Your first memory is of sitting on a hill overlooking soft green fields. A slight breeze stirred the grass oh so softly, and the sun filtered through the leaves of the tree above you. Your family were by you, warm at your back and the world was calm.
Looking back you can't capture the way that felt, your impressions feel like a shallow pretence. It was a good day. It makes for a sad memory.
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When you were young, you learnt early on about the way things were 'supposed to be'. Your family had status, a name, a position in society. You were 'supposed' to do right by it. Attend the right parties, say the right things, excel in the right fields. None of it was quite stated directly, at least at first, a raised eyebrow, a glance that lingered a second too long. Your family had a way of lending them as much weight as a hammerblow. Your heart burned and your teeth turned to fangs behind your lips. The first time they saw you, blood on your knuckles, bruised lip, their foreheads furrowed in tell-tale disappointment. Somehow, adrenaline singing in your blood, it lacked the usual sting. You grinned and their disappointment felt like dust before you. By the end of the week you'd started sword lessons and every frown on their brow was a little glory.
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You relish every moment of basic training. They shout and scream and beat you down, make every attempt they can to make you miserable. You're flying high at the sheer atavistic physicality of it all. You throw yourself into every exercise, feel your muscles burn and scream and it's all you can do to not laugh out loud. It isn't in you to hesitate any longer, it isn't in you to doubt. You see people crippled by their doubt all around you. They're afraid of making the wrong moves, of screwing it up, of the negative outcomes. Making no choice at all is far more damaging than making the wrong choice, most of the time. You aren't afraid to commit, to go all in. It's why you're getting recognised, making a name for yourself.
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The doctors had been reluctant to give you a clean bill of health after the aftermath of your last mission. They had concerns, they didn't understand the tech now grafted to your brain and CNS. You wondered what it would feel like to snap their necks right where they stood. Your CO had taken one look at the mission report, at the corpse of the dead scientist, orbital imagery of his wrecked laboratory, at your improved reaction times. He'd spoken to your subordinates, all alive thanks to your efforts. He ordered an exemption, effective immediately, and started briefing you for the next mission. You had your captaincy a mere year later.
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Your battlegroup filtered into the shuttles, weary, but successful. The enemy forces had expected a response to their actions, had known one would be coming months before they ever took the colony. They'd prepared, they'd been clever and cunning and resourceful. They hadn't been prepared for you. They hadn't been prepared for the water system to back up and flood the streets with waste. Hadn't expected the disease that struck, half their forces bedridden and dying from disease in less than a week. They'd expected a conventional campaign, you hadn't felt inclined to give them one.
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Humanity has learnt that space is not unoccupied, that on near all sides ancient dominions hold sway over vast regions of space. They've known this for over a century now. But when the construction of a fast-response fleet to defend all human territory finally reached completion, it needed an Admiral in charge. Your name was at the top of the list. It wasn't the first time you'd been recalled to Earth itself to be decorated. It was however, the last.
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An intellant virus is a threat that simply cannot be tolerated. You've had dozens of reports of the rumours of one. Rumours that lead here, an alien planet within Concordat influence, though not their space. A full-fleet is a power to be reckoned with. But, on the other hand. Can a power really be said to exist, if it is not used? There are battleships that have not once fired their primary armanent. What exactly, is the point of that? Well, let it not be said you have ever been one to waste the power you have been granted. You lay out your orders, you emphasise the scope of the threat, your subordinates have no need to know of its' uncertainty. You turn on the vid-links to watch your fire ravage the world underneath you.
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And now here you are. In a blackout cell, in a ship located you have no idea where. You suppose they couldn't just execute you, not when that would leave no-one to stand for blame the Concordat were sure to assign. Could hardly hand you over either, that'd be a tacit concession of power. Who knows what they'll do with you. You won't apologise for taking action where others would have hesitated. You did what you decided to do.
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You've been changed from ship to ship a dozen times, but now you think you've finally reached your destination, wherever that might be. Your hood and restraints are removed, leaving you thrust into a heavily built but sparse chamber. The door seals behind you, the only decoration in the room being a screen inset into one wall. Recording depth, or something like it, of all things. The room hums around you, a slight shudder the tell-tale sense of movement. An odd, heavy sensation. You feel stretched out, too big and too small all at once. The meter ticks down, more slowly as it goes. It stops when it reaches Horizon Depth. So does everything else.
((Hope I sufficiently matched what you were going for here. On the Skewfiend/Stillreflections plan here, you need to decide definitively on which translation method you're using here, but you've got a bit more time to adjust the build before we start.))
