allmhadadh (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
allmhadadh) wrote2009-08-09 12:41 pm
allmhadadh) wrote2009-08-09 12:41 pm
Entry tags:
Frayed Edges - [Risa]
It is such a secret place, the land of tears.
-Antoine de Saint-Exupéry, The Little Prince
He wasn't sure why it had all come down on him at once, like being sat down on by a giant, and he was never very forgiving of himself when he cracked like that under pressure; it made him feel like a child, like some helpless kid who couldn't stick up for himself and who didn't have the strength to bear up under things, either. And as hard as he tried to prove to himself otherwise, those moments were often doubly miserable. For the tears, and for the anger against the tears.
But eventually he managed to get himself back under control, feeling exhausted and hollowed out; that miserable wet feeling in his lungs, and his eyes stinging. It was still far too early in the day, though, for him to just give into the notion of passing out for awhile. The last time he'd slept properly was San Fran; here, there was too much on him, from all quarters, to feel comfortable enough to. The snatches of naps helped, at least. He wasn't hallucinating from fatigue.
He dragged himself off of the floor, staggered into the bathroom and washed his face with cold water. Washed it any number of times, enough times that he forgot how many. Then, more on auto-pilot than anything else, he took a shower, got dressed and buckled under to get something to eat out of that replicator thing. Hopefully for the last time. His stomach was a little upset, not made any better by his loathing of the device, but survival was survival.
His brain started kicking back into gear as he was gathering everything up that he'd need. He was going to have to borrow the other Scott's toolkit, if he was to have any chance of actually making a living. With any luck, some hard work and thought would allow him to get ahold of his own tools before the week was up and the Enterprise broke orbit. If not, he would still return the kit -- he wasn't a thief, though he was willing to walk the line of one if it kept him alive.
He needed some space, or at least some space that felt less confining than this; needed to know he had room to run, if he had to run, wherever he would end up going. He could face things better when he knew there was an escape route. If he had the option, at least then he could weigh the rest of it; if he had the choice, then he could more clearly make the right one without his instincts dragging him into the wilderness.
Still, in that numb and hollow space past tears, he could go back and tentatively touch on the conversation that provoked them without it being unbearable. He couldn't quite grasp that the other Scott was actually... him. Even with the common lines and common expressions. Even with the obvious genetic similarities. He believed it, mind; he believed it when he rarely took anything at face value. But it was like a dry fact, not a reality.
It was also somehow strange to him that he was a little grateful that this other Scott had clearly gotten his head on straight, somehow. He couldn't guess as to how, but this older man was mostly more confident and more certain, and definitely more cheerful. Good cheer was something he only felt in rare occasions, and all of those, it seemed, waiting for the other shoe to drop. He doubted that was the case with this alternate him. Whatever had gone differently had lead to a different man, and that wasn't a bad thing.
It still didn't change where he, himself was.
And that was nameless; out of time, and out of synch, and only certain of two things: His right to keep breathing and his ability to fight for that until he no longer was.
It wasn't too hard to get to Risa. The technician from the Starbase, who had come aboard to help with repairs and man the Enterprise, didn't bother to do more than check his communicator code. The communicator itself was a backup that had been in the toolkit, and was registered to the other Scott. He didn't correct the tech's assumption that was who he was, and only a few seconds later, he was standing on the ground.
He had never been to Risa before. For that matter, he hadn't even been off planet all that often. Immediately, the heat and humidity slammed into him; reminded him of jungle-training in Basic, but with something else: Here, he could smell an ocean. And he had to hitch in a breath at the immediate sense of relief that hit him when he did.
The relief was two-fold: One, he had always lived within a few miles of salt-water, and two, where there was water, there were bound to be boats. And he knew how to work on boats, both commercial and recreational powered vessels. For that matter, he could find his way around anything with a motor.
Risa was a whole planet, not just one city. There would be steady work somewhere in this big marble. He was in the major urban center and setting-off point now; beamed down to the public transporter pad, about five city blocks from shore. He walked that distance, rather wishing for a long-sleeved shirt again when people occasionally eyed the fading bruises, but no one stopped him and no one even spoke to him, and he was content with that.
