Decompression (Part 2 of 2)

Posted on 10 Aug 2012 @ 10:31am by Chief Warrant Officer 3 Lamar Darius & Lieutenant Lilou Zaren

3,682 words; about a 18 minute read

Mission: Episode 01 - Project Sienna
Location: USS Galileo - Deck 2, Various
Timeline: MD07 - 2310 hrs

[ON - Continued]

Beneath the EV suit, her jacketless uniform was rumpled but unmarked. She could just as easily have dressed and then taken a nap in it. By comparison, her hands were a gory mess, Lamar's dried blood coagulating over the drill dust and gel pack remnants already there. The act of unzipping her uniform left a trail of sticky crimson and black in the wake of those hands; she was on autopilot. This was what he expected. This was what she should be doing. Except there were so many things that she should be doing- her distant gaze fell upon one blackened symbol on his arm, and then followed point to point from that one to the next and the next. Emblems of service to the Marines stretched across his shoulders and down both arms, startlingly visible in the too bright light of the shower. There was a buzzing sound in her ears, loud and noxious; the scent of blood rushed her again - images of her own broken body, Quinn's mangled arm, Remington being carried past her, gutted, to the turbolift... She shut her eyes to escape them, but that only made it worse: the crunch of bones, the sound of laughter over shouts. She felt the wall against her back, though she wasn't clear on how she'd gotten to it, fingers searched for a panel, an escape, something, anything. She was supposed to find her happy place, she knew that intellectually, but she couldn't. Happiness was such a dim, unlikely thing in the face of so much blood and menace, and anyway, people didn't change, did they? Intersecting ODN lines, data streaming, unaffected by the other tiny inconsequential bits of information flowing past them in opposite directions, all of them surging towards their own respective ends, some sooner than others. "Need- transporter room and- warp engine- dilithium matrix- levels-" She couldn't hear the words, couldn't even recognize the voice as her own, but she could feel her lips moving, her breath hitching loudly in her ears. "Someone has to- not done, I'm not done, I'm not done yet-" Where the hell was the panel? It was supposed to be right behind her. She'd been through this memory so many times and the panel was always right behind her. No. Not until they'd broken her ribs and her face, then she'd found the panel. Can't skip parts of the datastream, Peers, that's just sloppy, who knows what kind of drive you'll fry leaping about in the timeline like that? Past and present veered together, crashing and splintering behind her eyes as she struggled to breathe and waited for the first sensory wave. Two ribs, then another, then the jaw, another rib, nose, ear canal, arm, leg, protect the hands, she had to protect her hands if nothing else, otherwise what would she do with herself when it was finally over? Broken tools are discarded more often than they're repaired. She pressed back against the wall, eyes squeezed shut, wincing as her memories played out and overlapped.

Lamar watched curiously at first as she strangely began to mumble something about the warp core and 'not being finished'. He looked closely at her face, then a terrified feeling overcame him as he realized that Lilou was having what appeared to be another panic attack. Not like the one in the mess hall when they had first met. This one seemed worse. The signs were all there; the incoherent speech, her stiff and trembling body pressed against the wall...her tightly shut eyes. It had probably been brought on by combat stress, he surmised, then quickly moved close to her and grabbed her firmly by the shoulders to give her a quick squeeze. "Lilou...it's okay. Open your eyes. Please." he said, trying his best to get her to snap out of her daze.

"No!" she gasped, struggling in his hold, but his hands were too strong, pinning her arms to her sides. She tried to wrestle out of the grip; there was nothing for it. Between his bulk and the wall, she was trapped. She struggled for another minute, before going limp against the wall, her face turned to the side. "You're not them," she whispered. "You don't have to be. Please, please, please-"

He quickly supported her as he felt her body go limp, and slowly lowered her into a sitting position on the ground, moving his arms from the grasp and wrapping one around her shoulder in a comforting motion. "I'm not who, Lilou? It's me, Lamar....I'm not a Klingon." he replied, extremely confused as to what was now happening. "Everything will be okay, just open your eyes and look at me."

