[center][h1][color=#F5A9F2]???[/color][/h1]| [i]5 jumps preempting the assault on the Union Station.[/i] |[/center]

Space is a void non-conducive to independent thought or philosophy. It is a sea in standstill without the comforts of mundanity, like gravity or sensory pleasures -- caressing winds and salt spray-type feeling removed in place of sight. No sound, no ability to reach out and touch the surrounding twinkle; a sight-seeing tour of the distant and impossible. It is an immersive sort of boredom, then, to travel straight through space. One where the eyes glaze over the sameness and the brain empties -- in non-figments, from lack of oxygen, but for those with optional anatomy, it was only a matter of that sameness. It was an infinite journey, and eventually your identity mouldered and you entered something akin to a dream. And it was all preferred to the lonely, dreaming vagrant, far from home; immersed in it. 

It is easy to forget the dangers of nullity when you yourself are feeling none so acute. The space rock hits his shuttle, the force popping it like a balloon, and in a shower of sparkles, the vagrant is carried -- [i][b][color=#F5A9F2]"Hnng-ahh!"[/color][/b][/i]-- off his course and in an unintended direction.