Post by Lt. Commander Liz Sur'Shess on Nov 20, 2014 22:09:25 GMT -8
She'd come here precisely to avoid what had nevertheless ended up on her PADD every day--status reports, department memos, endless communiques from Starfleet Command. It was like they wanted her to relive the whole of the past year over and over again, driving herself ever deeper into the hole that she'd needed a psychiatrist (or two, or three) to finally diagnose her out of. Not that she was out of it. But at least they'd bought her a few weeks' leave in some remote part of Earth.
Of course, however, it had to be on Earth. She couldn't go home, not yet. Maybe never. There wasn't much of home left by all reports. It had been at the nexus of the whole conflict, stuck between three empires, all of them determined that they were the best. And Chardra was gone. Not that she'd had many ties left there, by any means--Lybbi was still safely on Earth, and she'd still been far too young to ship out for the defense of the planet. Liz was willing to admit, at least in private, that she'd sent a thank you to Kahless for that one. Out of her entire family, at least Lybbi was safe.
Oh yeah, and her, for all that was worth. She wasn't sure it was worth much, at least not now.
Oh, they'd given her plenty of commendations. Her dress uniform was awfully sparkly these days, and she was pretty sure it weighed a good five pounds more than it used to. She'd "acted with extraordinary valor" a half-dozen times, running out into open fire in what she halfway believed herself was a bid for suicide. It had seemed better that way, in the middle of the war, when she was getting distrust from both sides and nobody had seemed at all willing to consider that, just perhaps, she had no interest in joining the Empire. There had been whispers anywhere, and a dozen different security briefings in clandestine areas that she hadn't even realized were locations until she got there and realized there was going to be yet another extensive questionairre about how committed she was to the Federation cause.
Very, she'd say.
Are you sure, they'd say, you have family fighting on the other side.
That was always the point she'd lean forward and stare into their eyes and tell them, in a completely flat voice, that whatever 'family' they thought she had, he--for it was her father, wasn't it--he was a ruddy petaQ and he could go yintagh* for all she cared. That usually did the trick, unless it was a member of the Desan family. Then she just sat in stony silence and let them do the talking, because there was no way to get around that.
Most of the time, though, she just did her job in a stony silence that generally made the rest of the crew steer clear of her. It worked well that way. She was heartily glad she'd not decided to enter one of the combat-oriented fields. She got the feeling it would've been ten times worse.
And then they came on, and on, and on, and they didn't stop, wouldn't stop. And before they knew it, Earth itself was being threatened. She'd had to fight then, and fight with everything she had. She didn't think about that much, or at least tried not to. She dreamed about it instead; dreams of fire and madness and pain. Not her pain, because she'd not been injured, at least not that she remembered. It was other people's pain she remembered, and the way people watched her when she went about her duties on the planet, like she was going to bite.
A turncoat, they'd called her, while she'd fought for them. And she'd watched both her peoples die for it. And it was so...stupid. There'd been no reason for it except greed, and testosterone, and Klingon pig-headedness, and a stubborn reliance upon old-fashioned methods of warfare that were fundamentally useless.
When the message came, it was in the aftermath, delivered in a dry, crisp tone on a PADD that wiped itself clean half an hour later, leaving only the memory of the few lines.
Brigadier (Klingon rank) M'Rek Sur'Shess, identified as father of Lieutenant Commander Elizabeth Sur'Shess, died aboard his ship, the IKR Vor'Cha at roughly 0400 hours, June 5, 2409. If desired, you may view the body at the designated storage facility. Thank you.
And in the moment, she didn't know whether to be relieved or grief-stricken.
No, strike that. She still didn't.
For the life of her, it was months later and she still couldn't deal with it, this death of a man she'd hardly known. No, more than that. She'd hated him, hated him with every bit of her being. When she'd fought, sometimes, been working to keep the ship from falling apart while it was battered around, she'd summoned that hatred, used it in a way that would have made her Vulcan meditation teachers appalled. And she'd liked it. It had harkened back to some ancient instinct, ingrained so deeply in her that she'd forgotten it.
She'd killed him, in the end, whether it had been her hand that had fired the blast or not. And she knew her mother would have never forgiven her, had she known. Liz could never forgive herself. And that killed her, maybe the most.
Because dammit, she couldn't just let go.
She'd come to this place to try to get away from it. And then she'd gotten lonely. And then she had called Robin, only she'd chickened out of that call because of all people, she couldn't face him. Not right now. Not when Kinin was still an unknown, not when Liz wasn't sure what he was thinking. That had led to endless pacing, back and forth across the floor of the cabin.