Lilou's breath hitched as she struggled to breathe. In and out. In and out. A Klingon. The sheer idiocy of the statement made her shoulders shake, humor warring with terror. "I know what you are," she said when she could finally breathe again. "I know. That's why I can't," she finished wearily, still shaking. "I can't get any more broken. I have work to do. For this ship and for Quinn and I-" She dropped her head to her knees, hugging them to her. "I couldn't fix him," she wept, her voice thick, "and I couldn't fix Will and I can't fix me, so I can't get more broken. Not right now. Please don't make me look again. Because now- now I can't keep pretending that you're not-"

The chief was really out of his element now, having absolutely no idea what Lilou was trying to tell him. He wasn't a counselor, not even close to it, and couldn't make heads or tails of what she was saying. I know what you are? he replayed over in his head. What was that supposed to mean? "Pretending that I'm not...what?" he asked trying to finish her broken sentence yet getting frustrated because of his inability to help. "What do you mean 'get broken'?"

She pressed her knees against her eye sockets, just trying to breathe. Part of her wanted to tell him, because his strength was alluring and the fortitude with which he'd borne his injuries was something she desperately wanted to cling to, if only vicariously. But the other, the larger and newer and louder part, screamed that all his apparent kindness was a long tactical maneuver towards her destruction. That, or what? What other reason could there possibly be? He didn't know her, not really, how could he? How could anyone? She barely even knew herself anymore. Certainly couldn't guess from one minute to the next what she would do or how she would react to whatever new stimuli was put forth. Her mind was a mapless labyrinth even to herself. The only things she could be sure of were that the fear would come, as it always did, and would make her lose herself, as it always did, and would remind her forcefully of the physical pain and emotional anguish that awaited any mild feeling of security, as it always did. As it always did, but didn't need to. Didn't she have enough proof now, without the added benefit of her own horrible brain? Didn't she have blood in her nostrils and on her hands? A moment of feeling good and solid had led to phaser fire and blood and the scent of burning flesh that was far too reminiscent of the smell of pork for comfort. She didn't want to make a sound, but low, awful sobs kept crawling up from her stomach, through her throat, and out her mouth. She wanted to go, but couldn't find purchase on the ground enough to stand; her ears hurt, the room felt wrong as though the gravity were off. Maybe it was. And then, as if a switch had been flicked, she suddenly felt the whole bloody screaming mess fold and resolve itself into a hard, study ball in the bottom of her stomach, and the rest of her was left awkward and empty. Holes where heart and lungs should be. Even her hands felt hollow; oddly pliable skin balloons. "I'm sorry," she said quietly. "I don't- don't know what- I should let you-" Her voice was stilted; the words were meaningless attempts at escape and therefore difficult to complete while her ears were still buzzing. "I'm sorry," she said for the umpteenth time, the refrain common because it, at least, was something true that she could put words to.

He dismissed the notion that she had done anything worth apologizing for with a shake of his head, then pulled her closer and ran his hand over her dark hair, pushing it from her face and gently stroking it. "It's okay...I only want to help. I'm your friend, Lilou." he continued in a soft tone. He hated to see her like this because it made him feel helpless. He was a good soldier and leader on the battlefield, but didn't have the slightest idea what he could do to help his friend. It seemed like she needed a counselor more than she needed him, at the current moment. With his free arm he reached up and tapped the control panel for the shower, activating it with a soft hum. Instantly the vibrations of the sonic shower began to ripple across his body, providing a soothing and relaxing sensation as the dirt, blood and grime started to wash off of him and down the small drain in the floor.

Lilou shivered as her skin vibrated with the force of the sonic shower. The buffeting pressure sharpened her wits against the overwhelming panic and she began to breathe more easily, rubbing her hands together in front of her to help the sonic waves clear them of gore.

The sonic shower was operating at full force and Lamar leaned his head back against the wall and closed his eyes as he began to finally get clean. He continued to smooth Lilou's hair back and could feel her body starting to relax as goosebumps appeared on her skin. Several long moments went by and Lamar quietly sat with her in silence. It felt good to have her close to him. It was comforting. Finally, he opened his eyes and looked down to check on her.

"I feel like sometimes I've done something wrong to upset you but I never know what it is." he said in a barely audible voice. He couldn't keep it on his chest any longer, and this was not the first time that he had felt responsible for upsetting her. This whole time he had assumed that she was suffering from combat trauma, but now he had the feeling that something else was going on. Some of the things she had said to him were...strange. He wanted to know what was happening and his intuition told him someone else might be going on.

