Laid low (Starfleet Medical, open)
Consciousness. That was different.
White ceiling, white curtains, occasional concerned medical personnel leaning into his field of view to wave a sonic cleanser over him or ask him how are you feeling, sir? or would you like some water? or are you in any pain, do you need me to up your meds? It had gotten to the point where Pike actually welcomed the daily testing - a doctor would come in and administer shocks or pricks to his limbs to gauge his responsiveness and pain threshold. Yes, it damn well hurt (that's excellent, Captain; with the damage it did we were expecting some degree of lasting paralysis), just like the rest of him, but at least it was a distraction from the inside of his own skull and the backs of his eyelids.
An idle mind made for unwelcome thoughts. Pike didn't like idleness; he also didn't care to revisit what had happened. Of all the epic fuck-ups any Starfleet captain could commit, his had been the absolute worst. The codes for Earth's defense grid. He was rational enough to know it hadn't been his fault; he'd used every torture-survival tactic he'd ever learned against the pain and the rising fog in his mind for as long as he could. But ultimately, the point was that he'd failed, and (thank God for Jim Kirk, for Spock, the brilliance of that brash young crew) another six billion people had very nearly paid the price for that failure.
So. Consciousness. Maybe not always the optimal state of being.
White ceiling, white curtains, occasional concerned medical personnel leaning into his field of view to wave a sonic cleanser over him or ask him how are you feeling, sir? or would you like some water? or are you in any pain, do you need me to up your meds? It had gotten to the point where Pike actually welcomed the daily testing - a doctor would come in and administer shocks or pricks to his limbs to gauge his responsiveness and pain threshold. Yes, it damn well hurt (that's excellent, Captain; with the damage it did we were expecting some degree of lasting paralysis), just like the rest of him, but at least it was a distraction from the inside of his own skull and the backs of his eyelids.
An idle mind made for unwelcome thoughts. Pike didn't like idleness; he also didn't care to revisit what had happened. Of all the epic fuck-ups any Starfleet captain could commit, his had been the absolute worst. The codes for Earth's defense grid. He was rational enough to know it hadn't been his fault; he'd used every torture-survival tactic he'd ever learned against the pain and the rising fog in his mind for as long as he could. But ultimately, the point was that he'd failed, and (thank God for Jim Kirk, for Spock, the brilliance of that brash young crew) another six billion people had very nearly paid the price for that failure.
So. Consciousness. Maybe not always the optimal state of being.