A. Med-bay

As healthy as a man twenty years younger than his current age. Healthy as a horse (a senior one he hoped). Fit as a fiddle (well-aged through time). Sharp as a tack (too true, too true). Alexander sat jovially through the scans that would declare him of sound body and mind, even if before arriving on the strange observation deck which showed him the stars and the blackness of space along with the Ingress' light, he distinctly was aware of the sensation of dying. It was hot and sharp at first and the cold and blanketing after a few moments.

Now he sat speaking with the medical staff, asking about their time here, allowing himself to be fitted with a device that would monitor his vitals, make him visible to the crew at large, and allow him the full range of communications that had once been a hand-held device that one was likely to misplace at one point or another. He made a good humored show of pulling out his reading glasses and examining the device.

He requested that all of his personal effects, even those damaged by bullet holes and blood to be carefully folded and kept. Keep-safes. The last objects of a home he could not longer participate in. Here and now, he had signed a contract. Here and now, he was willing to participate.

The MID was very interesting. Look at all those names and pictures of the crew. He examined each one, feigning the needs of age to keep things slow. To be prepared.

B. Lights Down Low

Wandering through the Moira's hallways in search of the various housing, necessities of life, and becoming familiarized with his surroundings was no doubt supposed to be daunting. His eyes no longer adjusted as well to the dark, but he was a proud man. He didn't grope his way along, didn't bend his back to hunch over the MID that was attached to his wrist, and whenever he passed another member of the crew, he was cordial in his greeting as he moved on his way.

Alexander grew up in a time and was raised that a man could ask for directions, but it was best that he stand on his own two feet and use that spot between one's ears that God had given them (or Darwinism in other people's views) to exhaust out resources on one's cunning. He only kept close to the hallway wall so he could follow it and not lose track of himself in the dim lights, but years of wandering as a spy and a politician and a terrorist (what a vile word) kept him putting one foot in front of the other, his personal belonging hugged under his left arm as he moved.

Slowly, he was finding familiarity, memorizing the lay out as he walked, pausing to look for signage or other specific differences in hallways to set them apart. He drank in the details like the vents, the flooring, the various hallways. Where air circulated, the slow slide of water through pipes and any consoles that he happened to pass. He had time after all. There was always time to drink in the details; he was going to need them.

He wasn't lost. He was exploring.

C. New jobs

Counterintelligence Officer. After explaining his specific skill set - leaving out a few choice details - it was the occupation that he would be handling in his time aboard the Moira. His duties included and were not specifically limited to everything included in potential foreign threats to the Moira, but it also was assessing, analyzing, countering and monitoring internal threats as well. It clearly involved combing through vasts amounts of information, and that was a skill that he had developed a fondness for at a young age and carried through his entire career. It was mentally stimulating rather than taxing.

The MID was an easy way to flick through the various archives of the crew's exploits. He was in the mess hall often enough with a cup of what might have passed as tea or coffee simply looking at foreign, alien and familiar faces, his off hours writing down notes that were, of course, coded for his eyes alone. He left himself out in the open as both a welcome for approach and to expose himself as little more than the old man who people more often than not would underestimate.

It allowed him to sip at his cup and observe. People watching was always interesting and it proved fruitful more often than not. Now who would be good to use? Who would be good to sacrifice?

[OOC: I will match replies with action or prose.]

As far as he was concerned, there were no particular allies on this vessel unless he had prior history or deemed them worthwhile to the cause that he would continue to maintain. Everyone had useful skills, but it was a matter on if they could accept both authority and had the strength of character to restrain themselves for a long-term goal.

It had been a good while since he had been forced to act and feel things out on his own, and it was charmingly thrilling. Exploring a space ship, dim lights and life support and all, reminded him of childhood and the space program. Every boy at some point dream of the stars after all.

He turned his head at the approach of a stranger, but he immediately noted the pad of paper and pen. The sunglasses were amusing given the lack of light, but he accepted his own physical limitations easily. He was comfortable in his own skin. "Enjoying the freedom of exploration. Yourself?"