His voice drew her back out of the dark hollow. It wasn't happy in that numb space, but it was workable. Workable was what she needed right now. She didn't expect to be happy. Missing arms and dead people and a seriously broken ship didn't equal happy. But she did expect to be able to work, to do her job, to live up to Quinn's expectations and the XO's. And then his voice tugged her out of her safe, dark, internal hole and back into the too bright shower and the image of those tattoos emblazoned proudly on his skin. Images that reminded her of times before she'd learned to hide inside her dark hollow, when everything had always been too bright and those same tattoos had been burned into the forefront of her mind even as the bones in her face were shattered. She took a deep breath. That would help. "Clothes," she said quietly, her voice rough with swallowed tears. "Please."

Lamar glanced around the shower, confused by her request. Their blood-soaked uniforms lay on the floor outside of the shower...she couldn't possibly want to put them back on, could she? Or maybe she wanted him to put on clothes? But why? It made no sense to him. "I have clean uniforms in my closet...but they won't fit you." he replied, looking over at her and studying her face.

"Not- no. You. Just-" she breathed deep again, head still buried against her knees. It was hard - desperately hard - to try to put words to a fear she was trying to avoid. The impulse to flee warred with the knowledge that his large hand on her head had done nothing but stroke her hair. Yet, a seething voice in the back of her head reminded her. "I can't-" she fought to speak and hold herself still and steady. That, in itself, was the hardest thing she'd done in the last twenty-four hours. Fighting pain and the fear of impending death at the hands of strangers wasn't actually all that difficult when she had a task to perform. Fighting her own thoughts... that was nearly impossible. Yet she had a task to perform here too. She had to get her body to unfold, stand up, get back to work. And she couldn't do that if he was standing there, all imposing, with his body marked with those emblems she now associated with some of the worst months of her life. "I can't talk to you," she choked, flattening her palms against the floor. "Not when I can see them," she added in a whisper.

He blinked, still not following her train of thought. "See them? See what?" he asked. Then, slowly, he began to piece together her broken sentences. She had asked him for clothes, then said she couldn't talk to him when she could 'see them'. He looked down at his chest and upper arms, taking note of his many tattoos that he had accumulated over the years of military service. "You don't like my work?" he asked, using the old Earth slang term for body art. The chief couldn't imagine that something as small as tattoos could be the reason she seemed so...terrified of him.

The question was so absurd she almost laughed. Except the impulse to laugh was tied up in her diaphragm, so when it buckled she actually felt bile rise in her throat, which she swallowed back down. Maybe she could feel her way out blind. Just fumble her way out with her eyes closed and run. Didn't like his work. That was the understatement of the century. Her shoulders hunched as she tried to control a rapid swell of nausea.

A frustrated sigh escaped his lips and he shook his head in bewilderment. "So that's what this is about?" he asked as he gave her hair a final stroke before slowly standing and exiting the shower. He quickly inspected himself, satisfied that his dark skin was blood-free and his wounds were clean, then walked out of the room and into the hallway. "Why do they bother you?" he called out as he walked into his destroyed living room and sifted through the closet. Several moments passed and he came back into the bathroom wearing his standard-issue black pants and a red long-sleeve undershirt.

She heard him leave and return, but she couldn't bring herself to open her eyes. His questions were relatively simple, but the answers weren't. She'd only spoken of it to the one counselor since she'd been silenced on the Algonquin, and Drusilla had ended up upset with her and then had an aneurism two days later, so Lilou was fairly certain that revelation wasn't meant to happen. The idea of telling Lamar, who came from the same brood as the ones who'd broken her and the ones who'd ordered her to keep her mouth shut was completely out of the question. She just had to get a handle on it. Get a grip. Shut up, keep her head down, and do her job. It was harder to swallow the fear and the nerves, because of Will and Quinn and the whole life or death situation, but she could do it. She had to. Adapt or die. She breathed low, lips pressed together. When she was sure she wasn't about to throw up or start crying again, she peeked up at him nervously. The inked reminders were hidden beneath the red shirt and that helped. Some. Not much, because he was still standing there, watching her expectantly, with his marine posture. It was an effort not to flinch. Slowly, she forced herself to unfold and stand up. It didn't do all that much to put her on an even playing field; he was still taller than her by a solid foot, still stronger. But she was making an effort to stay in the present and not let that barrel her into another corner. "I didn't mean to say anything," she said quietly. "Sometimes... well, it's a scary time, isn't it? People say things they don't mean when they're scared, so... I should go. And. I'm sorry. For any trouble I might have caused."

