Where have you been hiding, my little Katja?

Posted on 07 Oct 2024 @ 9:59am by Chief Petty Officer Katja Becker & Master Chief Petty Officer Toren Vral

3,430 words; about a 17 minute read

Mission: Episode 20 - Reconstruction
Location: USS Galileo - Deck 4 - Main Shuttle Bay
Timeline: MD02 - 2200

[ON]

Katja slumped against the wall and slowly lowered herself down, feeling empty and rung out. Too much celebratory imbibing had turned into hours-long suffering as after the systems' test, the sickbay stayed busy with the new CMO making his world more to his own liking. There had been no time—or privacy—to get the meds that she had easy enough access to in order to treat a most spectacular hangover.

Katja sat on the cold decking inside the shuttle bay, next to an intake manifold that helped to filter the air of any fumes from the various craft that were currently parked around her. Mildly trembling fingers brought a thin, dark brown cigarette to her lips and she pulled long, slow drag of the herbaceous smoke before exhaling the pale, blue-tinged smoke through pursed lips. She had taken up the habit during the bombardment of Chin'toka during the Dominion War. Her unit had met up with a Romulan regiment and one of the Centurions had offered her a pack of the aromatic cigarettes in trade for an MRE. They had helped keep her warm on that cold, dank hellhole, and served as a measure of stress relief. Later, after getting blown up, Katja discovered they also cut through the withdrawals when she went too long without self-medicating. Shit. This really wasn't how she wanted to start a new duty station. Her habits were slowly becoming unmanageable.

She was certain her last chief saw the writing on the wall, hence the transfer to the "Siberia of the Stars." Katja was on her own problem now, out here, and on a dry ship of all places! How could the captain deny them all a bit of sweet relief?! It wasn't fair! It helped her get through another day, to dull the pain in her leg and the horrors that lived in her mind that played like a holovid on repeat whenever he shut her eyes.

She stretched her bio-prosthetic leg out and massaged a spasm out her thigh with her free hand for a moment before taking another pull. Leaning her head back against the exhaust intake, she closed her eyes and for a moment tried to imagine herself anywhere else. Unfortunately, Katja didn't hear the measured steps coming towards her with the sound of the intake manifold humming at her back.

Toren spotted her before she noticed him - slumped against the wall like she was trying to merge with the decking, as though being part of the ship could shield her from whatever storm had dragged her down. Katja Becker, he recalled from the personnel files: Chief Petty Officer, medical. Dominion War veteran, survivor. 'First impressions are the deepest cuts', his father used to say. This probably wasn't the start she needed.

He stood back for a moment, letting his antennae twitch to the rhythm of her breaths. That leg of hers, the bio-prosthetic, was twitching too. He caught the scent of something familiar - Romulan tobacco? Looks like he had a connoisseur on his hands.

Leaning against the bulkhead, he folded his arms and took her in, from the way her fingers trembled to the drawn, tired lines on her face. She'd missed the onboarding meeting yesterday, which had irked him a little. But now, seeing her like this, well... she looked like a ghost wearing the cloak of old habits.

Still, rules were rules. He couldn't let this slide just because he'd seen his share of rough landings.

With a purposeful step, he let his boots scrape the floor loud enough for her to hear him approach. When she looked up, he stood over her, his stern expression softened just enough by the mischievous glint in his electric blue eyes. He tilted his head slightly, antennae twitching in a kind of greeting.

"Well, Chief Becker," his voice came out low, but not unkind. "It's not every day I find one of my senior crew looking like they've been dragged through a plasma storm backwards."

Katja smiled at his quip, but the smile never quite reached the pale blue eyes staring up at him. "Then you caught me on a good day..." The medical officer paused as she squinted her eyes up to the Andorian's collar. "Master Chief." Great. Brilliant. She had found this place for a measure of solitude, to lick her self-inflicted wounds, as it were. But she had been discovered. Not just any someone, but g-damned COB. Prepare yourself for the arse-whooping you are about to receive.

She put the now burned down cigarette to her lips and was able to get one last drag out of the thing before crushing it out on the decking and pocketing what was left of it to be disposed appropriately. It wouldn't do to be wasteful - even with the replicator program she had purchased years ago to keep herself in stock - Katja wasn't a wasteful sort. Sure, it wasn't as good as the real thing, but was there even a real thing anymore with the loss of the Romulan homeworlds?

