Zebras

Posted on 07 May 2013 @ 4:26pm by Lieutenant JG Kestra Orexil

4,152 words; about a 21 minute read

Mission: Episode 03 - Frontier
Location: USS Galileo - Deck 4, Arboretum
Timeline: MD 09, 07:25

ON:

The loam and earth were intoxicating, as were the flowers - blooming from beds, bushes, and branches with their differing shapes, colors, scents... The scents alone were kaleidoscopic compared to the rigid lines and antiseptic feel of the Sickbay and the Security Office. Alive. Growing. Liyar had been right. This was exactly what she needed, though it made her sad to think of the roses surpassing her in vitality. How strong they were, full of purpose, stretching towards the real light in the holographic sky... while she was confined to the chair, her own roots lackluster despite probing and prodding.

She'd forgone her uniform, for - despite the warm welcome from the other officers in her department - she no longer felt as though she had a right to wear it. Taking reports? In-house counselor? Why? Insight into the minds of others was an innate ability, not one of the skills she'd taken such pains to develop and grow over the years. Her aim was still accurate, wasn't it? Her hands steady. Her mind sharp. Yet they had given her the work of a computer and an intern. They meant well, she knew, and were likely as flummoxed by her impairments as she was. In truth, she didn't know what she might have done had she been in their particular place. She was at once a threat to their dominance (though she tried not be) and entirely useless (though she wished not to be). Perplexing, to say the least.

So, she was not a Security Officer right now. She was only herself - whoever that would turn out to be - visiting the trees and living things in a shapeless shift of amber with a dark red shawl around her bare shoulders and a plain blue blanket from Sickbay draped over her inexplicably motionless legs. Her pale arms were still cross-hatched with the remains of the scars she'd worn for weeks, as was her chest where the shift curved low.

Kestra might have looked asleep, with her eyes closed, hands relaxed off the arm rests of the hovering chair, shoulders loose and easy. Her hair was a mass of densely tangled deep red ropes that flowed over her shoulder and pooled in her lap like a turbulent waterfall. She might have looked asleep, but she was wide awake, soaking in the life in the environment. The warmth of the manufactured light and coolness of the manufactured breeze. And the only thing between her and the tumult of voices of the two Starfleet ships was the slow ringing coming through the earpieces Liyar had torn apart and reassembled especially for her. He needed - she didn't know what, but she would find it and give it to him if she could. She couldn't control the relationship between him and his real brother, no, and wouldn't want to affect a change in bonds that had already stood a longer test of time than she'd known him for. But she could give him new people. Her own brothers - he might like them. Her sister. Her nieces. They would love him because she did. Maybe her physical roots had been taken away to remind her of her duty to her emotional ones.

Maenad was standing in the arboretum office with her arms crossed on her chest. She was giving the arboretum staff their orders for the day. They were moving a flowerbed to make room for some plant samples from Rojar II, to see if they could be kept here. The work was simple, but it was physically demanding. "And make sure you wear your gloves," she said finally, looking each of them in the eyes. "It might be nice to handle the soil in your hands, but I don't want the oils from your skin contaminating the alien plants." She turned her head to look out the window, but did a double-take when she saw somebody in a hoverchair. She frowned, curious. She had never seen a disabled person before.

"All right? Have a good day," she finished. She left the office, which was concealed as a shed at the top of the hill, and emerged into the cool morning air. She looked down grade at the person she realised she had never seen before. Who were all these people she kept meeting? Where were they coming from? She tapped her PADD against the back of her skirted thigh as she made her way down the dirt path toward her newest guest.

As Maenad got closer, she saw that the woman was not in uniform? She wondered if she might be from the press corps, in which case she should have turned around. She was wearing beautiful colours and had a rope-like hair that reminded her the dreadlocks that some her friends used to wear. "Good morning," she said lightly. "Have you been here before?"

Kestra turned, pitch black gaze settling on the green of the Terran's. Maenad Panne. She smiled gently. Weeks ago now, her voice hummed in the Terran's mind. Liyar said you might be unsettled by my speech, but I've little option in how to communicate unless you'd like to write notes. Her smile slipped a notch towards hopeful, and the words held a sense of wishful anticipation.

At first, Maenad thought she was losing her mind as a an involuntary voice started flooding her mind. She tried to ignore it, but she realised it wasn't coming from her, it was the stranger's. Maenad opened her mouth to speak; she turned her head from side to side to avert her eyes before finally looking back. Eyes that black had to be Betazoid. "Liyar told you?" she asked more quietly than she'd intended. Why that was her first question, she didn't know, but it was too late to take it back. Why was Liyar talking about her? "Are you Betazoid?"

