Nah, not really getting over it at all

Posted on Fri Jun 28th, 2019 @ 3:29am by

505 words; about a 3 minute read

Mission: What Stalks The Night
Location: Quarters and holodeck

Pulling up the zip if her uniform jacket, Tavana stared at herself in the mirror evaluating the image reflected back at her. The grey uniform was a perfect fit, her pips placed correctly, her hair tied back. The swelling on the knuckles of her left hand did not quite fit the perfect picture, but they received no attention. The face was expressionless, the eyes, simply two orbs. Tavana looked away clenching her jaws.

"Get over it," she reprimanded herself out loud. It was certainly easier said than done. She missed her lost crew and she wished she could get over it, move on, form new relationships, but she could not bring herself to do it. She spent her time in her office, in the holodeck or in her quarters, and all of it, alone. It was far removed from who she was as a person, as distant as she felt from the person she saw in the mirror.

Annoyed with this ridiculous 'weakness' in herself, she marched out of her quarters, straight to her office. She was as hungry as a beast, but she ignored it. Like she did the night before.

Hours later, when her shift had ended, she rushed back to her quarters avoiding contact with anyone and got dressed in a black tank top and short, but it didn't cover the blue bruises on her upper body and legs, so she replaced it with a long sleeved T-shirt and loose exercise pants.

Once inside the holodeck she stood for a moment, pursed her lips and activated the program she had been using.

One full hour later, Tavana ended the program, and sank down on the floor exhausted. Breathing hard, she touched her jaw gingerly with shaking fingers. "Shit," she said irritated. "I don't need this!" A few other less polite words rolled from her lips as she got up slowly. To any observer it would have been clear that the young woman was in pain, but by the time she exited the holodeck, barely acknowledging whoever was waiting at the door for their turn, there was no evidence of discomfort. Of course this was as long as no one touched her.

Once in her quarters, she went for a shower, and ordered a piece of steak from the replicator, not that she particularly wanted to eat. She knew she needed protein for cellular repair. However, eating it was a problem as she could not open her mouth wide enough. Angered she tossed the steak back on the plate to be recycled and ordered a raw egg shake in stead. With it and a straw, she lowered herself onto the couch.

A field medical tricorder did what it could to repair some superficial damage to her body, but failed to heal the deeper injuries she had sustained over the last few weeks of battering it had endured.

Near physical and mental break point, the intelligence officer fell asleep on her couch, curled up into a little bundle until her alarm went off at 0400.

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