For the most part, Silas was unassuming. The denizens of [REDACTED] had come from different backgrounds and with varied levels of self-awareness, and in even his short time here, he had come to the conclusion that face value was good enough for him. Because who cared, really, where the attendant at the canteen was from, or if they had some dark secret back on Earth? If someone did their job, did their part to contribute, why care about the past?
Perhaps he simply had to think this way, if not about the others, then about himself. Earth was five(?) days and a lifetime ago, and while he had escaped the journey with his memory and only slightly compromised rational thought, he still felt like a different person and that was what mattered. The brain would heal, eventually.
In the meantime, when that particular kind of cloudiness found its way to his conscious mind, he decided physical therapy was the best kind. After having reported to his station, Silas recused himself with complaints of a migraine and headed to the gym for his first look around the place.
It was basic and boring to look at, but seemingly well equipped. A handful of people meandered about, moving from machine to machine -- clever on their parts, to cope with shifts in gravity -- and what seemed to be employees, but who were not particularly attentive. Case in point, the odd-looking individual staring into the abyss just behind the bench press as Silas wandered up.
Another reason he'd decided it was best not to know, when it came to those around him. They could be fucking weird sometimes.
"Excuse me?" He waved and offered a polite smile, "You work here, right? I'm new, I was just wondering if I needed to sign in or--" he gestured to the machines, "--just hit it?"