Floating in space was a new experience for Danny. He was used to oceans of water, currents and eddies, deep underwater valleys that he couldn't reach the bottom of (at least without getting a serious case of terminal death).
He was used to seas of people, crushing him to their bodies, holding guns on him, touching him, moving with him.
Space, compared to all this, was empty.
It was empty, but strangely he was warm and stranger still, he was alive. Alive and being drawn inexorably upward, or, well, Steve would be upset if he called it that. He was well aware there was no 'up and down' in space, he'd gone to grade school, thank-you-very-much.
It was kind of aching to think that maybe that little voice in his head was all he'd have left of Steve after this.
After getting shot into space.
We are the Borg. We will add your biological and technological distinctiveness to our own. You will be assimilated. Resistance is futile.
It was the last thing he'd heard before water parted, burst, shot upwards and pulled at his rough skin, before the sky was exploding in his vision, coming closer closer, through clouds and vision blanking out into endless blue.
And, to compound the absolute fucking madness, the grade-A what-the-fuck is my life, beneath all that, a strange, almost painfully musical voice;
Come to us. Come to us. Come to me.
And then his world was taken up by black, foreboding metal and a veritable Escher of geometric shapes sweeping past him at speeds that defied the eye, and after that he was flopping on a deck, skin dry and painful and he tried to shift, but he couldn't, he couldn't and he couldn't breathe.
The last thing he saw before loosing consciousness was the face of a boy, half-obscured by metal and a flashing light and one beautiful, brilliant blue eye.