"Would you like me sitting or standing for this, Master Chief?"

Toren's antennae twitched slightly at her remark, the faintest sign of his impatience. "Standin'," he said, a touch of steel in his tone. He watched her carefully, his electric blue eyes locking onto hers. "You're a Chief Petty Officer on my ship, Becker, an' that carries weight. Missing yer onboarding? That's not the kind of first step I expect from someone who's supposed t' be leading by example."

He paused, giving her a moment to rise, his stance making it clear he wasn't going to let this conversation happen with her still sitting on the deck.

There was an expectation, a quiet insistence in the air between them.

He crossed his arms, leaning slightly, his eyes never leaving her. "Now, I don't know what's got y' dragged down, and it's not my place to dig through yer personal wreckage unless y' invite me. But I expect my Chiefs to be front an' center when they're needed." He nodded toward her pocket. "Maybe y've got demons; we all do. But that's not an excuse to disappear from duty."

A beat passed, then his voice softened, just enough. "So, I'll ask plain - what's goin' on, Chief Becker?"

"Just got lost for a day, Master Chief." Katja replied neutrally as she pushed herself to standing, the mask of indifference firmly put into place. She had hoped she would have lasted longer than a few days before her first tearing into...but actions did have consequences. She would take it. "I wasn't aware of any onboarding meeting. That's on me."

She had absolutely no intention of telling him anything else. It was none of his damned business. Her war was her own and she didn't need some outsider poking at her personal wounds. That was her own responsibility, and she did a most satisfactory job of it, thank you very much.

Once upright, her eyes met his, undaunted by the visual contact. She wasn't afraid or intimidated by this Andorian. She wasn't really ever afraid or intimidated by anything. Feelings like that had been burned away during the war. Her strategy, however, revealed more than she realized.

Eyes were the window to the soul, but Toren was given a look at the whole house as she stood ramrod straight at attention. Pale blue eyes fixed on a space just above his eyebrows with a thousand yard stare. Pale blonde hair stuck out in a disheveled manner that was definitely not purposeful framing a face that was far too colorless to be healthy. There was very little pink in this pink-skin. Topping it off was a uniform that looked like it possibly might have been slept in...well Katja Becker certainly painted a picture.

Toren's antennae flexed slightly as he took in the way Katja stood - rigid, precise, but far from present. She wasn't afraid of him, but that wasn't the issue. He didn't need fear. What unsettled him was that look, the kind of look that came when someone had seen too much and felt too little afterward. The Dominion War had forged soldiers like her in batches, and he knew a thing or two about staring into the abyss himself.

But this wasn't the front lines, and she wasn't a grunt anymore. She was a Chief, on his ship, and that came with a different kind of responsibility.

"Lost fer a day, huh?" His voice came out quieter this time, though no less firm. "I've seen people get lost inna lot of ways, Becker. Some come back fr'm it, some don't. Y're a survivor - says so in your file, but I don't need paper t' tell me that. Now, y've landed here, an' I expect more than surviving. I need you to show up."

He let the words settle for a beat, then added, "The way I see it, you've got a choice. Y' can keep runnin' on fumes, or you can get ahead of this before it takes you under." His gaze softened, antennae twitching toward her ever so slightly. "This crew needs a Chief that's all in. What I need to know is - are you ready to be that?"

Katja maintained her expression, but that didn't stop her from metaphorically rolling her eyes. There had to be some sort of device that manufactured these guys - they all were the same. She didn't want or need this Scheiße, but she also didn't need to get drummed out. That potentiality was the abyss.

"Semper gumby, Master Chief." Katja responded. Always flexible. "This wasn't the first impression I wanted to present. I apologize for the lack of professionalism."

Toren's antennae twitched at Katja's words. Semper Gumby. He'd heard it before, but the delivery - the half-hearted acceptance, masked under a thin veneer of duty - wasn't lost on him. She stood now, outwardly composed, but he could see the cracks, not just in her uniform but in the way she held herself together, as if by sheer force of habit.

