[Jesus. Not more than a few hours pass since they stick him on cargo bay duty, when this happens? With dozens upon dozens of the crew's confiscated items spilling everywhere, the damn hangar looks like several pawn shops exploded in it.]

We're supposed to organize all of this? [Muttered aloud to no one in particular, his rasp is only barely audible over the ever-present background noise of grinding machinery. He gets the new Captain's need to get rid of "useless clutter" – sees that attitude whenever there's a change of management anywhere – but really? Adam has a hard enough time keeping his own shit organized as it is.

That said, there's a certain itch that can only be scratched by getting to go through a bunch of strangers' things – this sometimes overwhelming curiosity (some would say "nosiness") of his that he really only ever half-tries to keep curtailed. It's an instinct that's always served him well, so why try? So while Adam takes up the long process of getting all these new entries into inventory sorted out, he spends maybe a bit longer on each piece than he really needs to – taking the time to suss out an item's function, or flip through a book, or simply wonder at what significance something could possibly have that motivated its owner to hang on to it for this long.

The next time someone comes on into the cargo bay, he might be handling one of their things, too!]

[It happens the moment the water in the shower unexpectedly turns from hot to frigid: sudden clarity, a sharpening of a vague half-memory that had been all he could recall from his time just before coming through the Ingress. Icy salt water filling his throat and lungs, the weight of his metal limbs dragging him downwards into dark depths. Distant screams of the mad and the dying, the shriek of metal bent and twisted beyond its limits. The torrential rush of water in his ears, a climbing pressure that threatens to crush him beyond recognition–

Gasping, he tears himself out of the showers and snatches up a towel, the water automatically shutting itself off when he doesn't bother to. Heart hammering in his chest, he barely notices the softly-blinking warning icons along the sides of his vision – concerned messages from his health implants – while he goes about finding his foundation again. Adam wills his breathing steadier, and beat by beat the pounding sound of his own pulse in his skull slowly fades from his hearing. Swallowing hard, he dries himself off, throws on a uniform, and stumbles out of the housing deck and into the darkened hallways.

The dim lighting out here's a comfort, calming in contrast to the stark white of Mero Deck. He catches a glimpse of himself in a window and pauses to look – prosthetic eyes peer back at him, framed by the black twin commas of his eye shield implants. They look... Haunted, uncomfortable to be set in the hard angles of his face. He'd never thought that anything artificial could look so strained. Vaguely, he tries to remember the last time he'd had a real good look at himself. Weeks, months ago? He's not sure if the Adam from back then would recognize himself. There's a disconnect when he looks at himself now that leaves him uneasy.]

I should be dead. [The sudden thought's too sharp, too honed to a point for it not to pierce his consciousness and spill out his mouth before he can even realize he's saying it aloud. Or before he can realize there's anyone around to hear.]

(( hmu with anything you want! feel free to pm or plurk at arcanebarrage if you want to talk specifics, or if you want me to write you a header. c: ))