Finally, she'd sent off a text comm, though not to the first person she'd thought of. Maybe he'd come. Maybe he wouldn't. She decided she didn't care either way. Only she did, a lot. And she waited. And waited.
And for the life of her, she couldn't decide whether she dreaded his answer or his non-answer more.
Tag: @branon
* go cut his tongue out
Of course, however, it had to be on Earth. She couldn't go home, not yet. Maybe never. There wasn't much of home left by all reports. It had been at the nexus of the whole conflict, stuck between three empires, all of them determined that they were the best. And Chardra was gone. Not that she'd had many ties left there, by any means--Lybbi was still safely on Earth, and she'd still been far too young to ship out for the defense of the planet. Liz was willing to admit, at least in private, that she'd sent a thank you to Kahless for that one. Out of her entire family, at least Lybbi was safe.
Oh yeah, and her, for all that was worth. She wasn't sure it was worth much, at least not now.
Oh, they'd given her plenty of commendations. Her dress uniform was awfully sparkly these days, and she was pretty sure it weighed a good five pounds more than it used to. She'd "acted with extraordinary valor" a half-dozen times, running out into open fire in what she halfway believed herself was a bid for suicide. It had seemed better that way, in the middle of the war, when she was getting distrust from both sides and nobody had seemed at all willing to consider that, just perhaps, she had no interest in joining the Empire. There had been whispers anywhere, and a dozen different security briefings in clandestine areas that she hadn't even realized were locations until she got there and realized there was going to be yet another extensive questionairre about how committed she was to the Federation cause.
Very, she'd say.
Are you sure, they'd say, you have family fighting on the other side.
That was always the point she'd lean forward and stare into their eyes and tell them, in a completely flat voice, that whatever 'family' they thought she had, he--for it was her father, wasn't it--he was a ruddy petaQ and he could go yintagh* for all she cared. That usually did the trick, unless it was a member of the Desan family. Then she just sat in stony silence and let them do the talking, because there was no way to get around that.
Most of the time, though, she just did her job in a stony silence that generally made the rest of the crew steer clear of her. It worked well that way. She was heartily glad she'd not decided to enter one of the combat-oriented fields. She got the feeling it would've been ten times worse.
And then they came on, and on, and on, and they didn't stop, wouldn't stop. And before they knew it, Earth itself was being threatened. She'd had to fight then, and fight with everything she had. She didn't think about that much, or at least tried not to. She dreamed about it instead; dreams of fire and madness and pain. Not her pain, because she'd not been injured, at least not that she remembered. It was other people's pain she remembered, and the way people watched her when she went about her duties on the planet, like she was going to bite.
A turncoat, they'd called her, while she'd fought for them. And she'd watched both her peoples die for it. And it was so...stupid. There'd been no reason for it except greed, and testosterone, and Klingon pig-headedness, and a stubborn reliance upon old-fashioned methods of warfare that were fundamentally useless.
When the message came, it was in the aftermath, delivered in a dry, crisp tone on a PADD that wiped itself clean half an hour later, leaving only the memory of the few lines.
Brigadier (Klingon rank) M'Rek Sur'Shess, identified as father of Lieutenant Commander Elizabeth Sur'Shess, died aboard his ship, the IKR Vor'Cha at roughly 0400 hours, June 5, 2409. If desired, you may view the body at the designated storage facility. Thank you.
And in the moment, she didn't know whether to be relieved or grief-stricken.
No, strike that. She still didn't.
For the life of her, it was months later and she still couldn't deal with it, this death of a man she'd hardly known. No, more than that. She'd hated him, hated him with every bit of her being. When she'd fought, sometimes, been working to keep the ship from falling apart while it was battered around, she'd summoned that hatred, used it in a way that would have made her Vulcan meditation teachers appalled. And she'd liked it. It had harkened back to some ancient instinct, ingrained so deeply in her that she'd forgotten it.
She'd killed him, in the end, whether it had been her hand that had fired the blast or not. And she knew her mother would have never forgiven her, had she known. Liz could never forgive herself. And that killed her, maybe the most.
Because dammit, she couldn't just let go.
She'd come to this place to try to get away from it. And then she'd gotten lonely. And then she had called Robin, only she'd chickened out of that call because of all people, she couldn't face him. Not right now. Not when Kinin was still an unknown, not when Liz wasn't sure what he was thinking. That had led to endless pacing, back and forth across the floor of the cabin.
Finally, she'd sent off a text comm, though not to the first person she'd thought of. Maybe he'd come. Maybe he wouldn't. She decided she didn't care either way. Only she did, a lot. And she waited. And waited.
And for the life of her, she couldn't decide whether she dreaded his answer or his non-answer more.
Tag: @branon
* go cut his tongue out