It had been too long since Khan had last attempted meditation. It used to be a fairly ritualistic practice, one performed before battles, conquests, breakthroughs, anything planned before its time. Ever since he was awoken, the art had been a rare luxury. There was too little time left in the days, too much to plan and prepare, too much lost to dwell on his own self. When one spent weeks, months, aboard a humming vessel out of one's time confined to a cell, the enraged observation of others, there was little left to do but pace and think and recount.
That is, until he remembered meditation. Thus the Augment sat, hands on knees and pale face angled slightly up, his back straight and his hips square. Icy eyes were closed in his consciousness and his senses turned inward. While it may have been a practice he was once fond of, the faces he recalled were not kind to bear.