It felt good to walk, and even after growing up in Aberdeen and not really liking hot weather, it felt good right now to have sunlight beating down on him. He could feel that still wet, jagged sensation in his chest, but it faded to something tolerable under the warmth and light; he could feel the fatigue across his shoulders where most of his tension lived, and down his back, but walking was soothing.
There was a very long stretch of white-sand beach; above the beach were little bungalows from various resorts, and a handful of tourist type shops. Down along one end, near out of his range of vision, looked like a highrise set of condos or apartments. And down on the other end was what he was looking for; a large stretch of docks.
Taking a deep breath of salt-and-sunshine painted air, he headed in that direction.
Back on the Enterprise, he left a message to blink on the other Scott's PADD. When he had left it, he knew he was making a mistake; he was opening a door to a world of hurt. Not because he thought this alternate version of him, with the good cheer and seemingly-genuine concern, would actually hurt him intentionally and maliciously. But because when it came to blood, and kin, it was nearly inevitable. There were very few ways that he could look at his own upbringing and not flinch, and so he almost never did. He loved his family, as fiercely as any son, and he still wanted to get as far away from them as he could. He loved them, but if he was going to keep breathing, he couldn't stay.
That was why he'd gone into Basic. Into Starfleet. Because he knew that if he stayed, eventually something in him would die, something important, and from there you can never make it back.
Honestly, he more hoped the door wouldn't be walked through. He wanted to find some way to thank the other one for the concern, and find a way to show that he was still breathing and mostly okay, as okay as anyone could be in this situation. He wanted to dissolve whatever obligation the other thought was there -- he couldn't imagine for a moment that it wasn't a miserable inconvenience to have someone all but dropped on them like that. He knew all about that kind of thing; he was all too used to being that inconvenience incarnate.
But he left the message anyway.
"I borrowed your toolkit, and I'll have it back to you by week's end. I'll keep the backup communicator on me so that you can get ahold of me. And I'll keep thinking about it." And he attached the communicator's and borrowed PADD's unique codes to the message, then sent it.
He didn't sign it.
-Antoine de Saint-Exupéry, The Little Prince
He wasn't sure why it had all come down on him at once, like being sat down on by a giant, and he was never very forgiving of himself when he cracked like that under pressure; it made him feel like a child, like some helpless kid who couldn't stick up for himself and who didn't have the strength to bear up under things, either. And as hard as he tried to prove to himself otherwise, those moments were often doubly miserable. For the tears, and for the anger against the tears.
But eventually he managed to get himself back under control, feeling exhausted and hollowed out; that miserable wet feeling in his lungs, and his eyes stinging. It was still far too early in the day, though, for him to just give into the notion of passing out for awhile. The last time he'd slept properly was San Fran; here, there was too much on him, from all quarters, to feel comfortable enough to. The snatches of naps helped, at least. He wasn't hallucinating from fatigue.
He dragged himself off of the floor, staggered into the bathroom and washed his face with cold water. Washed it any number of times, enough times that he forgot how many. Then, more on auto-pilot than anything else, he took a shower, got dressed and buckled under to get something to eat out of that replicator thing. Hopefully for the last time. His stomach was a little upset, not made any better by his loathing of the device, but survival was survival.
His brain started kicking back into gear as he was gathering everything up that he'd need. He was going to have to borrow the other Scott's toolkit, if he was to have any chance of actually making a living. With any luck, some hard work and thought would allow him to get ahold of his own tools before the week was up and the Enterprise broke orbit. If not, he would still return the kit -- he wasn't a thief, though he was willing to walk the line of one if it kept him alive.
He needed some space, or at least some space that felt less confining than this; needed to know he had room to run, if he had to run, wherever he would end up going. He could face things better when he knew there was an escape route. If he had the option, at least then he could weigh the rest of it; if he had the choice, then he could more clearly make the right one without his instincts dragging him into the wilderness.
