D'Archangel rises. And yawns. Wiping the crust from his eyes, he stumbles from his cryogenic coffin and makes his way to the head, the dull thrum of machinery his only companion. Disturbed by the cracked and worn face staring back at him from above the washbasin, he wonders if something went wrong in stasis. Surely there shouldn't be stubble! No matter, it'll be good to be back home. Making his way to the cockpit, he spins the dial on the subspace radio, flipping past caterwauling clockwork orchestras ticking off by-the-numbers covers of White Noise and The Incredible String Band. Oldies again! As he fumbles through his 8-track collection, he catches a glimpse of the vast world hovering in the inky blackness beyond the cockpit window, it's landscape pitted and scorched. A knot forms in his stomach as he punches in his descent pattern. That's the trouble with these long business trips - you never know what nightmares await you upon your return.