1
Interregnum 02-03 S2 / Re: Day 01 [2100hrs] When All is Stretched Thin
Last post by Dumedion -He wouldn’t allow her to pass out again.
The Romulan pushed Talia to her limit with each iteration, only to relent suddenly, leaving the pilot wracked in agony; but conscious. Speech was almost impossible. Even as he demanded answers, there simply wasn’t any to offer — none that would be believed at any rate. Between the wet, ragged breaths that choked in and out in a sputtering cadence — the rapid, shallow sobs of the tormented and abused — she'd tried anyway.
What left her split, broken lips was barely comprehensible: nothing more than harsh whispers, broken and filled with pain...
But her story never changed.
One eye had swollen nearly shut, and both refused to stop leaking bitter, angry tears. Talia knew she was in serious trouble; they had trained her to function within high-stress situations — trained her to evade capture, to resist interrogation, to assess, adapt, and overcome...
No one had trained her how to survive a broken heart.
Beyond the physical pain, the mind turned against her will: doubt, self-loathing, guilt, shame…all the old demons, fangs bared, ate away at her resolve. Emotional damage compounded by the minute, as hard as she tried to summon the ironclad mask used so often and so efficiently in the past — that façade wouldn’t obey her. For a person that refused and avoided any and all notions of vulnerability, the situation was a nightmare made manifest.
Taev relented again; the pressure on the pilot’s wounded thigh and shoulder withdrew, yet the pain remained. Talia squeezed her eyes shut against it all; jaw clenched, as she tried and failed to think of a way out. Time was no ally; she didn’t know how much more she could endure. Even if escape was attempted, if Taev didn’t kill her, the sea would. Or the wounds. Ultimately, it all came down to a choice of how to die; she could lay there and let it happen or try to do something.
Through it all, a single thought echoed, more agonizing than anything Taev had done: If only she’d been faster, maybe Hirek would still be alive…But he wasn’t, and Talia was on her own.
Decide, now, while you still can.
Another voice spoke suddenly in a breathless, urgent cadence. The pressure against her thigh and shoulder disappeared entirely, earning a whimpered sigh. Through the fog of pain, boiling emotions, and the sounds of her own body trying to survive, their words were impossible to discern; something about salt, and killing? None of it made sense. Her good eye cracked open, just in time to see somebody run up the stair and slam the door closed; then it rolled back and up to waver in and out of focus at the grey-bearded Romulan as he crouched down, close but out of striking distance.
He spoke, using the same thickly accented Federation standard from before, on the boat. Talia’s mind chewed on the word's meanings as she watched his face: the expression somber, serious, and almost familiar in its controlled neutrality. He spoke without inflection; as if he were merely reciting facts.
His word? Hirek’s word? How?
Talia clamped down on her emotions with every ounce of her remaining strength, refusing to be lured into hope, or reacting at all to whatever scheme he was attempting.
Taev stood, then concluded the speech. Talia couldn’t hold back the tremors any longer; her whole body shook with barely held emotion and pain. She watched him move aside as another pair of men entered, clad in grey robes, arms held to satchels at their chest and waist. Her good hand flinched to the blade out of instinct; gloved fingers scraped across the hilt as they opened their palms at her, murmuring words in calm tones she couldn’t understand.
The world rolled, unfocused, as pain overrode the weak burst of adrenaline: cold weakness flooded her limbs — until they lifted her, jarring the injuries, sparking fresh agony with the movement. She didn’t scream; what left her throat was closer to the whine of a beaten dog, pitched high and pitiful. They laid her down, slowly, then set about looking her over, hands and clicking devices passed over her armored body.
“Nhh,” Talia groaned, “w-wait,” she croaked, the numb fingers of her good hand scraping across the twin manual releases at her collar. Both were tight, intentionally difficult to depress; both needed to be popped to break the various seals of the suit in emergencies. The first came free with all the strength she could muster — the pilot’s face locked in a grimace of effort. The second wasn’t built to be unlocked with only one working arm. Her hand tapped it weakly instead, trying to show them.
More words. The combadge and ear bud lay across the room, with her knife; Talia shook her head weakly and tapped the release again.
They figured it out eventually; every seal of the exosuit unlocked with a quiet purr of mechanics — waist, elbows, knees, and the torso popped free from the shoulders.
