A Fresh Hunger (open)

Whatever it was that Amoura was doing was apparently going to have to wait. Even four whole days after what she called her ‘reawakening’, she was finding that she had no grasp of her bodily requirements. Her office had no windows, and she hadn’t been able to raise the shutter on the solitary window in her bunk room, so she was beginning to feel like she was living one big day that had no end. She had napped, on and off, in her chair for most of the occasions when she felt she needed sleep. Going back into the room she had woken up in felt weird – there were still (or at least, she assumed they were still there) people in there that were, to all intents and purposes, in a coma. That was only, in her book, a very small step away from being dead. Plus, it reminded her that she, too, had been in that state for just over eighteen years, and it gave her goose bumps. And not pleasant ones. Assuming, of course, that one COULD have pleasant goose bumps, she had mused.

”Hungry again?” She asked herself. The display on the computer embedded into her desk indicated that she had been there, awake but not fully comprehending the report she was meant to be reviewing, for four hours. She assumed that she had fallen into a light doze – something she found she was prone to doing after twelve hours or so of solid reading, taking notes, and researching terms she didn’t fully understand. Her stomach responded, louder even than the first time, and she pushed her chair away from the desk, impatient at her own inability to do anything for a significant stretch of time without her body insisting on one type of break or another.

Rolling her eyes at the inherent vulnerability of the human body, Amoura headed up the East Corridor; by far the quickest route to the kitchens. Normally, she barely poked her head through the door to grab a sandwich or a piece of fruit. On these occasions, the dining area had been all but empty – she had a feeling that she chose ridiculous times to eat, but she had nothing in her memory banks to compare it to. This time, however, it was a veritable cornucopia of people to interact with, and she suddenly found herself feeling rather overwhelmed. Hurrying past the filled tables, she headed to the drinks station. Something at the back of her mind (instinct, or the practices fed to her by the Titan Project, she wasn’t sure) told her that alcohol would cure her nerves. That being, effectively, decided, Amoura didn’t have any indications of what she would or wouldn’t like. She scratched her head and bit her lip as she cycled through the options and landed on a purple cocktail. That would do – a French Martini.

As it appeared in front of her, Amoura nodded her thanks, and raised her glass to the only other person occupying the bar. ”Cheers.” Tentatively, she tried a sip, and blinked rapidly as the cold drink hit the back of her throat. Letting the flavours settle, she found it sweet and palatable, and also completely appropriate for what she wanted it for. Even the smallest sip of the drink had calmed her nerves slightly, and she turned to speak to the man, only to find it was the one with the piercing blue eyes that she had seen at Command Central. Crap. Quickly, she closed her mouth and took another large gulp of the strange drink. ”Hi. I’m Amoura.” She tried, gazing somewhere over his left shoulder.
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notes:
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