September Drabblefest

I used to think it was awful that life was so unfair… Gaila + Uhura friendship. G, angsty,

You know, I used to think it was awful that life was so unfair. Then I thought, wouldn't it be much worse if life were fair, and all the terrible things that happen to us come because we actually deserve them? So, now I take great comfort in the general hostility and unfairness of the universe.Gaila + Uhura friendship. PG, angsty, one naughtish word. Gone away a bit from the prompt.

Concrit welcome. (and needed). (very much a first draft).



Uhura felt the eerie silence more than she heard it. She had been expecting the place to feel horrifying empty and wrong, corridors and rooms that thronged with life now symbolically quiet.

In fact she simply felt tired. Dog tired. So she dragged herself up the three flights of stairs, pausing to sigh with the kind of exhaustion that makes every step feel like a punishment every four steps or so.

It was only when Uhura finally staggered into her room and saw the few red hairs on a blue pillow that she thought of Gaila.

She was on the floor before she quite realised what had happened, sobs coming out involuntarily. It was the first time she’d cried like that in a long while. Oh she had shed tears, for Spock, and for Vulcan, and for the children’s serious, bleak eyes, looking around for mother. She had cried for coming home to a safe, beautiful Earth.

But selfish tears, with sobs and snot, were a comfort she had not allowed herself.

Uhura took in the PADDs lain haphazard around the room, the open doorway showing a towel on the bathroom door. The list of heavily amended rules, written on Gaila’s beautiful Orion paper, using Uhura’s calligraphy set. The only thing they’d had in common, in the beginning.

Uhura remembered the first time she saw the messy, sex-obsessed green girl as an Orion. Watching the group of protestors surround her, screaming about her poisonous influence on humanity, watching her being pulled away by Starfleet officials, who were kindly but resigned. She remembered her being refused entry to the social of an academic conference on a backwards looking colony on Mars. She remembered Gaila sitting through endless lectures on Orion, where she was told, in dry, clinical detail, just how depraved her culture was.

The first time Uhura saw her as Gaila was when a visiting professor from said backwards looking Martian colony had criticised Uhura’s essay on the history of translation on Earth because since she was a black African female, and was therefore likely to be biased. Gaila commented that he was published despite having the obvious bias of being an unlikable prick.

Selfish. Uhura had always seen their friendship from her point of view. Gaila hed been a frequent irritation, both a terrible roommate and someone who went against all Uhura’s views about how the world. Sometimes fun, of course, but never serious, except for the disappointment she felt when she had let Uhura down with her bed-hopping ways.

She realised then, with bile encroaching her throat, she had always resented that Gaila wasn’t the tortured, pitiable slave girl, who stayed covered up and agreed with Uhura’s views about slaves, and cultures, and how insightful Uhura’s opinions were. Gaila didn’t suffer properly.

Uhura felt an urge to be destructive come over her, and she found herself looking around the room for something to throw out the window.

She could never make amends. Uhura could never tell Gaila why and how she was oppressed by Uhura as well as everyone else. This thought made her laugh, a bitter one, but a laugh all the same.

Uhura remembered that the last moment she had seen Gaila. She had been thinking about her own ship placement and how Spock was a bastard.

Life really wasn’t fair.


(For the record, I don’t think Uhura is a horrible, selfish person. This just came out of my fingers.)

Re: I used to think it was awful that life was so unfair… Gaila + Uhura friendship. G, angsty,

I didn't get the impression you thought she was horrible -- I think this is a picture of grief, and a harrowing one at that. Of looking back on someone else's life and seeing all the mistakes you made when interacting with them, of wondering how you could have done better.

And I also don't think you veered that far from the prompt.

This is lovely. Thank you.

ST VOY, Janeway, #20 There comes a time...mirror

She wasn’t about to let her crew down now, even as she stared into her own fierce eyes and knew she had to kill herself. It was close. If she’d had a few more seconds, she could have held on until the beam out. But she’d waited all she could for Harry’s voice. It hadn’t come.

To get home, that was what mattered. To get home to Earth, yes, but right now to get home to her own ship, not this twisted, inverted version where everything was despicable. Kathryn had to take the ragged blade in her hand and drive it into her other heart.

It was the kind of thing she was cut out to do. She’d always been tough, didn’t mess around. What had to be done was best done immediately and without fuss or second guessing.

