Back at Gloriana - and what a conceit, that was, naming whole establishments after the very woman who ran them - it was rare to find anyone who looked their age. At thirty-four, Alva's the oldest that he knows of within the compound he's been relegated to; his non-KN coworkers had had so much work done that telling someone's age without looking at their file was like shooting at a hoop with blindfolds and ear mufflers on.

He tries to keep his staring somewhat discreet, but knowing how he moves, Alva doubts he's being subtle. His daily life before this ship had circled around taking care of very young, highly perfected science experiments - to see someone wear their age around them with ease is taking some getting used to.

Alva breaks the ice first, at least.

"You're sure you want these folded as is?" He doesn't ask about the blood, or the bullet holes. His own clothes had scorch marks and bullet holes of their own. (He'd had them burned, first thing.)