A Spaceman

Chapter 36--What was that feeling?

So, I actually thought that after waking up next to the severed head of one of my friends, nothing would really affect me so far as roommates, for this next stage of the training. I mean, come on, what could be worse than what I went through? Of course, I found out.

"What are you doing here?" I ask, slowly backing out the door and double checking the room number.

"This is my room, we're roommates, you see. In the letter it said 'go to your assigned room which you will be sharing with your roommate for the remainder of training; I should've thought that it was a bit obvious," Titus says, slowly, as he puts his duffel bag at the end of the bunk bed. there is a bunkbed against one wall, desks against the other, a tiny closet, a tinier bathroom, and a little ironing board. The most space I've ever had to myself in my life, and I am sharing it with Satan.

"Yes, I did read that---but you're going to be a pilot. I'm not, I'm rot at flying," I say, shaking my head, "They sort our rooms by what jobs we're assigned to and I'm rot at flying."

"Well, we've not actually got our letters yet, we get those after dinner, so we don't know what job I was assigned to," he says, "But, since I failed everything but that---it would seem you are a pilot."

"No, I'm not that good, I hate stressful situations, I'm much better with machines," I say, still not coming in the room.

"Well, it would seem you are, or they've decided to alter my test scores or something odd, but as flying was the only test I passed and therefore qualified for, it would seem you did as well. Even though you fly like a damp marsupial---"

"If I knew what that meant I'd deck you again---"

"You said you knew you were rot----anyway, even though you do have the elegance of a diseased gallinule, qualifying pilots are relatively rare, so if you did qualify based on physiological factors---"

"Wait, wait, speak English for a minute---"

"I was my command of it is just superior to yours---"

"Your command of it is superior to Shakespeare---"

"Agreed I have access to far more words than he did---"

"Going on, Titus, what are you talking about? Either you qualify or you don't, how could I qualify when I don't fly half as well as you or Tom?" I ask.

"Physiological factors," he says.

"What's that mean?" I ask.

"You're fit and clever, and you have a high dissociation rate," he says.

"What's that mean?" I ask.

"In pilots, they look for people who can, in situations of stress and trauma, immediately calm themselves again, regaining gross motor skills quicker and getting yourself out of danger---you see adrenaline does us a lot of good when we're running about the woods with sticks and stones, but when we're operating a million rubles ship sailing through space, not so much, you need clear thinking---so they only draft people who either do not respond to situations of trauma or stress with adrenaline---"

"That would be you---"

"---and people who have a quick rate of disassociation. Disassociation is the brain's response to a traumatic situations, it's the brain tricking itself into believing, 'this isn't really happening to Leavitt', so you can calm down in the situation and get yourself out of it," Titus explains, going to the bottom bunk which I suppose he's claimed. "So, I'm guessing you're the latter, as you said I'm probably the former. But you---you've been exposed to trauma so your brain is very comfortable shutting off."