He did. I am. Kestra offered her hand in the Terran way: thumb up, palm to the side. I am Kestra'lunaris Orexil. And you are Maenad Panne. I told him I wished to meet you and he said the interaction might prove upsetting to you due to my... predicament, as it were. I had faith you might see your way past the unfamiliar in this instance; I hope I was right.

Maenad would have been lying if she'd said that she was fine with it, but she wasn't going to start arguing. Kestra seemed friendly enough, and even more she seemed genuine. "Yes, I'll be fine," Maenad smiled gently. She gestured with her neck for Kestra to follow her to the pond, where Maenad could sit on the bench. Once her legs were crossed, Maenad tried to be diplomatic. "Are you all right?" She eyed the hoverchair. "Can you speak normally, or are you recovering from something?"

The hoverchair emitted a soft purring sound as Kestra defty manipulated the controls and navigated over to the pond. Water lapped. Ducks paddled. The ceiling was reflected in the rippling silver surface. I was caught in a plasma blast assisting with ship repairs during our first mission - it seared a good portion of me, including my throat. She slipped the shawl from her shoulders to reveal the worst of the scarring around the base of her neck and upper back. I slipped into a coma and they kept me in stasis; likely would have forever had Liyar and my cousin Trija not drawn me out of my own self-induced prison. So I find myself legless and voiceless, but otherwise recovering smoothly enough. They say I may yet recover both, it has only been a few days since I returned to consciousness. Her expression was somber, brows drawn just a touch upwards and together. I'm not happy with the situation, but there's no need for diplomacy. I understand you're trying to be polite, but if it does become too much, you need only let me know. Yes? I always preferred honesty before this happened and I see no reason for that to change. Her laughter was silent exhaled and a thrill of amusement through Maenad's mind. I am so pleased to meet you.

Maenad tilted her head to dismiss Kestra's worries. She could never imagine not having the use of her voice or legs. She wouldn't be able to play piano anymore. At least, not as well. Or dance. Or walk. Without her voice, she would probably lose her mind. At least Betazoids could communicate telepathically. "That's terrible," she was sincerely affected. "Liyar helped to revive you?" she asked, licking her lips.

Yes. The place that I went to protect me from my physical torment became a prison of terrors; it unravelled me and left me unable to find my way out of it. Liyar and Trija saved my life and my sanity at the risk to their own. I shall always be indebted to them, and try to be grateful for the life they returned to me; better to be the walking wounded than the dead. Hovering wounded, I should say, Kestra added wryly. Now tell me about you. I know bits and pieces, impressions, but not much. You're the Chief Science Officer. I was the Chief of Security before all this; leading a department is a great responsibility. It seems as though you shoulder it admirably. I'm glad.

"Oh," Maenad blushed, "many people would disagree," she said with a smile. "I'm surprised you have heard admirable things about me," she admitted, watching two ducks climb out of the water. They laid down a few steps from the pond's edge and started cleaning their feathers. "I generally try to keep to myself," Maenad explained, still watching the ducks. Something about the serenity of Kestra's thoughts allowed Maenad to be more introspective with than she would have been with other strangers.

One of the benefits of hearing thoughts before words is a wider perspective unhindered by facades and duplicity, Kestra explained as she lifted one shoulder, scooting her shawl back into place. Your work and attention to detail are noticed, even if they are not spoken of. Feathers slick, dripping, splayed, ruffled. Simple existence. She could see why one might choose the company of the ducks over that of humans - the birds wanted nothing from them. For someone who keeps to themselves, you've a number of people thinking of you. Is it that you enjoy solitude or dislike association?

Maenad smiled again as she slowly exhaled. Kestra was too kind. A slight breeze caught Maenad's hair, which she pushed back into place behind an ear. "I like association," she said, turning to look at Kestra, "but I find people very difficult." It was the truth. "I like solitude," she added before pausing to think. "I often wonder whether I like solitude, or if I've just gotten used to it." Maenad glanced at the ducks again, then at her knees. "I prefer the company of one or two people. Close people." She didn't add that she craved intimacy, sharing herself with someone she thought her equal. There was a capacious emptiness about her that she found difficult to articulate, or perhaps fully accept.

What about them do you find difficult? Kestra inquired, curious. Honesty was one thing, but she didn't need to comment or probe on everything she heard. Loneliness was a hard thing, and rarely cured by having its presence pointed out.

That was a tough question. She had always felt uncomfortable in large groups. Maenad's way of having fun, too, had always been different from most people's. "Well," she started slowly, "I like to sit and read, but not what most people read. I like to listen to music, but nobody likes my kind of music. I like to argue, but people think I'm being rude," her head gradually fell to one side. "I don't like to talk too much about things. I don't get a rise out of cooking. I don't know," she smiled nervously. "People misinterpret me."

