Pilot didn't mind the sleep at all. The dark silence was almost comfortable. He was unable to count how long it had lasted. A few days, maybe? Outside of his mind, his body found itself laying on an exam table. He wore a pair of military cargo pants, black, and had been wearing a grey shirt before it had been removed and tossed onto a chair across the room. Little sticky monitor patches were placed all over his chest, keeping track of his breathing. Scientists rushed all around, preparing for his latest test. There was no doubt in anyone's mind that he would pass. Of course he would; he was perfect, after all. 

As a needle was stuck into the crook of his arm, his mind suddenly felt like jelly being sucked out of a jar. It was dizzying almost. His heart rate gave a sudden, but not too concerning, spike. His eyelids flew wide open. They settled quickly, his dark eyes shifting to look up at the scientist looming over him. He didn't move. Pilot had played this game before. He'd learned the song and dance years ago. On test day, you waited for orders for literally everything. 

Perhaps on an average day, he would have sat up, stretched, and, if he was feeling bold, even hopped off the table. But now he didn't dare move a muscle. He didn't want to fail a test; not again.