"You've got your apology in, Becker. But that's only half the job done." His tone was firm but not cold. He crossed his arms, eyes narrowing slightly as he measured her up again. "Flexibility's fine, but it's not the same as commitment. You're good at stayin' upright, I'll give you that. Seen enough officers who crumble when the wind shifts direction. But just standin' there... it ain't enough."

As he spoke, something shifted in the air around them - or maybe it was just him. For a split second, the dull hum of the shuttle bay vanished, replaced by something else, something hauntingly familiar. Toren blinked and found himself no longer in front of Katja, but standing in a dim conference room, staring out into a sea of stars that seemed... wrong. The seat across from him was empty, the silence heavy. She was late... Becker had been late for this meeting too. The same sensation washed over him - it was out of joint, things misplaced. It was like the stars had twisted themselves into knots around the ship, tying him into the same fate, lost somewhere outside the flow of things.

But as quickly as it came, it was gone.

He blinked back into the present, eyes fixing on Becker as if nothing had happened. That was nothin'... just fatigue, he told himself. "We've all got our spectres," he muttered, almost to himself. "But don't let 'em lead you off course."

Then, as if there had been no interruption at all, he squared his shoulders and nodded, his voice returning to its usual gravelly cadence. "You want to be ‘flexible'? Fine. But I need more than that, Becker. I need you all in." He gave her a look that said he wasn't asking anymore. "This crew? They deserve the best of you. So do you."

All in. He was a day late and a credit short on that one. Chintoka owned her 'all in.' All that was left was something stretched far too tightly over a framework that had been in slow collapse since the chop-shop slapped on the replacement for her leg, and that was just a metaphor, right? It burned with the hellfire only neuropathic pain could produce. The damned thing was in a state of slow rejection. Nothing to be done. Here's a hypospray and a medal. Get back to work. Her life in a nutshell.

"Excellent speech, Master Chief. Consider me suitably inspired. Can't let everyone else down, can we?"

So many more smart ass remarks were ready for bear, but they would likely land her in the brig, no doubt with a number of charges level - chief being insubordination. Years ago, the very thought of such a thing would have been inconceivable. Now? Damn. Katja recognized that she was a dinosaur...she just hadn't been smart enough to go extinct with the others.

Toren's eyes narrowed, antennae angling slightly forward. He'd heard plenty of sarcasm in his time, but Becker's tone hit different - skirting too close to the edge of disrespect for his liking. He didn't have the patience for excuses or cynicism, especially not from a senior NCO. She wasn't some fresh recruit, and he wasn't here for games.

"Enough," his voice cut through the space between them, flat and cold now. "I don't need your lip, and I sure as hell don't need speeches thrown back at me like I'm some green cadet tryin' to prove somethin'. I'm here to make sure this crew works, that this ship stays in one piece, and that includes you, Becker."

He took a step forward, his electric blue eyes locking onto hers, unwavering. "Y' don't want to be here? Fine. But if you're on my crew, you're gonna be present. Fully. No half measures. You're a Chief. Y' don't get to coast on the past or hide behind a mask of indifference. Not here."

He let the words hang for a moment, giving her a chance to feel the weight of them. "You can decide if you're still all in for this crew. Or I can make that decision for you."

Well that didn't take long. This had to be a new record. Any relief obtained from the Romulan tobacco had been dashed away. Gott in Himmel. Not even a moment's relief. That much of her discomfort was of her own doing was irrelevant.

"Yes, Master Chief, I am. My entire career has been a series of upward failures." She reached up to her collar and pulled off the chief insignia and held it out in front of her with a still trembling hand. "It was a gift, along with a medal and a new leg. I didn't earn it. I didn't deserve it, and I sure as hell didn't want it. But I got it. I'm no leader. I'm a shit medic. Good at destroying all sorts of things, but not much anything else."

It didn't feel good to say what she did, and the glimmering insignia, 'spit-shined' to a polish, showed what her words did not. Katja respected the rank, she just no longer respected herself. "Give the order, Master Chief."

Toren's expression darkened as Katja held out her insignia. His eyes locked onto hers, no trace of humor remaining. This wasn't the first time he'd seen someone buckle under the weight of their own past, but he had no patience for this kind of self-pity - especially not from a Chief.