She was surprised, then, at how much it hurt to see herself so dark and angry. And how much it scared her to cut this woman. Part of her knew she needed her. That she was, in fact, intertwined with the toughness. Remove one, destabilize the other.

She pushed herself up against the wall, with one forearm against her other throat.

Just a few more seconds.

Her other self’s long black braid fell down over one shoulder, her eyes were shocking blue and wild, her skin flush with exertion and hate. Her smile was a sneer.

“There comes a time when you look into the mirror and realize that what you see is all that you will ever be.” The evil part of her looked straight into her eyes. “Then you accept it, or you kill yourself.” She laughed, a dry, choking laugh.

Kathryn stopped. A rare hesitation. A sudden tenderness for the dark part of herself blossomed unexpectedly in her chest.

She whispered to her double, with a quirk of her lips. “Or you stop looking into mirrors.”

Then she let herself go.

Re: ST VOY, Janeway, #20 There comes a time...mirror

Ooh, lovely.

"I used to think it was awful that life was so unfair..." Winona Kirk, G

When she walks into the bar, you recognize her immediately. It’d be hard not to, after all the months and years you’ve spent studying her life, memorizing the twists and turns of fate as you pursue your own destiny. You’ve seen her face so many times on the holoscreen, alongside articles and biographies, in news feeds and documentaries, learned her history inside and out – at this point, you almost know her better than you know yourself and that, you swear to yourself, is what makes your hands shake as you pick up your drink and walk over to where she’s perched on a bar stool.

“You’re Lieutenant Commander Winona Kirk, right?” you ask, the slightest quaver – excitement, nervousness, star-struck wonder – in your voice. She turns to face you, pushing long silver-blonde hair over her shoulder and away from startling blue eyes to look up at you, a vaguely amused twist tilting her mouth. You quickly drop onto the stool next to her, uncomfortable with the feeling of towering over such a remarkable woman.

“Yeah, just call me Winona,” she responds, reaching out to shake your hand with a firm grip, and you feel the rough brush of calluses against the comparatively soft skin of your own hand. “You’re at the Academy?”

You nod eagerly and she smiles, a spark lighting her eyes at your reaction. You have so many questions you want to ask, so many mysteries you’d love to unravel about the woman sitting in front of you. You take a sip of your drink and cough lightly as it almost goes down the wrong way, trying desperately to corral your thoughts into some sort of order. Winona watches you patiently, slowly working her way through her own drink as she waits for you to speak, her eyes filled with the same sort of acceptance that Admiral Pike’s often are. Finally, after five minutes have passed and you still haven’t said anything, you decide to bite the metaphorical bullet.

“How did you do it?” you blurt and immediately feel your face flush as you scramble to temper your curiosity, to explain it in some way that takes away the rudeness, the blunt, face-slapping honesty. “I mean, just, any of it – raising your kids, keeping your job, doing everything you’ve done so far – after, after...that,” you finish lamely, but the dimple at the corner of her mouth tells you she knows what you’re trying to ask. So you take a deep breath, think for half a second, and actually ask it. “It’s so unfair that it happened to you,” you say, like it doesn’t happen to half the families with members in Starfleet, losing a loved one before their time, “how did you...”

She smiles at you, knowing eyes sweeping first over your uniform, then your hands, lighting briefly on the brand-new band of metal circling your left ring finger. And, yeah, it’d been an important question in the past, something you wanted an answer to, but only in the abstract, not something that ever really mattered, not where it counted. Now, though, now you need the answer, need it like your next breath, like the feel of your lover’s heartbeat under your fingertips, like the instant spark you feel when you see their face. Your hands shake with the need to know and you play with your ring, watching the shadows of the bar warp and shiver in the smooth metal instead of the sad, understanding held in the curve of her smile.

“You know,” she says, her voice soft and melodic under the general white noise of the bar, “I used to think it was awful that life was so unfair.” You look back up at her and you think you can almost see back through the years, to the young woman, the new mother, railing against life and the universe as she clutches her children to her chest, broken heart on full display in her eyes. The image makes your heart skip a beat, the brief cessation filling you with all the loneliness she must have felt, but it dissipates as she swipes a hand across her forehead, brushing her bangs out of her eyes. Still, though, you want to reach out and touch her, console her in some way, though the line of her shoulders and the perpetual curve of her mouth tells you she’s long past the need for a stranger’s false sympathy – she’s strong now in a way you’re not sure you could ever be.

