Pain.
Is it an emotion?
It was the only thing he felt.
At first, The Condesce thought of him only as a machine. Even less than a machine. But over the countless sweeps, she developed a warped fondness for him. He needed no taking care of, no food, no water. He would live as long as she did.
Forever.
He was a very good pet.
He wanted death. He needed death. Anything to escape the immense pain he felt. Both his mind and his body were broken beyond repair.
It hurts, he thought. It hurts so much.
He would cry out constantly, begging for someone, anyone to kill him there and then. But no one came. No one ever came. She wouldn't let anyone go near her dear, sweet pilot.
He could hear her, inside his head. Her whispers, her revoltingly sweet voice taunting him, telling him that she loved him so much, laughing at him. Over time, he became unable to tell which were real and which were his own mind, abusing itself.
Always, there was the need for more speed. Demand to make him go faster. And he tried. He tried, because he thought that someday they wouldn't demand anymore.
He was wrong.
The pain never completely left him. There was a consistent burning behind his eyes, sapping his energy. He could never sleep.
But sometimes, when the ship was still, and The Condesce wasn't taunting him, and his mangled thoughts were quiet, he found just enough energy in himself to lift his head. And he looked. He saw the planets. He saw the stars. He saw the galaxies. He saw the universes.
He saw everything.
He would see, and he would remember. His old life. His friends. Oh, his dear friends. The Dolorosa's smile. The Disciple's laugh. The Signless' voice. The love the four of them shared that transcended the quadrants.
And then, the Psiioniic would smile.