Mortis: Futility

Recorder on.

The view is of a docking bay. Slowly rotating in the antigrav field is a huge chunk of metal, vaguely recogniseable as the front of a Megathron's arm. A few other scraps float alongside it.

The camera pans to look at Mortis, who looks meditative.

That could have gone better.

Annoying. Significant expenditure on that ship, and now she's just scrap.

He sighs, then signals to a neatly uniformed figure.

Get the useful equipment stripped off and then dump it. It's wasting space.

He sighs again, turning away from the docking bay as hovercraft move out to reclaim it the remnants of Eternity's Shroud.

Now I recall why battleships are not to my taste. There is a curious inevitability to their death, a terrible speed with which they attract attention and then are turned from an 'is' to a 'was'.

My studies aren't going fast enough. Even cutting corners on my schedule, it's too long. Too long!

Fascinating... yet frustrating. So many intricacies...

He shakes his head.

Now I need to find a new place to set up the network. Not keen on doing so on the station.

But it's definitely time to give up living on a battleship. Not worth it.

He turns away, switching off the camera.

Recorder off.