Talia screamed silently, breathlessly; what had held her annihilated shoulder together in place vanished. The abused, swollen, misshapen joint felt pinched inside the sleeve of her arm as one of them tried to work it free, while the other focused on her legs.
Others had entered the room. Talia noticed them suddenly, appearing like phantoms in a fever dream, through vision clouded with tears and agony; the woman was ancient, with dark eyes, and hair bound in an elegant rope of grey. The boy at her side she knew from the beach — he kept his eyes down as the elder knelt close, waving the medics off with a few words. Despite her advanced age, she moved without assistance and without protest; Talia couldn’t help but respect that, even through the agony.
The elder Romulan spoke in Federation standard — each word stamped out in clarity — through an accent that sounded both stiff and formal; the pattern of someone that had learned to speak a language through education, not experience. Talia saw the kindness in her eyes, eyes darker than her own; almost black in the lamplight. As it moved closer, bringing more of her features into view, the maternal resemblance was unmistakable. The pilot’s lips trembled at the introduction, and her body flinched under the woman’s touch. Her good hand felt the edges of the cloth laid across her legs and abdomen; it felt like the dress Hirek had given her in Dartha.
Nuhir. Hirek’s own mother. Talia fought against the rise of fresh tears, her breath hitched in painful, silent sobs; dark eyes squeezed shut as she felt Nuhir touch her face — not in fear, exactly — even though a part of her dreaded the possibility that this could all be a ruse, a lie, to weaken her further. Nuhir’s reassurance sounded genuine, but she had been told the same before, almost verbatim, by Taev; Nuhir pressed something into her palm, then — a coarse powdery substance, just a pinch of it — then closed Talia’s and her own hand around it.
Hope; that most bitter and treacherous of illusions, crept into Talia’s heart — when she heard Hirek’s mother speak of him. The brittle dam holding everything back broke entirely by the end, when she expressed gratitude, for being the reason Hirek kept breathing. The pilot wept freely, uncontrollably; there was no stopping it — no stopping the painful hope firmly entrenched in the core of her being.
A question burned, however. Something Talia needed to know — needed to hear spoken aloud into the universe, in order to feel its weight and taste its truth. Nuhir stood and addressed the boy, then the healers. Talia fought to control herself long enough to ask it; what dragged up from her abused throat was broken, barely audible, and only two words — each one bitten off past the pain with as much clarity possible:
“Hirek — alive?”
Nuhir turned back to her without hesitation; Talia met her eyes. She read the honesty there, and something else — a flash of recognition perhaps — as the elder woman’s face softened, her brows twitched up. It was there and gone, so fast that the pilot might have only imagined it.
“He is. On everything I hold sacred, he is.”
Talia sobbed the relief that flooded her out into the dim light of the lamp, unable to do anything else. She felt the medics close in, but couldn’t focus enough to follow their movements. One of them lifted her head, as a glass vial of something pressed to her lips.
“For the pain,” Nuhir’s voice reached her. A dry, warm hand rested on her forehead. Soothing. “Drink. Please. You will greet the dawn with him.”
Talia drank, choking the warm liquid down; it held the consistency of olive oil and tasted like burnt honey mixed with cinnamon. Her tongue almost instantly went numb, as warmth flowed down her throat and spread out from her insides. Hitched, shallow breaths followed; she tried to regain some semblance of composure, but failed, as the medics gently lifted her up out of the armored torso sleeve. Her mouth moved of its own accord, whispering near-nonsense as the pilot’s inhibition eroded.
Coherence faded as the elixir did its work — Talia’s eyes rolled up in her skull between slow, heavy blinks — her breath slowed, growing into deeper, more even pulls. Blissful, warm numbness eased her tormented nerves, drowning the pain away. The voices she heard jumbled and echoed, meaningless and fading...
Dreamless sleep claimed her with a mumbled name on her lips.
[Several hours later…| Aimne Manse | i-Korthre, Uuluma Chain]
Talia came back to herself slowly, like clouds shifting away to reveal moonlight. She lay comfortably, folded under soft, warm blankets, and felt the peculiar threading of an island robe against her bare skin. The sound of waves registered, distant, punctuated by the calls of gulls; the smell of the sea and incense filled her nostrils. Clear, dark eyes blinked open.