"I used to think it was awful that life was so unfair..." Winona Kirk, G (2/2)

She tilts her head to the side and traces a finger around the lip of her glass, a tiny heart tattoo at the base of one finger flickering like a shadow in the dim light of the bar. She smiles sardonically, eyes filled with wry amusement as she looks back up at you, grinning impishly despite the weight of her words. “Then I thought, wouldn't it be much worse if life were fair, and all the terrible things that happen to us come because we actually deserve them?” She shrugs offhandedly and you almost smile back, feeling more at ease with her than you ever thought possible. “So, now I take great comfort in the general hostility and unfairness of the universe. Means if something goes wrong, ‘snot necessarily my fault.” She swallows the last of her drink and winks, eyes sparkling mischievously at you over the rim of her glass.

You bow your head over your hands, staring at glass you’re cradling between your palms as she orders another drink and adds yours to her tab. You try to refuse but she’s firm, smile curving up on one side to dimple her cheek, and you give in with a rueful shake of your head, smiling back as she laughs at your grudging capitulation. And as the bar lights glint off her hair and shadow the corners of her eyes, again you can see the young woman she once was, before heartbreak and tragedy, the girl George Kirk fell in love with and died for. You press your lips together to stop their trembling and down the remainder of your drink, hissing at the burn down the back of your throat and playing off the tears in your eyes as a reaction to the alcohol.

The dynamic in the crowd shifts, makes you glance over your shoulder at the man standing in the entranceway. You know his face, too, from many of the same news feeds and holovids you know Winona’s and, anyway, the blue eyes and blond hair are too alike even across the bar floor for him to be anyone else. You smile again as Winona lights up when she sees her son, even as you hand your glass off to the bartender and find your coat. The ring on your finger and the nostalgic glint buried deep in slightly faded blue eyes reminds you of your responsibilities at home, how you have someone waiting for you and you don’t want to keep them up too late. You’re glad you’re not leaving Winona alone in the bar, glad that there’d obviously been a plan for her son to meet her here – you feel like you owe her something after the knowledge she just imparted to you, even if it’s just making sure there’s someone nearby that loves her.

You’ll always remember the smile and nod she gives you as you step away from the bar, will cherish it alongside the memory that life isn’t always fair and sometimes it’s better that way.

"Duranja", DS9, Kira. For #1: "When it goes out, it's gone forever."

Nerys has lit the duranja many times. During the Occupation, during the Resistance, there was little time for ritual - but she would always light a lamp, or a candle, at least that much, when a friend was lost.

Now she can mourn properly, but it's small comfort. She had thought that when the Cardassians left, death too would grant her a reprieve. But it hasn't.

Li Nalas. Lupaza. Furel. Antos. Marritza. Tekeny Ghemor. Ziyal.

And now Jadzia.

The duranja's flame is strong, bright. She closes her eyes and feels the heat of it on her face, and begins to speak.

She's whispering the word protect when she chokes on tears and has to stop. The Prophets didn't protect Jadzia. She was in their temple, seeking their help, when she died. Maybe they weren't able to protect her. Maybe the Pagh Wraiths were just too strong. Or maybe they have some plan, some vision of Bajor's future, that required this.

Right now, she can't make herself believe that it matters. Jadzia was murdered while she was in the Prophets' care. And Nerys herself sent Jadzia to them, to ask for their aid. She trusted them. Both she and Jadzia trusted the Prophets. She does blame the Pagh Wraiths, and she does blame Dukat - but if her gods are gods, she has to blame them too.

She opens her eyes and swallows, glares into the blurred, bright flame. "Take her into the gates of heaven," she says. Jadzia was not a Bajoran, but it's the least that they can do.

Too many lights have gone out. Too many brilliant, radiant lives like Jadzia's have been snuffed out too soon. Nerys will go on. She always has. But she can feel the fire within her falter, feel her faith wavering in the wind. Despite the heat of the lamplight, she feels cold.

Re: "Duranja", DS9, Kira. For #1: "When it goes out, it's gone forever."

I am speechless and heartbroken. Lovely.

