Rassilon eases up on the shuttle’s clutch, having switched to manual during spatial -night.- No day really, now, just an endless night… full of not even the lights of stars… and the reason for that is pummeling the shuttle’s sensors now.
A slip of nothing that leads to something is spinning in quincunx there, in space, in front of his humble vessel. Waiting to swallow him.
When everything is aligned, it will consume the shuttle and its occupant, gulping them down its gaping black maw like the judgment of some giant monster from old tales.
But the coordinates are exact; he and the shuttle will exit the petals of an opening flower and realign with the universe on the other side, folded like a paper bird along remembered lines.
It’s been a long time he’s visited Exo-Space.