Cascades of notes tumbling like falling barrels over waterfalls; Kestra wore a faraway expression as she followed the glimpsed sounds of a Penderecki concerto in Maenad's head. Too much, too far. She wound herself back, out, out. Breathe in. Exhale. What do most people like to read?

Another tough question. Maenad started to feel like she was in a counselling session. That was the last time she had heard a question like that. Always going deeper. Looking for meaning behind the things she said. Nothing was face value. She let out a very slow breath through her nostrils, fidgeting with her fingers in her lap, totally oblivious to Kestra's glimpses of things hidden away inside her. "I don't know," she answered softly. She really didn't. She just knew.

'People misinterpret me' she'd said. What if I promise not to think you're rude - will you argue with me? Kestra suggested. Everyone's been so terribly gentle with me since I woke up. I should like a solid mental scrap to take me down a peg or two.

Maenad laughed at that and set sympathetic eyes on her. "Yes, I would," she told her, "I don't want to bring somebody down who's being so nice to me; I'd rather know how you got your hair like that." Maenad liked to argue, but she didn't know what to debate, and she knew she had a tendency to become scathing. "Can I touch it?" she nodded toward her. "I won't mess it up." Maenad uncrossed her legs, accidentally scaring the two ducks back into the water, and she moved to the edge of the seat, knees together, and a wide smile on her face.

If you can do what two plus weeks of laying flat in a stasis field couldn't, I will be impressed, Kestra lifting the hair from her lap with both hands and holding it out. It's canthera wax and years in the making. A lot of braiding, waxing, ripping, and combing, then a lot more of leaving it alone. But it impressed the Klingons and, in a pinch, I can pack a solid wallop with it all in a mass. Could, she corrected herself. I don't mind scathing, she added. Only I wish you wouldn't worry about 'niceness' with me. Just be yourself and however you are, I'm sure we'll muddle through, for Liyar is fond of you and I can't help but do the same. He's braided into my psyche as surely as the knots in my hair are there to stay.

"He is?" Maenad asked, her cheeks flushing a little as she felt the hair between her fingers. She sounded more excited than she perhaps should have, but it was too late to do anything about it. She grinned at the rest; Maenad knew she could be herself around her.

I've never understood why people ask questions they already know the answers to, Kestra smiled at her thoughtfully. She'd long suspected it had to do with how insecure a lack of telempathy made them feel; unsure whether the words they heard were truth or duplicity, constantly seeking reapproval for things they thought they might have misheard or misunderstood. It must be maddening. Speaking of misunderstandings... You are a great deal more comfortable with telepathic contact than I expected you to be. Very open. I find myself wondering why it is he was so concerned.

"Oh," she sat back again, crossing her legs, "well, I don't prefer communicating this way. When Liyar first tried it with me, it frightened me. His plan, Vaikreyan, tried to communicate with me once, too, and I didn't like it." She shrugged. "You have no choice, so I an not too bothered with it. I just don't like the idea of people finding things out about me that I don't wish to share, or people invading my privacy."

You could choose to be bothered. People do. The ducks spooked over nothing she could see, scurrying across the surface of the pond before settling again. Then again, a great deal can be absorbed about an individual without the benefit of empathy or telepathy. How they dress, wear their hair, hold their shoulders, minute fluctuations in facial muscles, the tempo of their steps... Just because I cannot read a Ferengi's mind does not mean I cannot know what he is thinking. We speak volumes about ourselves all the time without words. Turning back to Maenad, Kestra smiled gently. I wonder why you think he has a choice, any more than I do.

Maenad sighed. "He does have a choice. He is a Vulcan. If I consent to it, then I am fine with it. If you can't speak, and you are a telepath, and you can communicate just well like this, then by all means do it. You're not probing into places I don't know about." She raised her eyebrows. "You could be, without me knowing, but I trust that you aren't. My mind and my thoughts are my own, and I share what I wish. I don't like having somebody else in my mind without an invitation."

Kestra emitted a fuzzy green humming sound, not unlike the breeze through the grass, in the other woman's head. I've met so many people who feel estranged and misunderstood, as though no one really knows them. Yet, given the opportunity for someone to learn about them, they balk. Not only with regards to telempaths, but with each other using the words you're all so fond of. That isn't to say that we don't have our own misunderstandings - one woman's feeling about a subject is rarely the same as another's and impasses can come from the simplest of differences. But that juxtaposition between wanting to be truly known and wanting to keep one's self to one's self has always been a source of curiosity for me. Perhaps we can speak on this subject more.

"I'm not balking," Maenad said quickly. "Humans don't like having their mind being somebody else's open file. That's all it is. We are who we are. Our thoughts are our own. For me, it's the most private place I can be and will ever have. I don't like the idea of somebody else going into my head, because it's mine." She didn't like the implication that she was being hypocritical, and her tone reflected that. She was lonely, sure, and felt out of place a lot, but letting people explore her mind wasn't the way to solve that.