#16 To Her Coy Mistress

Soo, I wrote too much to post it as a comment. He. He. Thus, here is a link to the story on my journal:

“It is not my place to speculate on how anything gets in your bed. Least of all crewmembers.”

Please comment, I love comments!

Re: #16 To Her Coy Mistress

Well, I'm commenting here because I'm here and not there, though I read the story this morning and it is lovely and others should definitely click through. :)

"The blood is already on my hands..." Lwaxana Troi

Lwaxana Troi had always known that she was a woman who would kill to protect her children, if it were necessary. But knowing it, as a safe abstract when your daughter was, if far away, perfectly capable of taking care of herself, and your son was asleep in your arms, his warm baby dreams a whisper at the back of your mind, was a lot different than really knowing it, the way you did when there was a Jem'Hadar soldier and you had to shoot him or your son would die.

She didn't hesitate, but she made sure that she felt every moment of his death – his surprise, the burst of pain, the quick fading away. Not to gloat, or to be sure that he was dead, but so that she would remember. She had killed a man.

Once she had killed to protect her son, it seemed a smaller step to kill to protect her friends, her home, her planet. She, and the rest of the resistance, tried their utmost only to do it when there was no other option. Still, the first Jem'Hadar she killed was not the last.

This was not the Betazoid way, but a man had threatened her son. She tried not to think of it in terms of revenge. She tried her hardest not to hate them. She just wanted them to be gone.

It was about being Lwaxana Troi. She was a woman who would kill to protect her children. She was not a woman who would enjoy it.

Re: "The blood is already on my hands..." Lwaxana Troi

(Is it me or is this the saddest drabblefest ever? Whimper.)

Oh, Lwaxana – I love that you retain her wild pride here, but give her real empathy as well. The final line is perfect, of course, and I just love warm baby dreams – so efficient, and so observant. Oh, Lwaxana.

Thanks for this.

9. We say there is no choice only to comfort ourselves... (Natima Lang)

[Natima Lang, DS9 "Profit and Loss" / pre-series]

She had not missed the dormitory and the shared study in all her time on Terok Nor. But now, resting her forehead against the too-cool console of her private office, Correspondent Lang was disgusted by all of the things that had seemed like such luxuries when she had assumed her post. The native slave at the call of the officers in this section who fetched her disks from Command Library and tea from the central replicator, the lock-box that opened to her palm alone, the extra chair she could offer -- or not offer -- to her informants: they had been reminders, all, of her small but significant importance to United Cardassia. They were reminders, too, of how corrupted she had become here.

The door buzzed.

"Enter." She raised her head and sat back in her chair. A superior would not have needed to buzz, and it was not appropriate to set an example of weakness to inferiors.

"The Correspondent's tea."

"Thank you, Ikys." The response was as automatic as the move to clear the padds from her table so the servant could put the cup down. It made Natima freeze. When had it become so natural to thank a slave in the slave's own language? Around the same time, she suspected, that it had become natural to take a meal at Quark's of an evening, and to buy a meal for the children of a worn-out Bajoran crossing the Promenade. Or sip a glass of kanar and teasingly needle the Ferengi about higher obligations than profit and the dropping price of Bajoran silk.

When the Board of Inquisitors at the university had praised the political moral of her dissertation and recommended her to a clerkship for the Council, when Councillor Ougek had promoted her to Informational Correspondent, the assignment to monitor loyalty and military effectiveness had seemed so much simpler. The Natima who had accepted the duty would have had no difficulties with what to do at this moment, and, indeed, would not have have been able to imagine such a thing: here was was guilt of the highest order and betrayal of Cardassia, and the only ethical action Correspondent Natima Lang could possibly take was to facilitate punishment. No other choice was permitted.

By the table, the Bajoran girl was waiting for dismissal.

"Go," said Natima, and there was no Bajoran on Terok Nor who could not understand at least the necessary Cardassian commands.

The tea's spicy scent and garnet reflection were sickeningly proper. The cup reminded her of breakfast at home, and the perfect harmony of gently severe parents and obedient children. It reminded her of her university study, when she had outlined a New Morality of the Individual and the State sitting between Proclia and Torek, and then destroyed it, because the presence of other Cardassians reminded every Cardassian where her duty lay. Natima forced herself to take up the drink and sip. Even in the insidious privacy of her office, she was a Cardassian.

