Post by Lt. Commander Alyssa Jenison on Nov 22, 2014 11:31:34 GMT -8
Denial. Anger. Bargaining. Depression. Acceptance.
These had been her closest companions throughout a more significant amount of her adult life than Alyssa had ever sought to admit. They were the cycle of her grief, ever-present and unforgettable, and they reminded her again and again of one sure fact: anything you have—anything you cherish in your life—anything can be ripped away in the blink of an eye.
It was no mystery to her that even as she watched over the remnants of San Francisco, no tears fell from her eyes. She had none left to shed. She had too many faces to mourn, too many names to remember, too many memories to cling to, and some still to suppress.
Somehow, she had allowed herself to grow closer and closer to the men and woman around her. Somehow she had formed bonds of comradery and friendship. Somehow, she had begun to love them as her family. And then she watched them struck down, one by one, until all that was left of her heart wouldn’t be much of a Klingon snack, much less a filling meal.
Perhaps somewhere deep down she thought that seeing the rebuilding process taking place would finally help her to feel something. A flicker of hope? A shred of belief? An ounce of faith? But then hope, belief, and faith had hardly been akin to her. They might as well be as gone and buried as the countless casualties now memorialized below.
Instead, Alyssa saw only destruction. All the hopefuls kept spouting propaganda that the city—and, ultimately, the planet—would be up-and-running again. She believed them. What she didn’t believe was that it would be just as it was. Earth had culture. It had heritage. It was a symbol of what the Federation was meant to be: a people united with diverse beliefs, diverse points of view, but one goal: to improve oneself and all of humanity through growth, trust, and a shared ambition to explore all that was, is, and is yet to come.
Humanity would survive, but would it ever be as it was? How many wars could they survive before existence as a species triumphed over compassion and learning? How long before Starfleet officers were raised not as the guardian angels they had been, but the warriors of strength and fire an embittered people would need?
It was all Alyssa could think about as she sat, still in uniform, against a rugged oak. She pulled her knees to her chest and clung onto the object in her hands. She remembered what is was she was waiting for, and she turned her head to see if he had some yet. She didn't know how long she would have to wait. He’d come. She knew he would come. He’d brave the storm to be there for her, so how could he not come now.
What troubled her was whether she wanted him to come. Somehow, she’d found it inside her to invite him. Maybe that was the hopeful part—the sliver of heart she still had left. Maybe she wanted him to pull it out, reforge it, and make her feel again. Or maybe she just wanted to see him one last time before he was also ripped away.
Whatever the cause and whatever the outcome, one thing was still certain: he would come.
Tag: Nathan Landry
These had been her closest companions throughout a more significant amount of her adult life than Alyssa had ever sought to admit. They were the cycle of her grief, ever-present and unforgettable, and they reminded her again and again of one sure fact: anything you have—anything you cherish in your life—anything can be ripped away in the blink of an eye.
It was no mystery to her that even as she watched over the remnants of San Francisco, no tears fell from her eyes. She had none left to shed. She had too many faces to mourn, too many names to remember, too many memories to cling to, and some still to suppress.
Somehow, she had allowed herself to grow closer and closer to the men and woman around her. Somehow she had formed bonds of comradery and friendship. Somehow, she had begun to love them as her family. And then she watched them struck down, one by one, until all that was left of her heart wouldn’t be much of a Klingon snack, much less a filling meal.
Perhaps somewhere deep down she thought that seeing the rebuilding process taking place would finally help her to feel something. A flicker of hope? A shred of belief? An ounce of faith? But then hope, belief, and faith had hardly been akin to her. They might as well be as gone and buried as the countless casualties now memorialized below.
Instead, Alyssa saw only destruction. All the hopefuls kept spouting propaganda that the city—and, ultimately, the planet—would be up-and-running again. She believed them. What she didn’t believe was that it would be just as it was. Earth had culture. It had heritage. It was a symbol of what the Federation was meant to be: a people united with diverse beliefs, diverse points of view, but one goal: to improve oneself and all of humanity through growth, trust, and a shared ambition to explore all that was, is, and is yet to come.
Humanity would survive, but would it ever be as it was? How many wars could they survive before existence as a species triumphed over compassion and learning? How long before Starfleet officers were raised not as the guardian angels they had been, but the warriors of strength and fire an embittered people would need?
It was all Alyssa could think about as she sat, still in uniform, against a rugged oak. She pulled her knees to her chest and clung onto the object in her hands. She remembered what is was she was waiting for, and she turned her head to see if he had some yet. She didn't know how long she would have to wait. He’d come. She knew he would come. He’d brave the storm to be there for her, so how could he not come now.
What troubled her was whether she wanted him to come. Somehow, she’d found it inside her to invite him. Maybe that was the hopeful part—the sliver of heart she still had left. Maybe she wanted him to pull it out, reforge it, and make her feel again. Or maybe she just wanted to see him one last time before he was also ripped away.
Whatever the cause and whatever the outcome, one thing was still certain: he would come.
Tag: Nathan Landry