He watched as she slowly stood up and spoke, his eyes remaining skeptical as he watched her. "You're going to leave just like that?" he asked, a bit bewildered. "Look, Lilou...if you don't want to talk to me about something, that's fine...but don't just run away." he said with a shake of his head. He was beginning to get upset, as if somehow he had done something wrong and caused her to want to leave. The worst part was that she wouldn't even tell him what it was, instead just deflecting the question and choosing to leave. It made him feel...unwanted.

She struggled to keep her hands at her sides, rather than wringing them together. "I don't know what to say," she told him honestly. "If I did- if I could talk about it- but I can't." Her gaze dipped to travel around his feet.

"Talk about what?" he asked, realizing he was finally making progress and getting her to at least talk to him.

"I can't," she repeated, forcing herself to meet his eyes. They were kind eyes, set in a worried face, and she knew - was sure - that it wasn't his fault that she felt this way. He hadn't been on that ship. He hadn't done anything wrong. But she couldn't help the way she felt when saw his tattoos or how she reacted immediately when she saw him, before she realized who he was. And explaining that him meant explaining why she felt that way. And she couldn't. Because putting words to it hurt her. Because she'd been ordered not to, and breaking those orders the once had resulted in a woman in Sickbay. And maybe she hadn't done anything to Drusilla, but it felt that way. "It's been a really long day."

Lamar nodded in agreement. It had indeed been a long and treacherous day, and he didn't want to push her any further. He didn't want to aggravate or upset her any more than she already was, and she had at least made progress by admitting to him that there was something bothering her outside of her regular duties. Baby steps, he told himself. "I won't make you talk about anything you don't want to." he replied quietly with concern in his voice, "But I want to help you...will you promise me that at some point in the future, you'll tell me what's going on?" he asked.

"Before I die," she agreed in a whisper. "I should..." she glanced past him towards the door and it occurred to her that, despite her trepidations, having her exit blocked by him wasn't sending her into the panic that seeing those tattoos had. That was something, wasn't it? Didn't that mean she was getting better, inch by inch? Sinking her shoulders back and down, she forced herself towards him, stopping about a foot away and carefully placing her hand over his heart, imagining clear, unmarred skin beneath the bright red shirt. "Can you not say anything about this?"

"Of course." he said with a small smile, then stepped forward and hugged her. Once again he pushed some of her dark hair back from her cheeks and leaned down, planting a kiss on her forehead. "Do you want to go back to your quarters now?" he asked.

"Work is better," she told him, eyes fluttering closed as she pressed her cheek to his hand. It was a nice moment of rest, but it couldn't last. She'd spoken the truth; the longer she vacillated between work and inactivity, the more likely it seemed that the memories would return. Ducking her head, she scooted past him to gather her EV suit and gear, "You should rest. I'm on deck four, near the aft ship phaser emitters, section 11a, room 14, if you need somewhere to- anyway the code is 098. If you need it." She paused by the door, not looking back at him. "You've got a good heart, Lamar," she added quietly. "Not everyone does." Then, nodding once to herself, she hurried out to get back to work.

"Thanks, I appreciate it." he replied, grateful that she was letting him share her quarters for the time being. Then, he watched as she took her engineering gear and left his room. A good heart? he wondered to himself, then shook his head still trying to piece together her issues with him. Lilou had turned out to be quite a handful and Lamar was not sure that he wanted to go through any more situations like what had just happened in the shower. It was very unnerving for him. Nevertheless, he was still her friend, and he hoped she would open up to him eventually.

[OFF]

--

MCPO Lamar Darius
Chief of the Boat
USS Galileo
NPC'd by Lirha Saalm

MWO Lilou Peers
Assistant Chief Engineering Officer
USS Galileo

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