And even if she discounted duty, she hated Quark. Hadn't he pretended companionship, and then friendship, love, even, only to betray her like the dirty Ferengi he was? Hadn't he used her stupid fondness to betray the state, and only for his own greed? Teased and coaxed out her pity for the plight of an inferior species, while he disguised his own benevolence by bleeding them for profit? Natima would almost have rather found out that her sometime -- and never again -- lover belonged to the Bajoran resistance. It would have been reprehensible, but at least comprehensible.

Her report was written and documented, it was ready on her console, and it would take only a single command to see that the charges were laid and justice done. Why hesitate? Justice and the state satisfied, the dream of every Cardassian child and ambitious adult, sat in her hands. Personal satisfaction as well was hers to be had.

On the table, her red-leaf tea had already lost its steam in the wretchedly cold station air. Natima imagined the bitterness of chilly tea and penal camps, and ragged children.

(He was her enemy, and also Cardassia's enemy.)

She made no move. It would a long time before the work hours concluded and she could leave her office.

Re: 9. We say there is no choice only to comfort ourselves... (Natima Lang)

Wow.

"He knows me, but he also loves me. And sometimes the one gets in the way of the other."

ST DS9, Ziyal, G Set during Kira's rebellion against the Cardassian/Dominion alliance on DS9 during the Dominion War.
I'm a huge ST fan but this is my first attempt at fanfiction of any kind so con-crit is very welcome!


I often wonder what life would have been like if I had been fully Cardassian, or fully Bajoran.

Kira tells me that I am lucky, that my compassion and empathy stems from my Bajoran nature. I am not like other Cardassians.

She would not be my friend if I was Cardassian.

Garak regards me steadily and informs me that our relationship is only possible because I am part Cardassian. He holds me but I do not feel accepted.

We would never be together if I was Bajoran.

Damar has little time for me since I chose to remain on Deep Space 9, instead of leaving with my father. In his eyes, the ridges on my nose have already marked me as a traitor.

We might be friends if I was Cardassian.

My father loves me. He lost everything making a home for me, but truly does not regret my existence. With him, my family, I feel like I belong.

But he knows what I am like. I wonder now what he will do when he discovers my part in Kira’s rebellion. He has disowned me once; he knows my allegiance does not lie with Cardassia.

My future, like my past has been, is uncertain. I am torn between my father, the person with whom I feel like I truly belong, and my principles.

Will he order my execution? He has wanted to kill me before. But he does love me.

Would he mourn if I died as a traitor? I do not know. Perhaps not; loyalty to Cardassia is everything.

Cardassia is not my home; I do not owe it loyalty. My father does not see things this way.

But he does love me. But he knows me.

Re: "He knows me, but he also loves me. And sometimes the one gets in the way of the other."

Oh, this is lovely. Poor Ziyal.

You've really got to the heart of her duality, the feeling of being torn between cultures, and judged for it. I like the feel of the first few lines, with the back-and-forth between the two.

And I love how you've made it clear that 'Cardassian' and 'Bajoran' mean such different things to different people anyway, with Kira's emphasis on personality and Damar's dismissal of her based on her facial features.

#6 The thing is: sometimes people walk away because they want to be alone (Christine Chapel)

Her mother had always warned her that only alcoholics drink alone, which Christine thought was rich coming from a woman who turned a blind eye to her husband’s drinking (and philandering, but that’s an entirely different conversation on her mental list of “Things I Will Never Discuss with My Mother.). At least she wasn’t sitting in the dark—she had in fact smacked her palm angrily against the light sensor when it didn’t automatically turn on when she’d stormed into the room over two hours ago.

(Inanimate objects always felt the brunt of her wrath when she was angry. She apologized to them later and laughed at herself when she did so.)

But screw what her mother thought—the averagely-priced bottle of wine she was drinking without a glass, thank you very much, was superb. She didn’t need someone there sharing her wine and her bad day and making her feel better, dammit. She didn’t.

So when her door chimed, she wasn’t expecting it and she visibly jumped, knocking the now-empty bottle over from its position at her feet. Attempting to stand, she hit her knee on the cheap coffee table, hopped on one foot when this caused her to stub her toe on the chair next to said coffee table, and was cursing up a storm when she pushed the button to open the door.

“You,” she said flatly and winced when her throbbing knee and sudden rush of blood to her leg caused it to buckle.

