Life is a waterfall,
we're one in the river,
and one again after the fall.
Swimming through the void
we hear the word,
we lose ourselves,
but we find it all...
Cause we are the ones that want to play,
always want to go,
but you never want to stay.
And we are the ones that want to choose,
always want to play,
but you never want to lose.
- Aerials, System of a Down
The first thing he's aware of, other than an overwhelming sense of panic, is that he's underneath something… and it's hot, hotter than natural, and the terrain digging into the back of his head and the pain pulsating from his lower half is cold. Ice cold. The second thing he realizes is that, one, he can't remember his name. Two - he can't remember anything else, either. Well, at least I'm not dead.
Alright, two more facts down: he'd probably been a humorous person up until now. He probably didn't have major head trauma. Head trauma? Maybe I was a doctor.
List of things he was/had been: humorous, and/or a doctor. Progress… And this time he spoke out loud, his voice rough, like he hadn't talked for days (and from what he knew so far, that could well be true). His mouth felt like someone had forced him to eat bloody sand - all metallic and gritty. His eyes were dry, and he blinked experimentally, thrilled when he discovered he could see. Not well, as a large piece of greenish metal was lying across the lower half of his body (must be what's causing the pain), but well enough to realize that he's in deep shit. Wherever he was, it was snowing, and if he didn't get up and to shelter soon, he'd most likely die of hypothermia before he bled out. Bled out? He realized that the snow (white – pure - clean) around him is speckled with a mixture of blood, shrapnel and embers (terror – horror… make it go away) and he really doesn't want to do this, but if he just sits here he'll have a one-hundred percent chance of death. So slowly, agonizingly slowly, he twitches his fingers, pushes his arms up, grasps the metal, and breathes. One, two, three, four…
Heave.
The metal budges slightly, and it's hard not to scream from frustration and pain. One, two, three, four…
Heave.
It gives a bit more, and thank God the hunk of hellish plating is cooling from the snow, no longer burning his hands (the air smelled like a massacre).
One more time… One, two, three, four…
Heave!
The metal gives way with a sickening crackle, and he can finally feel his hips, legs, feet, toes again. At least they're not gone. Heh. Maybe he'd been a smartass before now, too. And before he can hazard a try at getting up, a buzzing fills his ears, and a scream that makes him cringe until he realizes he's making it.
Miletus had always been a quiet child, preferring to read on the playground, rather than actually interact with anyone. His mother, a rather over-kind nurse, had asked him once, "Why don't you play with any of your classmates?" He had looked up from his book (an ancient, battered copy of Old Yeller), frowned slightly, and simply replied that books were everything he needed. At age fourteen, he'd already heard reports of the Tarsus IV massacre, and was inspired to get into a medical career. However, while he had the intellect, he didn't have the patience… and he also had a large amount of bloodlust. His teachers recommended getting a degree in Engineering, and after a month of badgering from both them and his mother, he'd finally given in.
Another ten years, and he was successfully accepted into Starfleet, ready and willing to help others in any way he could. The now twenty-four year old was assigned to Science Colony #02749, stationed on a small trading planet's moon, which was suspected to be full of new specimens of every sort. However, within weeks of landing, the odd engineer here and there began disappearing, and slowly, his fellow workers were having trouble keeping the engines (keeping the colony heated and with oxygen) up and running. Four months into the scheduled five years they were supposed to be there for, the engines overheated, causing a massive power failure. Miletus, a man by the name of Eratos, and a genius fifteen-year old named Rizo were the only ones there when the whole of Mechanics Wing A exploded. Miletus shoved Eratos away from the blast, but Rizo was thrown back into the wall, hitting with a sharp crack! and a thump. Adrenaline pumped into his system, and Miletus grabbed Eratos by the biceps, pulling the older man out of the burning and crumbling sector. He shoved his mentor (and thankfully himself) into an escape pod just as Mechanics Wing B detonated, the force of it many times greater than the first explosion. It rocked their pod, and he gently strapped Eratos into the passenger seat before getting into his own, and watching in terrified fascination as almost everyone he'd known from age twenty to twenty-four went up in smoke and fire.
It really could have been worse. He could have been executed, tortured, any number of sick, twisted things, but they'd simply stared at him. Once he weakly, numbly handed one of the officers the beaten body of one his only living friends, they'd glared at him (eyes so cold), and stated in calm, robotic voices that he was sentenced to the minimum of thirty years on "Planet Lockdown". At least, that's what the security teams called it. Officials called it Invictus II.
His routine was simple these days. At age twenty-five, he'd already scratched a year off of his sentence, and it'd been a lot like the priests in his hometown had described hell. Except colder. He'd replaced the old "volunteer" here (unwanted), and that meant absolutely no human contact. The only thing that made him remember his own humanity were the monsters outside (and inside), and a holovid from his mother, saying her last goodbyes before he was shipped off to lockdown. Therefore, he was very, very surprised to hear the sound of falling metal one morning, subsequently causing him to spill his tea all over the security robot he'd been repairing. Thinking fast, he grabbed his gear, taking his newly upgraded padding (in case of monster attack; he didn't want to know what lived on this godforsaken planet), and ran out the door, leaving the only non-injured security drone slightly confused. After all, his routine hadn't changed since he'd arrived. He'd get up; brush the rat's nest he called his hair, and proceed to drink what the drone suspected was spiked tea. He'd eat his ration for the day (sometimes nothing at all), and then he'd hole himself up in his room, tinkering with what he called Nanobots. His sudden change in behavior was… note-worthy, to say the least.
Miletus was a good person, really. He found useless violence distasteful, he'd prayed every night since he was four, and he tried not to sin… but he'd been born with an inconvenient amount of bloodlust. His roommates in the 'Fleet had been disturbed by blood, gore, death even? He'd been… interested. Not sexually (although the thought of a living, bleeding partner was slightly tantalizing), but rather, fascinated. Every known species was different, both outside - and in. Most 'normal' people were interested in testing, tasting, touching the outside of humans (or aliens). He, who had always been categorized as a 'weird' person, simply wanted to test, taste, and touch the inside.
Thus, a dilemma when he reached the scene of the fallen… airship, he'd guess. His senses were overloaded by the scent of burned flesh, and the metallic tang of blood. He heard a scream emit from underneath a particularly large piece of metal, and cringed as it slid off the broken body of… a human? How did a human survive the crash? Shaking off that thought for later, he moved closer, maneuvering around shrapnel and large alien-looking metal chunks of starship, reaching the boy in no time (and it was most definitely a boy). He'd had blonde hair (now stained with his own blood and slightly charred) and apparently been… Starfleet. A captain, from the look of his gold shirt. Sighing internally at his luck, Miletus took a quick stock of the man's injuries. Most likely broken ribs, a minor concussion, and his lower body looked crushed. Probably broken legs, maybe a fractured femur… God, let there be no damage to the spine.
Stepping around the plating the captain had pushed off, Miletus grabbed the man by the biceps (so reminiscent of when he'd saved Eratos) and dragged him up slowly, trying to make sure his legs weren't traumatized any more. That done, he slung the man over his shoulder, seeing that, from this angle, he looked more like a boy than a man (perhaps his age?)… and he was bleeding from the ears. Shit.
