[b]Maya[/b]

She circled the bridge until her aching head and churning stomach told her it was time to return to her room. She'd been given leave to take the next day off, but she had no intentions of doing so. Somewhere back on earth, her grandmother was turning in her grave at the mere thought. Maya Coleman hadn't been raised to take breaks, necessary or otherwise. 

In time, a pilot through and through, she found her way down to the hangar. The mining pods were smaller than the [i]Copernicus[/i] but undoubtedly no less important. In fact, given their would be bounty, Maya was almost inclined to make rounds of the pods herself in her time before her shift started proper. But before she could go anywhere, an unfamiliar voice stopped her. 

[b]"How's it cutting' der, b'y? Whattya at? Or is no one home, a'tall?"[/b]

Maya stopped short at the...pronouncement...of a sort. Granted, it could have also been a call to action, or a curse, or the lyrics to some pop song. The man speaking -- she was almost certain it was a man -- had an accent even thicker than her own, and twice as indecipherable by her count. She wasn't typically one much for speaking out of turn or at all...but if this mystery person was calling for help, she couldn't very well walk away. 

She followed the echoes bouncing off the vaulted ceilings and caught up to a young man with a large barrel of...something under his arm, apparently calling out to no one in particular. Maya watched him for a moment. He didn't appear to be in any danger...but she was still admittedly curious about just [i]what[/i] had been said. 

"If you're looking for your quarters," she said, her accent making the word 'quarters' almost rhyme with 'squatters', "you're in the wrong wing. This is the hangar for the mining pods." 

--

[b]Park[/b]

The girl's name was Pauline, and the terrors of the night had left her with a poignant gift. 

Whether or not she saw it that was, Park wasn't sure. But she had decided to keep the child, and she was awake now. 

There had been other details in her file -- her father's name, for example, and the girl's predilection for numbers and metrics. More than enough information on just what had happened to her, and who she had been before the happening. Park read it all, impassive, the noise of a small, manmade waterfall at the corner of his desk his only reminder that time was passing at all. When he was finished, he shut the file and set it on his knees, then reconsidered and put it away in his desk. 

Technically, Dr. Park was just one of a handful of doctors assigned to the Third Shift. It was no different than working at any medical facility back on earth. Like Dr. Brock was consigned to address neurological concerns, Dr. Park was open for psychiatric 'emergencies'. Suicide attempts and the like. His predecessor, one Dr. Wendy Carter, had been a general practitioner with a degree in psychology. To his understanding, he was to be used mainly for his psychiatric skills. Fate or providence, perhaps, all things considered. 

In any case, he was neither morally nor professionally obligated to reach out to Ms. Weber, though he had been given her file as a strong nod from the powers that be, her father undoubtedly included. Still, he knew from experience that a good number of his patients preferred to come to him, and that several more who might benefit from his services might never approach him at all if left to their own devices. He had at least preliminary information on most of those awake for the Third Shift and strongly suspected it would be case here with at least a handful. 

For now, though, there were only two names on his list. To Pauline, he gave a gentle nudge, more of an introduction than anything else. A polite reminder that he was there and willing, happily so, to talk. 

He pulled out his tablet, and after squinting, perplexed, at the screen for several long moments, sent off a short message to the former college student. 

[b]Hello, Pauline. My name is Doctor Park, or Pastor Park, depending on who you ask. I generally just go by Park. Do you like tea, Ms. Weber? If you'd like to grab a cup with me, my office is nearish the gardens. I hear you're quite familiar with those. Perhaps a tour sometime? I hope you're doing well. All the best, Park.[/b]

The second message went out to a young man named Henry Graham. His file was not nearly so detailed as Ms. Weber's, but it did not need to be. 

[b]Good evening, Mr. Graham. Or good morning, as luck may have it. My name is Dr. Park. How are you, Henry?[/b]