He caught her. Of course he caught her. Nurturer, thy name is McCoy. “I didn’t expect you to injure yourself in what Janice called your ‘time alone to think.’” He helped her to the couch and she bit her tongue so that she wouldn’t have to apologize later.

“You shouldn’t know what I do in my alone time—that’s why it’s my alone time.” Okay, so maybe biting her tongue is impossible.

He gave her that look that said he was mulling over what she was saying and deciding if she was being her sarcastic self or if this was one of those “cries for help” he so loved to answer. She could also be a little drunk and putting way too much thought into one look from McCoy.

McCoy was the better person and didn’t say the first thing that came to his mind. He’d done enough of that earlier.

“I’ve thought about what you said,” she said into the silence. “And I’m still going to do it, whether you like my reasons or not.”

“He’s not worth it, Chris. Not worth giving up your life.”

She snorted at that and poked him in the chest. “Hey kettle, meet pot. ”

“Jim’s different. Besides, I have no life to give up. What’s left for me here?”

Conveniently ignoring his reasonable argument, she answered with a quiet, “Sure he is.” Tired now, she leaned back and closed her eyes. “It’s closure, Leonard. Even if he’s not worth it, I will know.

“It’s not that I don’t want you on my team, it’s—“

“I know. “ She did too, because McCoy only approved the best for the Enterprise’s medical crew. He’d showed her the list—it was filled with those at the top of their class and excellent recommendations. Only the best for the new ship. Starfleet demanded it.

He sighed and she opened her eyes to see him looking at her. “I guess I’ll see you in the morning, damn it all to hell and back.”

“You really think we’re going into hell? It can’t be all that bad.”

“I like to plan for the worst.”

He let himself out and she thought about his words, realizing that she did have something to say in response—the worst wouldn’t be hell—it would be nothing at all, the infinity of space and an eternity of silence.

Re: #6 The thing is: sometimes people walk away because they want to be alone (Christine Chapel)

Oh, I love this. I love Christine's coping strategies and the way she apologises to objects, and I love her determination.

Re: #6 The thing is: sometimes people walk away because they want to be alone (Christine Chapel)

Oh, god, that last line.

Wonderful.

10. There is no greater power in the universe than the need for freedom. (Gaila, gen, G)

"Nothing is more difficult, and therefore more precious, than to be able to decide." -- Napoleon Bonaparte

---

People like to make assumptions about Gaila. After all, she's an Orion and everyone knows that Orions are slave traders and that the women are practically controlled by their overactive hormones. (Except that the Orion Syndicate is not, in fact, what it appears to be to outsiders and, yes, female Orions secrete pheromones that keep most species of males comfortable in their presence but Gaila hardly needs sex all the time. She simply has sex when it suits her and if that's more frequent or with more partners than the average Terran women, well, that's her choice. Besides it isn't like she's forcing anyone to do it with her-- pheromones or no, she wouldn't do that.)

Likewise, she receives strange glances from time to time that she comes to realize contain pity and other similarly unwelcome emotions. (Gaila learns this because she observes others receiving them as well. And, while they are infinitely preferable to the judgmental stares and glares of scorned women who perceive her to have wronged them in some way, she hardly appreciates them. She is not in want of sympathy; she simply is and that is fine with her.)

It's the odd roundabout questions about how she escaped from her old life that bothers her most, though. How can Terrans be so very misinformed? After explaining a handful of times that, yes there is a certain stigma for selecting a life away from the Syndicate, but all she'd done was ask her family unit for permission to attend Starfleet Academy after applying, she has her answer. Terrans are mostly inexplicably disappointed by her benign tale. (Why that is, she isn't certain, since she knows hers is not unlike the majority of Academy cadets.) Eventually, though, she grows tired of this and takes to indicating she does not wish to speak of it, so they remain misinformed.

Gaila is curious about where these misconceptions of her so-called slave society come from, so she studies up on ancient Earth history. Slavery, it seems, was common practice in various forms in many Terran societies for longer than it hasn't been. The really interesting stories, though, are those of the slaves. It's their tales of hiding and fighting, of inequality and relying on strangers helps her to understand what it is her fellow cadets expected to hear. They believe, as with Terran slaves of the past, it is physical freedom she came to Starfleet for.