Still, in that numb and hollow space past tears, he could go back and tentatively touch on the conversation that provoked them without it being unbearable. He couldn't quite grasp that the other Scott was actually... him. Even with the common lines and common expressions. Even with the obvious genetic similarities. He believed it, mind; he believed it when he rarely took anything at face value. But it was like a dry fact, not a reality.
It was also somehow strange to him that he was a little grateful that this other Scott had clearly gotten his head on straight, somehow. He couldn't guess as to how, but this older man was mostly more confident and more certain, and definitely more cheerful. Good cheer was something he only felt in rare occasions, and all of those, it seemed, waiting for the other shoe to drop. He doubted that was the case with this alternate him. Whatever had gone differently had lead to a different man, and that wasn't a bad thing.
It still didn't change where he, himself was.
And that was nameless; out of time, and out of synch, and only certain of two things: His right to keep breathing and his ability to fight for that until he no longer was.
It wasn't too hard to get to Risa. The technician from the Starbase, who had come aboard to help with repairs and man the Enterprise, didn't bother to do more than check his communicator code. The communicator itself was a backup that had been in the toolkit, and was registered to the other Scott. He didn't correct the tech's assumption that was who he was, and only a few seconds later, he was standing on the ground.
He had never been to Risa before. For that matter, he hadn't even been off planet all that often. Immediately, the heat and humidity slammed into him; reminded him of jungle-training in Basic, but with something else: Here, he could smell an ocean. And he had to hitch in a breath at the immediate sense of relief that hit him when he did.
The relief was two-fold: One, he had always lived within a few miles of salt-water, and two, where there was water, there were bound to be boats. And he knew how to work on boats, both commercial and recreational powered vessels. For that matter, he could find his way around anything with a motor.
Risa was a whole planet, not just one city. There would be steady work somewhere in this big marble. He was in the major urban center and setting-off point now; beamed down to the public transporter pad, about five city blocks from shore. He walked that distance, rather wishing for a long-sleeved shirt again when people occasionally eyed the fading bruises, but no one stopped him and no one even spoke to him, and he was content with that.
It felt good to walk, and even after growing up in Aberdeen and not really liking hot weather, it felt good right now to have sunlight beating down on him. He could feel that still wet, jagged sensation in his chest, but it faded to something tolerable under the warmth and light; he could feel the fatigue across his shoulders where most of his tension lived, and down his back, but walking was soothing.
There was a very long stretch of white-sand beach; above the beach were little bungalows from various resorts, and a handful of tourist type shops. Down along one end, near out of his range of vision, looked like a highrise set of condos or apartments. And down on the other end was what he was looking for; a large stretch of docks.
Taking a deep breath of salt-and-sunshine painted air, he headed in that direction.
Back on the Enterprise, he left a message to blink on the other Scott's PADD. When he had left it, he knew he was making a mistake; he was opening a door to a world of hurt. Not because he thought this alternate version of him, with the good cheer and seemingly-genuine concern, would actually hurt him intentionally and maliciously. But because when it came to blood, and kin, it was nearly inevitable. There were very few ways that he could look at his own upbringing and not flinch, and so he almost never did. He loved his family, as fiercely as any son, and he still wanted to get as far away from them as he could. He loved them, but if he was going to keep breathing, he couldn't stay.
That was why he'd gone into Basic. Into Starfleet. Because he knew that if he stayed, eventually something in him would die, something important, and from there you can never make it back.
Honestly, he more hoped the door wouldn't be walked through. He wanted to find some way to thank the other one for the concern, and find a way to show that he was still breathing and mostly okay, as okay as anyone could be in this situation. He wanted to dissolve whatever obligation the other thought was there -- he couldn't imagine for a moment that it wasn't a miserable inconvenience to have someone all but dropped on them like that. He knew all about that kind of thing; he was all too used to being that inconvenience incarnate.
But he left the message anyway.
"I borrowed your toolkit, and I'll have it back to you by week's end. I'll keep the backup communicator on me so that you can get ahold of me. And I'll keep thinking about it." And he attached the communicator's and borrowed PADD's unique codes to the message, then sent it.
He didn't sign it.
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