CH04: S [D04|2315] Retreat

May 13, 2018, 05:05:10 PM

Chapter 04: Supplemental [ Day 04 | 2315 hrs. ] Retreat

[ Lt JG Nator 159 | Holodeck 2 | Deck 08 | The Sword ]

Not so long ago, Nator had been released from sickbay having had hir wound scanned and repaired. A solid meal that was mostly protein and tea followed, but s/he was so amped up from the day's events that s/he couldn't wind down. Unlike the conflict with the rest of Starfleet, this had been a clearly alien incursion - a violation of their ship and crew according to the whims and internal morality of another accord altogether. It was as black-and-white as it could be. The enemy had abducted a portion of the crew, sabotaged their computer, and opened fire on their ship.

On a personal level, s/he wanted to mete out some repayment for hir shoulder, too.

S/he spent a while sitting on hir bed, watching the Azure tumble and roil with glacial slowness out of the window, before sighing and checking through a timetable at hir desk. One of the holodecks had been booked for a late slot this evening, but that person was one of those shuffled to Vector 01 with this whole Continuance thing. Currently the bay was free. Before anyone else could nab the slot, and because s/he was Acting Chief of Operations for the Vector until they rendezvoused with hir superiors, s/he claimed it.

Nator was no expert holoprogrammer, but the particular details weren't especially difficult to produce with the tools provided to make close-enough approximations. The hardest would be hir parent; Nator 158. S/he had never been near a Starfleet recruitment office, let alone actually joined it, so hir records wouldn't be within easy reach of the Theurgy's library. Luckily, as there had been no second partner during 159's conception, s/he cleaved fairly close to hir immediate ancestor. Nator could use hirself as a template.

Over the course of half an hour or so, s/he recreated hir childhood home on Hermat - forty-metre coniferous trees painted the landscape outside the wide windows, a dense canopy of rich greens that hid most of the lower buildings in Adaryn while the taller skyscrapers speared the low cloud layers in the middle distance, rooted behind the hills. It gave the effect that, aerial traffic aside, one was alone in their cabin in the woods; a refuge from outside. Inside, the arrangement was simpler thanks to the modular nature of most recent construction on Hermat; just pick a few units out of the library and arrange them. Cluttering them was another procedurally-trivial matter.

The smells, though, were what would sell it. The woodsap and loam, the musk of home, the faintest ozone tang from the UV-heavy light striking the atmosphere due to Hermat's bright blue parent star. S/he had to fiddle a little with the environmental circuit to make that happen, though.

Finally, s/he turned to creating a version of Nator 158 from memory. In contrast to all of the other faces s/he had lost, all the people on the ship s/he no longer recognised, all the brief moments of bewilderment when someone left the room and returned only for hir to forget who they were in the interim... 158's face was one s/he remembered well. It was different enough from hir own that it wasn't simply because s/he saw it in the mirror every morning, either. The features were sharper, the hair a shade darker, worn a little longer in a braid... Another twenty minutes' work went into getting hir just right.

[Program ready,] announced the computer, once it was compiled. There were probably four hours left in the slot... just enough to get a full rest.

"Run it," Nator ordered.

Brightly-coloured birds nested in the trees outside, cooing quietly amid the sussurration of the wind through the boughs. The odd bassy rumble of an impulse craft disturbed the quiet of the night. Hir eyes adjusted without the light of the arch behind hir any longer, gradually revealing the room before hir again. A low table decorated with a bright display of fragrant flowers, shelves stacked with data chips and PADDs, a desk with some dedicated specialised computer gear. A kitchen area through a door in the back, moonlight slicing through the threshold thanks to the crystal-glass roof to the room.

Nator ascended a spiral staircase to a mezzanine lounge area - a Vulcan lyre (a gift from one of 158's research partners) standing in one corner. There were three doors here - one to hir own bedroom, one to a washroom, and one more again. Facing the last door, s/he suddenly felt very small. Padding along with a predator's quietude, s/he laid a hand against the door before pushing it open.

There was a stirring of sheets in the darkness, a sleepy sigh. "What is it, child?" came a quiet voice. Nator felt smaller still.

"I couldn't sleep," s/he answered honestly.

"You're getting old for nightmares, Nip. You're almost as big as me, now.."

The nickname, from hir proclivity to literally snap at people who told hir to do something s/he didn't like as a few-month-old (chores, homework, being refused to go and hunt with hir pack, whatever), sent hir right back home across the lightyears and real years. A formless lump formed in hir throat, regardless of the fact s/he'd only finished programming that little detail a few minutes ago. When s/he replied, hir voice was thick.

"I know. But... I could use a haven, all the same..."