That's their mistake, she thinks. The kind of freedom she sought is not unlike that which most children wish to have from their parents once they've reached full maturation. The only difference for Gaila is that, as an Orion, she had to leave her entire society behind to find it. (Because if she'd stayed-- if she'd lived her life under Syndicate rule as good Orion girls are meant to-- she would have little to no say in her future and expected to follow her superior's dictates without question. Here she has the freedom to choose her own path. Here she can be and do whatever she wishes and it's as frightening as it is exhilarating.) (She thinks it's not the stigma but the fear that keeps more Orions from doing the same.)

Still, if there's one thing she's learned from her study of slavery it's this: there is truly no greater power on any world than the need for freedom. None. It's what pushes children to leave home in the first place, what fuels things like revolution and rebellion, what gives hope when there shouldn't be any at all. No matter what kind of freedom a being is seeking, there is no power that will stop them-- except, perhaps, death (and even then it's questionable). Gaila likes that. It makes her feel connected, just a little, to everyone everywhere. (And maybe, in the end, that's what freedom's really all about.)

Re: 10. There is no greater power in the universe than the need for freedom. (Gaila, gen, G)

Ooh, very cool -- what a neat, different take on Gaila's background!

19. "I'm waiting. For an apology." "You better check the temperature in Hell first." (Uhura, gen, G)

her honor bright

There were certain things Nyota Uhura could simply not abide. Condescension was a big one-- especially if it had anything to do with ethnicity, gender or age. (All were arbitrary and, more importantly, things no one had any control over... with the possible exception of gender but that was generally an entirely different issue.)

In this instance, it was a teacher she'd spoken out of turn to. Her instructor, Mr. Lampada, had made some disparaging remarks about Tellerites and Uhura had objected quickly and succinctly. She'd been silenced with a stern, "That is quite enough, Miss Uhura."

Now, she and Mr. Lampada were standing staring at each other. "I'm waiting," he said finally. When she refused to reply, a defiant expression on her face, he elaborated: "For an apology, Miss Uhura."

That, she thought, would not be happening any time soon. Perhaps when it rained swine or the hot place called Hell froze over. "No."

There was shock on her teacher's face. "Excuse me?"

Uhura's expression was a stony mask. "No," she repeated stiffly. "There is no excuse for your bigotry. And I will not apologize because it is you who is wrong."

"Enough of your insolence," he snapped, his face an interesting shade of puce. "You will go to the principal's office for punishment."

Silently, Uhura picked up her things and made her way from the classroom. Even at sixteen, she already conducted herself with a sense of poise some people never achieved. With her back straight and eyes sharp, she sat through a reprimand from the principal and, after unwillingly writing an apology to Mr. Lampada, a lecture from her parents about respecting her elders and authority.

After dinner, Uhura searched out her grandmother. She curled beside the old woman on a loveseat and told her story, finally releasing the frustration and humiliation she'd kept tightly inside herself.

In response, her grandmother didn't coddle her-- would never, in point of fact. Instead, she hugged Uhura tightly and proudly commended her for standing by her convictions. "It does not matter that your teacher believes he won," she explained in her soft melodic tone. "Even if it is you alone who knows the truth that does not stop it from being the truth."

The following day, Nyota Uhura walked into Mr. Lampada's classroom with her head held high. With her convictions unchanged and the truth on her side, it wasn't so difficult-- even after being made to write the false apology letter.

---

"Our greatest glory is not in never falling but in rising every time we fall." -- Confucius

Re: 19. "I'm waiting. For an apology." "You better check the temperature in Hell first." (Uhura, gen

I love it!

22.I can only conclude that I'm paying off karma at a vastly accelerated rate. (Chapel, het, PG) 1/2

Cosmic Jokes, Karmic Retribution and Other Excuses for Life's Little Ironies

When Christine Chapel gets the news that Jim Kirk has been given command of the Enterprise-- the freaking Enterprise, seriously!-- she wonders what kind of cosmic joke is being played on her. It isn't nearly as surprising to hear Leonard McCoy named as the ship's Chief Medical Officer (they are best friends, after all), although she still curses loudly and enthusiastically. There goes any chance she might've had at a non-hostile work environment.

