[Tellingly, there's no one in the vast span of memories that resembles anything like what Scorpius is. He bucks abruptly in the chair, snarling out an indistinguishable slew of words as the Chair digs and digs at what's hidden. Without the necessary tools to properly direct the flow of memory, the Chair makes random, indistinct jumps through time, attempting to navigate vast recesses of data without rhyme or reason.
A dark, windowless chamber, listening to his own thoughts for the first time; the beginnings of learning to meditate - his death by heat exhaustion, lying on the ground of a Shadow Depository watching Crichton's retreating back - commanding his first medium-sized crew, some of whom can just barely hide their disdain - a single, grey cell with a deformed, badly dehydrated child locked inside, a lizard-like creature standing over and berating it for perceived genetic faults as it cries for water.
Wormholes.
He's alone when he spots his first one, barely an adolescent fleeing in a stolen ship with pursuers right behind. The ship is tiny and can't manage the speed his enemies have; around him, consoles blare warningly, echoing the noises the machine under the Boy's fingers begins to make.
This is the end. A last stand is traditional, isn't it? He pulls a pulse pistol out from under the pilot chair, reaching out with his other hand to stall the engines and conserve power. There are five right behind him: assuming they don't blast him out of the sky, he's got a slim chance to shoot the boarding party and take off again in the confusion. If they're Scarrans - the lizard-like creatures he knows intimately well - then his gun won't do much good in harming them. But he can't think of anything else; there hadn't been time to create back-up plans. All he knows is that he would rather face death than recapture.
And then his viewscreen floods with blue light.
Temporarily blinded, he drops back into his chair, squinting with his arm raised as he twists the ship around, attempting to find the source of the blast. A new weapon, perhaps?
But no; he manages to turn the ship around just in time to see enemy vessels #4 and #5 get sucked in after their companions, disappearing down a long, thin corridor to nowhere.
And just as quickly, the tunnel closes up again.
In the Chair, Scorpius begins to make audible noises of complaint; an alarming sound by anyone that naturally stoic. He swallows hard, repeatedly, struggling to keep himself in the moment. It only half works: now, each memory brought forth causes new and exponential pain that leaves him sweating and shaking with each successive breath]
no subject
A dark, windowless chamber, listening to his own thoughts for the first time; the beginnings of learning to meditate - his death by heat exhaustion, lying on the ground of a Shadow Depository watching Crichton's retreating back - commanding his first medium-sized crew, some of whom can just barely hide their disdain - a single, grey cell with a deformed, badly dehydrated child locked inside, a lizard-like creature standing over and berating it for perceived genetic faults as it cries for water.
Wormholes.
He's alone when he spots his first one, barely an adolescent fleeing in a stolen ship with pursuers right behind. The ship is tiny and can't manage the speed his enemies have; around him, consoles blare warningly, echoing the noises the machine under the Boy's fingers begins to make.
This is the end. A last stand is traditional, isn't it? He pulls a pulse pistol out from under the pilot chair, reaching out with his other hand to stall the engines and conserve power. There are five right behind him: assuming they don't blast him out of the sky, he's got a slim chance to shoot the boarding party and take off again in the confusion. If they're Scarrans - the lizard-like creatures he knows intimately well - then his gun won't do much good in harming them. But he can't think of anything else; there hadn't been time to create back-up plans. All he knows is that he would rather face death than recapture.
And then his viewscreen floods with blue light.
Temporarily blinded, he drops back into his chair, squinting with his arm raised as he twists the ship around, attempting to find the source of the blast. A new weapon, perhaps?
But no; he manages to turn the ship around just in time to see enemy vessels #4 and #5 get sucked in after their companions, disappearing down a long, thin corridor to nowhere.
And just as quickly, the tunnel closes up again.
In the Chair, Scorpius begins to make audible noises of complaint; an alarming sound by anyone that naturally stoic. He swallows hard, repeatedly, struggling to keep himself in the moment. It only half works: now, each memory brought forth causes new and exponential pain that leaves him sweating and shaking with each successive breath]