[b]"...I guess...I got everything I wanted out of life for now."[/b] were the last thoughts of a man of unlikely circumstances within the Mech Ops, a man who's life could have been better at so many points. Not that it was worth thinking about now. Drifting, drifting...softly he felt his body numb with the cold and let the half-century sleep overtake him, more than ready to wake up to a new world.

One where hopefully the music wasn't shit, and they discovered a non-shitty tasting brand of cheap beer. 

[h2]3 Days After De-Frost[/h2]

A loud, annoying beeping resounded throughout Lieutenant Oberfield's hotel room, the groggy and disgruntled Human-Popsicle slamming the palm of his hand atop the snooze button, sighing as he rose up, smacking his right hand into his right cheek, dragging it down slowly. [b]"...I need a shave..."[/b] he mumbles to himself, stepping shakily from his bed. Sleep had become a rather worrisome process after having done it for 50 years straight. Sometimes he'd sleep so well he'd get scared he'd be out for another 50 years, be a regular Rip Van Winkle. Or dead. Probably dead if he did that outside of a cryopod.

Going about his morning routine of brush, gargle, spit, rinse, gargle, spit, rinse, adding in a decent shave, Oberfield sighed, bored out of his mind in this new time, and already getting sick of whatever crap this vegan not-meat-meat was. Getting dressed in his standard BDU, he buttoned it up until the second top-most, his grey tank-top slightly visible underneath. Not really knowing when anything official would happen, his brown rat's nest of hair simply remained intact, not caring enough to comb it down. Not like it'd matter how good he looked if he ever got deployed anyways. 

Unfortunately for him, today it seemed would be that very same day. Much like the past two days, he'd gone to a local "5-Star" eat-in, and as usual was contemplating starting a pig farm just to murder them for bacon when he'd received the memo. Something called a data-pad beeped in his pocket, and, after fumbling with it for a few minutes, he read the memo and promptly left after paying, fake-meat-and-eggs left half-finished on his plate as he made a beeline for the shuttles to head for the ship. Remembering the words of his drunk, lazy, slob of a father, Rodrick couldn't help but dread meeting his new "Stuck-up, pompous, never-had-to-work-a-day-in-his-life-boss". But then again, Dad always was getting fired for being too drunk to work properly. Sighing, Rodrick wondered just how the hell he'd even got here with his track record. He supposed he should thank the UHA Captain...but he was probably an old or dead fart by now. Maybe he'd meet his grandson sometime for coffee.

Regardless, Oberfield entered briefing room 2, somewhat worried since he figured he was the latest arrival. Giving a small salute, he gave a greeting of: [b]"Lieutenant Oberfield present."[/b] before taking his seat amongst the others. Smiling a little bit as he saw the mech-specs, he recognized his old-metal-coffin. Good old Daytona. The rest of it looked like technical egg-head jargon, and a couple things just went WAY over his head.