No, really. Because, see, Dr. Leonard McCoy is the most ornery bastard this side of the Mississippi. (The way she hears it, he used to be the most ornery bastard that side of the Mississippi and isn't it just too damn bad he couldn't stay there?) She's only worked with him a little bit and mostly during the Narada incident, which, admittedly, had everyone on edge but whatever. It's going to suck. (Made worse by the fact that she'd actually really been looking forward to working for Dr. Puri, God rest his soul.)

"I can only conclude," Christine announces gravely after more drinks than she generally needs to become this melodramatic, "that I'm paying off karma at a vastly accelerated rate."

It's the last week before the Enterprise leaves for their five year mission and she's visiting her family in Louisiana. Tonight all her female siblings and cousins, ages nineteen to thirty-seven, have taken her out to try and stop her incessant bitching. (Obviously it isn't working.) She doesn't have to explain what karmic misdeeds she's making up for, though-- as if they don't all know everything about each other. There are no secrets in a family as gossipy as theirs.

The cousin closest to her age, Elizabeth (or Lizzy-Beth, as she's often called), scoffs. "So he can be difficult," a severe understatement in Christine's estimation but, just this once, she holds her tongue; "I've never known you to take a 'grin and bear it' attitude."

Christine snorts because isn't that just the God's truth? "I never said I wasn't going to tell him what's what." It's part of her job as Head Nurse. Really. It's in the job description and everything-- honest. (She should know; she edited it in herself.) "It would just be nice if there was someone above him that could tell him to shut it from time to time." Hence the probably hostility she was not looking forward to navigating daily.

One of Christine's younger sisters, Caitlyn, makes a tsking noise in a no doubt unintentional but still brilliant impersonation of their mother. "Honestly, Christie, there's no way he can be as bad as you say." They've all been saying this for days; as none of them have actually met the man, she's inclined to call bullshit. "If he was, who would give him command of the flagship's Sickbay?"

"Jim Kirk." Christine spits his name out like a curse.

Naturally, this is lost on her female relatives; they're all too busy swooning to various degrees over him. (Even the married few, shame on them.)

"You're so lucky," the youngest of the group, a cousin nicknamed Winnie (although no one can quite remember why) chirps, looking like she might at any moment fall from her precarious perch on a stool. (They really shouldn't have slipped her any drinks, she's a total lightweight.) "Jim Kirk is a fox."

Her sister, Sarah, snorts and shakes her head. "And a hero," she adds in a tone that would be more appropriate if she weren't only about eightee months Winnie's senior. (It's a mix of, 'Isn't that young thing silly?' and the kind of exasperated fondness one can only ever have for a sibling.)

Christine rolls her eyes. (She's so tired of hearing about The Amazing Jim Kirk Who Saved Them All. Which, okay, probably has more to do with her own nerves about being assigned under him than anything else because, hello, he did save the whole fucking planet. But regardless--) "Whatever. He's on my shit list, too."

22.I can only conclude that I'm paying off karma at a vastly accelerated rate. (Chapel, het, PG) 2/2

That's when the oldest in the bunch, a cousin-in-law named Maggie who may be Christine's favorite relative (possibly because they aren't blood related but probably because she was like an older sister to Christine who is the eldest in her family line), smirks just a little evilly. "I bet you sleep with one of them before the end of your first six months out there."

Although aghast at the suggestion alone (seriously-- they're both her bosses! And she'd learned her lesson after that whole Korby thing), Christine will admit to herself that they're both rather fine male specimens. But only to herself.

(When she and McCoy end up having really amazing angry sex after fighting over the staff's six month reviews for hours-- a month late, for the record, because things are busy and most of them are still figuring out this working on a starship thing-- she doesn't admit it, either. She'd love to gloat to Maggie about missing the six month mark, but she knows the smug response she'd get back wouldn't be worth it.)

(Although Christine does crack when it happens a few more times and then once when they aren't even angry because she has no idea what the hell is going on or what he wants from her and they're so breaking a bunch of regulations here, seriously. And the smugness is even forgiven because Maggie's advice helps her get her head on straight and push McCoy into telling her what the fuck he wants. Which turns out to be a relationship and, hey, she can work with that.

So then they're together. Like for real dating and stuff. Go figure.) (It's still a hostile work environment, though, because McCoy is grumpy, snappy and short-tempered on duty-- as always. The only change is that now Christine can punish him later. As it turns out, that makes all the difference in the world. Who knew?)