You plead for someone to open the door and A face appears at the window. She looks like she’s been in a fight. Or several.

“Nice try.” She says over the intercom. “You’re one of them.”

One of them?

“They must have messed with you in cryo.” She gives you an almost pitying look behind the rust-red hand prints all over the window.

“I’m not opening this hatch for you or anybody. I’m waiting for the ship to go critical and hopefully it kills those… things also.”

She leaves and won’t come back.

You look at your hands again; your arms. They have that strange silvery sheen to them.