From the assault, hir injury. The argument with Stark, who knew hir better than s/he did at the moment. The utter isolation of not knowing who anyone was, ever, until they spoke, and even then... Waking up from stasis to find s/he was a deserter. Being demoted at Utopia Planitia. Joining the Fleet after failing to protect hir friends on Hermat. A million missteps that led hir to where s/he was then, and no discernible way to make hir way back. S/he was already in the last quarter of hir life, and the Theurgy's innocence might not be proven in the time s/he had left. Most likely, they'd be destroyed long before then, and any survivors tried for a litany of crimes against the Federation - invented or otherwise. How could s/he tell that to anyone? Least of all the fictional safety blanket of a holoperson.

"Alright, Nip. For old times' sake. But don't make a habit of this, hm?" the voice was still slurred with sleep in the dark, a monochrome presence in Nator's nightvision. "You have to... have to fight your own demons."

"I won't. And I will," s/he replied, stepping inside and closing the door behind hir. S/he shucked hir uniform tunic, leaving the undershirt. S/he slipped under the raised blanket and curled against the warm form under it. Gently, four claw-tips combed through hir hair, smoothing it out. A universal tension made itself known only by its exit as Nator relaxed into the fantasy.

Quietly, 158 hummed a slow Hermat lullaby, though it seemed only to speed hir own return to slumber, and didn't last long. The claws slowed their pleasant tracking through hir hair as the song stopped. 159 shifted a little to get more comfortable in the embrace of the slightly-taller figure and closed hir itching eyes, and the hand that had been running through hir hair slipped around hir shoulder to draw hir into a closer embrace. Hir eyes watered a little now that they were closed after being open so long, and s/he relaxed into the make-believe memory. As s/he sank closer and closer to unconsciousness, with the reassuring weight of hir parent around hir, it became easier and easier to forget that this was all generated imperfectly by hir own hand, and to believe that, just for tonight, s/he was back home and surrounded by hir people.

Away from these momentous events so wildly out of hir control that bore hir hither and yon, away from the people who reminded hir who s/he used to be before a chunk of duranium was introduced to hir memory centre, away from the mad aliens imposing their will on an already traumatised crew.

Away from all responsibility.

It was the best night's sleep s/he'd managed all week.

Re: Chapter 04: Supplemental [ Day 04 | 2315 ] Retreat

Reply #1 – May 26, 2018, 07:51:51 PM

[ Lt JG Nator 159 | Day 05 | 0400hrs | Holodeck 2 | Deck 08 | The Sword ]

Nator was woken by the sound of a soft chiming that seemed to come from nowhere. It started relatively quiet, but rose in volume until s/he stirred. The computer spoke:

[It is Oh Four Hundred hours.]

"Meurgh," the Hermat replied, curling tighter into the warm form wrapped around hir. S/he was supremely comfortable, and not in much of a mood to move, despite only being thirty minutes from hir shift's start.

[It is Of Four Hundred and Five hours.]

"Nip, don't make me throw you into the forest."

Nator's eyes snapped open at the almost-perfect facsimile of 158's voice. Now that s/he'd good night's sleep, and was aware enough to spot the places hir fatigue-fogged brain hadn't cared about last night, the illusion of home was rightly shattered. Pushing the covers back, s/he gained hir feet and stood, stretching before scrubbing the sleep from hir eyes. Okay, time to get to it.

The time taken to mope had probably been needed, if s/he were to examine it, but now s/he had a department to run. A task to which s/he was no stranger, if long out of practise, but s/he also knew what rationing constraints the ship as a whole was under, let alone an isolated Vector. Using the holodeck for a personal errand like this, with no benefit to the wider crew, was irresponsible. To that end, then:

"Computer, end program. Delete temporary files associated with most recent run."

[Acknowledged; deleted.]

Around hir, the house and surroundings dissolved, leaving the featureless grid of the holodeck bay. Nator retrieved hir discarded uniform jacket from the deck and donned it, zipping it closed. A quick experimental sniff told hir that s/he could easily go until the end of hir shift before requiring a shower - and if hir nose couldn't pick up any offensive odour, neither would any of the others with whom s/he worked.

And that was another thing - without Stark to impose her own version of what constituted a valid use of hir time, s/he could set hir own working hours as required. Mostly s/he made sure s/he was on the bridge, or near it, freeing up the rest of the Ops personnel left in hir charge to complete the tasks the ship needed. A further benefit of that was that s/he could get away with running the department by remote, through a console or hir badge - s/he had no idea how s/he expected to maintain respect or discipline once hir subordinates figured out s/he could look away from them a moment and utterly forget who they were. Names on a screen and voices on the comms, s/he could rationalise. Issuing orders to them in person was all but a no-go.

Nator sighed, walking towards the doors. S/he had indulged hirself, but now it was time to return to work. If another of hir department had done as s/he had last night, s/he'd have had them on punitive duties for a week... best to make up the transgression before anyone else could discover it.

A final deep breath, a final scrub of her face from the night's rigours, and s/he stepped into the corridors to head towards the bridge. S/he could eat later, too. There had been enough self-care performed in the last few hours to last hir a while yet.

FIN