Never let me hit the ground, you’ll never let me crash

Posted on 09 Sep 2017 @ 2:21pm by Lieutenant Lake ir-Llantrisant

540 words; about a 3 minute read

Circa Episode 15: Emanation

[ON]

Lake ir-Llantrisant’s personal log, Stardate 66283.8

I miss my own bed.

Sometimes, I wish I understood engineering enough to understand that delicate balance between firmness and plush that gives my body the most comfort. That makes my back sigh. It seems to me that mattress engineering poses as great a complex mystery as subspace displacement physics. But then, other times, I wish I could grow a full and majestic beard. …It’s probably for the best I don’t take my wishes too seriously.

When I came to Earth for shore leave, I rented this house for the two of us. Now, it’s all for me. I get to be selfish. I get to indulge and focus on self-care. There is a certain value in that, at times. Especially in a career that is so utterly externally-focused. Except… The bed felt balanced with you in it. Now it leaves me tossing and turning, feels lumpy beneath me. The dining room looks positively cavernous now; I leave the lights off. The hot tub seems laughable in retrospect. I don’t even like to take a bath in water. It feels— No, I wonder if a clever engineer has built a sonic hot tub?

I’m ready to go home, home to my own bed. Home to my plants and my patients and even my horrid department chief. I’m scheduled to go home, in fact. My passage on the transport ship is booked; my shore leave time is nearly all used up. All of the factors are in alignment, except I can’t. I can’t go home. Starbase Seventy-Four is locked down in quarantine procedures.

I don’t know what’s happening, exactly. I’ve only heard whispers and rumours, thus far. Some say it’s a virus of the mind — a psychic invasion with notable behavioural symptoms — while others say it’s a garden-variety space plague, or cybernetic symbiotes trying to invade the bodies of the crew. I know… I know… I know… there’s no purpose in trying to imagine what’s really happening, but I worry for their well-being. My worry cannot prepare me for reality; it is stress without purpose. Really, though, it has been instructive. It’s strange. I can’t say I worry for any one crew member in particular. I don’t know who exactly I would miss; rather, I worry for them on a societal level?

I don’t know what to do with myself; I’m left at loose ends. Starfleet Command has been less than clear on their intentions. Standby, they say. I’m prepared, I said, I’m prepared to return to duty in whatever capacity. Standby, they say. So I standby. I’m not to attempt to return to the starbase and I’m not to leave Earth. I’m not being reassigned, but my crew are facing this hardship without me. I’m a counsellor without a crew. I might as well be an engineer without a warp drive, a pilot without wings, a security officer without a phaser burn.

Computer, end log.

[OFF]

RSS Feed