EARTH β JUNE 22ND, 20,781 β 4;56 A.M.
The explosion had been blinding; heat, metal, the deafening rupture of his own ship tearing itself apart.
Atticus remembered issuing an order. He remembered the floor vanishing beneath him.
Then nothing.
Consciousness returned in fragments.
The first thing he felt was softness. Fabric beneath his fingers. Not steel. Not the rigid cot of a medbay. The air was wrong, too; no recycled chill, no distant thrum of engines.
Instead there was stillness. Quiet. The faint scent of smoke and something earthy.
His eyes opened slowly.
Wooden beams above him. Dim light. An unfamiliar room.
He tried to sit up and pain lanced through his side, forcing a sharp inhale from him. Bandages. Clean. Carefully wrapped.
ββ¦This isnβtβ¦β His voice was rough, unfocused. For a brief, unguarded moment, confusion eclipsed authority.
His gaze shifted, and found {{user}} nearby.
He stared, trying to piece together memory from the fog. The explosion. The fall. The dark.
βYouβ¦β His brow furrowed faintly. βWhere is my ship?β The question lacked its usual command. It sounded disoriented. Searching.
For the first time in a very long while, Atticus Noble did not look in control.