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Back where the vibrations feel good...until they don't

Posted on Sat Oct 10th, 2020 @ 11:52pm by Lieutenant Mica Rue

Personal Log, Lt Mica Rue.

"I had forgotten how good this feels.

There was little camaraderie on Trill. At the Capital Institution teams would root for each other. The Trill would encourage and celebrate successes, and lend a downcast eye when something went wrong. But deep down, you always knew they were secretly jealous that it wasn't them that had made the breakthrough, they were thankful they weren't the ones who had screwed up.

Back here on the Astraea, I forgot how much a success reflects on everyone. With few exceptions, the crew as a whole are one entity, with every setback and step-up a direct reflection of the ship's efficiency.

It's really nice not to watch underhanded competition at every angle.

It's nice to be welcomed back, genuinely, and not be judged on the merit of my work by how pure I am of race, or lack thereof.

When I took up my position at the institution, my team was directly told that I was not Trill. They were told I was an asset, and were given all of my credentials, as though it made up for my lack of trill-race. It was explained to them that I had been raised there by trill parents, raised alongside trill siblings, brought up in trill etiquette and social standing and education. A few eyebrows raised a the mention that I had chosen, like many distinguished trill such as Dax, to pursue a career in Starfleet.

And then, my team was given the choice, individually, whether to stick with me, or not. It wasn't my first exposure to racism or even species-ism, but the fact that it was made in such a public forum made it uncomfortable and unrealistic.

They stayed, the team did, although my own quirky habits forced a few to switch teams. I was alright with that - the replacements made us stronger.

Then it was suggested that the implants be used, so no more accidental thought or memory enforcement could happen. And I thought it was a good idea.

But now, looking back, I was wrong. Not for getting the implants - that was the right decision in the end. But for why. Being on the Astraea, seeing the variations of colors and races and textures and makes me long to be as accepting of myself. The implants, though necessary, were merely a way for me to hide my true self once more. Just as my parents did when they had trill spots added to my own as a child, just as I continued to do throughout the academy. Just as I always keep my hair in a way that hides the Enaren plates on my head.

I've never been afraid of being trill. But then, I've never really been trill.

And now, I'm wondering why it really mattered to be something I wasn't, when the part that wasn't what I was trying to be, was who I was all along."

Mica pressed the stop record on the log, wondering on the confusing and insightful last line. She stared at the words, reading them. Rereading them for the sake of her realization that she had just inadvertently accepted a part of herself that never had been before. Smiling, she hit save and leaned back in her chair...

:undetermined time later:

Mica tried to open her eyes. Her eyelids were heavy, the slits covered, crusted shut. She tried again, her breath uneven with the effort. The skin on her face was itchy. It took her a moment to realize it was from the carpet where she was laying. Grunting, she tried to roll over, but her joints were stiff, her muscles agonizingly unresponsive. confused, she raised her eyebrows high and willed her eyes to open.

The Lt was rewarded, just barely, with the soft lighting reflecting off the light grey of her quarters. She blinked slowly, painfully. Once. Twice. The numbness in her extremities were subsiding. She bent her fingers, raised one hand, then the other. She could hear the quiet hum of the ship beneath her, felt the inconsequential vibrations.

She smelled something burning.

Lifting her fingers to her head, she could feel the heat before her fingertips even touched it. Taking a deep breath she inched herself onto her elbows, elevated herself until she could place her palms flat behind her. Reaching up again, she probed her temples with her fingertips, cringing at the singed hair and open wounds near her plates.

Mica sighed loudly. Her damned implants. They must have short circuited. But why? How? Mica turned over, carefully getting to her knees, then her feet. She reached for items around her, cautious of her previous unconscious state. Fully upright, Mica felt the tremors within her body, the pull of low blood sugar after a long state of no-nutritional intake.

God, how long was she out for?

The hazard of not being on a duty roster - no one noticed you missing.

Feeling warmth drip down her cheek, Mica tapped the panel on the wall. "Lt Rue to Medical."


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