"Y' think you're the first to feel like that?" His voice was rough, no warmth left in it. He didn't reach for the insignia. "Let me tell you somethin', Becker. Battle of Betazed. We boarded a Dominion ship, tryin' to save a crew they'd taken. Jem'Hadar don't negotiate. They sure as hell don't care about prisoners. By the time we got to the brig, it was a mess of blood and broken bones, ours and theirs. You ever had to cut a friend out of a stasis chamber? Watch their skin slough off like dead meat, 'cause the thing had malfunctioned and burned half their face away?"

He leaned in closer, his voice lowering but still cutting. "I had to hold him down while he screamed. And I was the one who had to decide to end it, 'cause no one else could. No medic on hand, no clean, sanitised solution. It was ugly. But guess what? I didn't walk away from that sayin', 'I didn't deserve to be there.' I stayed. I kept fightin' because if I didn't, someone else would end up in that mess."

His eyes flicked down to the insignia in her hand before meeting her gaze again. "You're gonna get no sympathy from me for feelin' sorry for yourself, Becker. You didn't earn that rank by sittin' on your ass. If you made it this far, someone saw somethin' in you. Maybe it wasn't pretty, maybe it wasn't neat, but it was enough."

He crossed his arms, antennae angling slightly forward. "You think handin' over your rank changes anything?" His voice maintained its hard edge. "Doesn't work like that. You don't just get to quit when the weight gets heavy."

Katja closed her fist over the chief insignia and put her arm down to her side. Any animation in her face ceased; it was like the snuffing of a candle's flame. Torin had misread her so badly, and she, ultimately, was a masochistic fool. His condescending compare and contrast fell upon deaf ears. Bully for him. He gave a tough order. He did the necessary thing. What, did he want a cookie? Katja wanted a cookie. She liked cookies. Instead she got Scheiß-Sandwiches.

"Sympathy is in the dictionary. It lies between shit and syphilis. I don't need your sympathy. You say jump, I ask how high. That's all I need from you...your orders, Master Chief."

Toren watched her for a long moment, his expression hard, but not without understanding. This wasn't new - he'd seen it before, in different faces, across too many ships.

"Alright, Chief," he said, his tone matter-of-fact. "If that's how you want it." He didn't need her gratitude, just her presence.

"You'll report to me for one-on-one training during shore leave. Weekly sessions thereafter, until I say otherwise." His voice was firm, final. "You'll follow orders, you'll show up. On time. Understood?"

One-on-one training? AP physics. Failing upwards indeed. "Roger that, Master Chief."

Pain is good, and extreme pain is extremely good. Sometimes the only things that kept her going were the mottoes that were drilled into her during the early days of service. Hopefully they would see her through whatever the Bastard Chief had in store for her.

"Now," he nodded at her closed fist, "pin that rank back on y' collar, Chief." His eyes stayed locked onto hers. "This crew's gonna need you with that on. An' if you're still breathin', you're still part of it."

His eyes lingered for a beat, making sure she understood there was no room for negotiation. Then he added, "I'll see you at 0300 hours in the transporter room on the first day of shore leave. Cold weather gear."

0300??? Cold weather gear??? Her bum leg all but throbbed its protest, and she absently rubbed the outer side of her thigh, ha, as if that was going to stop the incessant noxious signals the bio-prosthetic limb sent to her nervous system. Her life was suffering. Well, that did it. Katja had descended into a full-blown downward spiral.

"Sounds great. Looking forward to it, Master Chief."

Toren stood there for a moment longer, his eyes taking in Katja’s words. Sarcasm as thick as Romulan ale. But he'd done what he needed to do for now. Without a word, he gave a small, measured nod and turned about, his heavy boots ringing off the deck.

Katja frowned as she watched his retreating form, any warm feeling from her smoke break having dissipated utterly. Well, dammit. Thus far she'd give Galileo a 0/10, would not recommend.

[END]

--

MCPO Toren Vral
Chief of the Boat
USS Galileo-A
[PNPC Vala]

&

CPO Katja Becker
Medical Officer
USS Galileo-A
[PNPC Sera]

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