESTRUCTION OF THE CRAFT WAS ABSOLUTE. NO SURVIVORS FOUND.

AT YOUR EARLIEST CONVENIENCE, PLEASE RETRIEVE ALL ARTICLES PERTAINING TO YOUR LOST KIN AT THE ADDRESS ENCLOSED.

THANK YOU.]