Kestra smiled gently. I meant no such implication. There is no need to become defensive. We are discussing a difference between species and experiences, that is all. This is something I have often wondered, with many humans. Indeed, with many non-telempaths. For instance, she paused, pondering. Have you ever shared a book, or loaned a dress, or told a secret? Taken something you loved and given it to another for the sheer sake of bonding with them over that shared affection?

"No," was her honest reply. Maenad had never loaned a dress to anyone, nor had she ever told a secret in order to bond with someone. She was only personal with people who made her comfortable. She loaned a few books to Tiffany Darwisch, but she had only done that because she wanted to read them. It had nothing to do with friendship.

If Kestra had had a voice, she'd have cleared her throat. As it was, she simply looked out over the water silently. I stand corrected, she thought - ripples and breezes.

Maenad grinned. She licked her lips. "Do you have a favourite animal?" she asked, turning her head.

Kestra shook her head. It had never occurred to her to select one creature over others. And the quick change of subject was not lost on her. Do you?

"I like zebras," she said quietly, staring out at the water.

The word meant nothing to Kestra, but the image - some quadruped equine animal with black and white stripes meandering lackadaisically through a plain of stiff grasses... What about them?

"I like the way they look. They make a neat sound," she said with a shrug. "No real reason. I like birds, too."

Oh yes? Kestra inquired. No. No, this would not do. She had learned some information about the woman, but still had no answers. You asked earlier, if I could speak normally. Translating my thoughts into Standard isn't normal. It is something I learned to do. Just as I learned to speak Standard at all. Betazoid language is a telempathic one - we, I suppose you might call it 'communing' rather than 'speaking'. Images, sounds, and memories, rather than attempting to collect those thoughts into smaller, simpler words and hoping others will understand what we mean by them. His own language is similar. Standard, verbal communication is a foreign things we wrap our minds around. Not a simple matter, when one is used to a more holistic manner of communication. The water twitched as a duck dove. I, too, enjoy birds.

Maenad sat quietly for a while, not sure what she was supposed to do with herself. She was starting to feel out of place, like she shouldn't be here. She eventually turned away, her expression exceptionally blank. "When are they going to let you return to duty?" she asked.

They already have. Short days. They seem to believe that all this sitting will tire me out. I feel as if I'm going slightly mad with all this sedentary white-glove treatment. Nevertheless, I am requalified for my phaser and managed to convince Rhodes I am capable of doing more than signing reports for hours on end. Thrilling. She looked at Maenad out of the corner of her eye, If your intention is to hide your feelings, you'd do better to work on that internally. Your expression is lovely, of course, but comes a few seconds after your emotional responses. Why is it you feel out of place?

Maenad closed her eyes for a few seconds, frustration beginning to stir behind her breastbone. It wasn't fair. She felt violated. It was like being with Liyar, but he wasn't a stranger to her. She was comfortable with him because he knew how to respect her privacy, or at least he knew not to comment on thoughts unintended for the outside. "I can't work on it internally, Miss Orexil," she said more sternly than she'd intended. This was precisely why telepaths, empaths, any kind of path that wasn't a null like she was, made her uncomfortable. "I don't have shields. I don't have suppressions, I don't have anything to block what goes on in my head like you do. I can't stop you, or anyone else, from going into my head and hearing or seeing or feeling whatever they want." She sat forward, hunching over her legs. Her knees met side-by-side. She closed her eyes again and touched her temple with two fingers. Barely had a second had passed. She looked thoroughly upset; not angry, but something between embarrassment and humiliation. Almost sadness. Her head was hers, and only hers. Unable to sit there any longer, she abruptly stood.

"I would not do better to control my thinking," she snapped down at her, her voice becoming shrill. "You might do better respect my privacy." Maenad's eyes flickered. Her hands were fists at her sides, her fingers dug into each other's bloody cuticles. "I hope you get well soon," she said genuinely, but was still very irritated. "Have a nice day," she quickly added, then turned on her heels, her skirt catching air by her knees, and she marched herself out of the arboretum.

Kestra lifted her brows, watching the woman storm off like a child in a tantrum. She'd come to learn, and learn she had. But she was left wondering... It wasn't her business, of course, and Liyar had a right to his own choices - right or wrong. Perhaps she was less impatient in his presence. Or he was less forthright about how loudly the woman thought. It was a deception she was uninterested in participating in, but if it pleased him, who was she to say otherwise?

OFF:

LT(JG) Kestra Orexil
Master at Arms
USS Galileo

Lieutenant (JG) Maenad Panne
Chief Science Officer
USS Galileo

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