The cellar was gone. Morning sunlight — bright and golden — shone through a wide open balcony in a room she had no memory of; wood panels the color of honey, pink-veined stone, handsome drapes the colors of the ocean. Netting adorned the walls, lashed with old rope. Old trinkets adorned the tops of tables, sat upon the shelves of bookcases along the walls.
The pilot sat up, carefully. There was no pain, only stiffness — the kind one usually feels after a night of motionless, undisturbed rest. Groggily, Talia yawned, working the nubs of crust from her eyes. Her mind felt sluggish, encased in fog; it was difficult to remember where she was, and how she got there — she worked at it for a moment, then felt the urgency from her bladder.
Bare feet found the floor. Her exosuit was gone — the compression under layer too; the robe was sea-green, trimmed in honeyed-gold, long enough to trail after her feet. A sheet of paper caught her eye, folded up at the nightstand, set inside the jaws of a polished clamshell. A tall glass of mint colored liquid sat next to it. She reached for both, only to finally notice that her left arm was wrapped in a sling, the shoulder encased in sectional shells of pulsing transparent splints; blue-green lights danced along miniscule lines of circuitry within. Her good hand pulled the robe aside to reveal her thigh — the wound was gone — only a corded line of pink flesh remained. Gently, the arm slipped free of the sling. The plates upon her shoulder moved with the joint; there was no pain — only a dull ache of unused muscle — like when she’d first awoken out of cryo.
Everything came back, then. She turned and snatched the note, reading it as she walked:
You are safe here in my home.
There is a washroom with everything to meet your hygienic needs — I researched them personally. The wardrobe is likewise at your disposal.
If you require assistance, tap the shell and I will come, though I hope you forgive an old woman’s timeliness; the stairs are unkind to me these days.
When you are ready, join us below — take the stairs to the right and follow your senses. Do not rush yourself.
Talia read the first sentence twice, then returned the note to the table. There was no mention of Hirek. She bit her lip at that, then turned to the washroom to relieve herself, and hopefully shower, then find something to wear before finding out how much of this nightmare remained.
A wide mirror greeted her with enough shock to make her freeze mid-stride. The bruises, scrapes, gashes…all gone. Someone had washed her hair, then braided it — not in the long, singular ropes the pilot used. The arrangement was elegant, multi-threaded, from the crown of her head along the sides, weaved down the long tresses that fell past her shoulders; sleep had not shaken it loose.
Her eyes misted at the sight of it; at the care and time taken on her behalf, as she felt the length of it slip through her fingers — clean as silk.
She'd wear it for as long as it kept.
After a brief but welcome shower, Talia explored the wardrobe: a walk-in affair, the walls lined with multitudes of attire to choose from. Dresses dominated; colors of the sea, sky, forests — high collared, low cut, long and elegant and plain. It was overwhelming, honestly; the officer in her wished for the familiarity of her duty uniform — being a representative of Starfleet and the Federation, in what was essentially a ‘first contact’ situation...
Talia huffed a breath of amusement at that.
“Bit of a stretch there ace,” she shook her head. “Just pick something for fucks sake.”
Her eyes fell upon a teal sarong, with a matching upper wrap, each trimmed in silver with dark beads at the waist and wrists. A vest of blackened leather threaded with gold filigree finished it off. Talia discarded the robe and dressed herself, then turned towards a full sized mirror. The ensemble fit well — a bit tighter around the chest than she’d like, but it covered her well and appeared appropriate, yet left her comfortable enough to move freely. She double checked the sarong’s securement, the fabric light against her skin without the sheer of Hirek’s dress.
“Hope I’m wearing this right,” Talia frowned at herself, then bent to pick up the robe before turning away from the mirror. She laid it across the foot of the bed, then smoothed the blankets and pillows, setting the placement in order out of programmed habit.
A deep breath followed.
It was impossible to know what to expect, how to feel, or how she should proceed. For the first time in her life, Talia didn’t care about any of it. Her feet carried her to the door, and the stair beyond. She needed answers. She needed to see Hirek, and hold his hand, and tell him how she felt; no more hiding — no more playing for time — no more restraint.
If he didn’t like it, tough shit. Even if he didn’t feel the same — she would live with it. Nothing could hurt her worse than what she’d experienced already: Talia vowed to herself that nothing ever would again. Her jaw clenched at the memory.
She’d die before suffering through that a second time.
