Sketch - The Pilot
While away this weekend I found myself thinking of a TV series a friend of mine and I were going to work on. This is one of the characters I was in the process of designing and I finally got around to sketching her.
She’s the pilot of a spacecraft that acts as home and vessel for it’s small crew. She’s been flying all her life, but when she was in the military academy she suffered an accident that damaged her eyes. They became incredibly photosensitive, forcing her to need to wear heavily filtered eyewear, such as the goggles I sketched her with, but when she is flying in her cockpit, the darkness of space allows her to see as bright as day.
Lost. That’s what they called her. As if she were Atlantis, sunken to the lightless depths of the ocean. As if we couldn’t find her, misplaced among an infinite number of forgotten things. She had become the place of legend, the absent location of stories parents told their wide-eyed children. A place whiskered, ancient military men would consign to oblivion in the darkened corners of bars. They called her lost.
But here she was.
You’re not lost. We are. She could never answer me. I had sat here so many times staring at her, wondering how she became this way. I knew how, but the specific events, the choices made that brought her to this point, that gave her this name of “lost” were shrouded in centuries of diluted words. Words like “war”, “humanity”, and “quarantine”.
Quarantine. I risked it. I risked it to find her. To find her even though she wasn’t lost. Many knew where she was, but few braved the abyss to find her, to see her the way she once was. Time after time I would find myself staring at her scars. Her scorched wounds. The cracks across her face, still flooded with tears without sadness. But she should be sad, she was alone.
I longed to touch her face. To have the memories buried so long in my fingertips, in the depths of my genetic structure, surge through my nerves for the first time was a dream of mine. One day. I promise.
A faint light began to pulse on my wrist, attempting to pull me back from my ritualistic investigation of her features. I knew the sounds would come back soon, but I struggled to shut them out for a moment more. The alarm beeps crashed upon my meditation and receded again.
“Captain? Our time is up.”
“I know.” I answered with a sigh. My feet maneuvered into place, pushing carefully against the metallic outer skin. It was a gentle kiss, soft enough to hold me up, but not rough enough to push me away.
I looked up at her before turning away. The soft light of Sol kissing the edge of her heavenly body. All of it reflected along the curvature of my helmet. I finally turned away and carefully walked into the outer hatch as she disappeared from my view.
The bridge was silent, confined to a skeleton crew. My presence there was acknowledged by the lieutenant and commander with solemn stares as they watched me accept my position in my chair. I nodded to the lieutenant sitting next to me, the signal for us to leave.
She took control and turned us away with these final words, “Now leaving Earth orbit.”
A tribute to Stargate SG-1, my favorite scifi television series of all time. The section of the gate is composed of all 38 symbols found on the Milky Way gates, plus the Earth’s point of origin.
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