It was dark, had probably always been dark.
It was never quite silent; there was a sort of harsh buzzing to the air that never went away, even in sleep, drowning out every dream until the only dream was the buzzing.
It was pain, it was… Just pain. Pain of the hands, of the hand most of all, pain of poking and prodding and deep, deep slicing, and little interested hmming and quiet conversation. It was pain of needles, what was the point of needles under the claws? It was pain of cutting for cutting's sake, and it was the itchy pain of slow and steady knitting back together. It was the pain of bruises from the crash too, of a broken ankle that had not been allowed to heal properly and now twisted every dragged step down that wretched and damp hallway.
It was silent in all the ways that mattered, in the absence of promises made that should never have been trusted, in the absence of anybody at all. It was the silence of total isolation at the end of the world, of the rest of the galaxy drowned out by that never-ending buzzing.
It was damp, always damp, and cold, always cold.
It was nothing, and pain, and nothing, and then in the loud silence there was a sound. There was a light.
It was the fading afterimage of Teyla, burned onto the backs of his eyelids, and Lastlight knew he had lost his mind because he could still see her there, like a totem, like a path, like a lifeline, and then the human who was adamantly not a doctor clicked their tongue and reached for the knife again, and somehow Lastlight still had it in him to scream.