One is None

Posted on Tue 28th Aug, 2018 @ 8:19pm by Lieutenant Colonel Brooklyn Wellington

1,097 words; about a 5 minute read

Mission: Oblivion
Location: Colonel Wellington's quarters

As the door slid open, Butch held out the bottle in her hand before she said anything. "Figured you could use one of these."

Brooklyn absently rubbed her new arm, still having very limited movement in it. Having just been released from the Infirmary a few hours ago, she was happy to be back in her quarters. "You figured right," Brooklyn said with a grin as she stood and approached Cassidy. "How are the squadrons?" she asked as until Wellington was cleared for active duty, Cassidy was in charge of the Aerospace Group.

"Oh, sure," Butch said with a teasing tone, "now you remember that you're not the only fighter pilot on station. Sit back down. Where do you keep the cups?"

"Top cabinet by the sink," Wellington replied, sitting back down as physical therapy left her drained and though her physical trainer denied it, Brooklyn was certain the woman had been a Marine Drill Instructor with the way she pushed Brooklyn. "So what brings you here? Surely it can't be a casual visit."

Cassidy shrugged. "Can't it?" The question was rhetorical as she walked to the designated cabinet. "You're the closest thing to a friend I have on the station." Or in the Galaxy, she thought without adding it aloud. She pulled out two tumblers and moved toward the Colonel's seat. "I am here in equal measures to be social, to be understanding and supportive, and to read you the riot act. I thought I'd start with the social bit."

Brooklyn chuckled. "Good, because I could use someone to talk with," she admitted. "So what poison did you bring me?"

Butch shrugged, setting the two glasses down and opening the bottle. "It's pink," she observed as she poured. "Really, what else do we need to know?"

"Good point," Brooklyn remarked before picking up her glass.

Butch took a sip of the sweet, sticky libation. She could taste the alcohol, but it didn't make her pull faces the way grain alcohol often did. She took a moment to savor it, then asked, "So. How's the arm?"

Brooklyn swallowed the sip of her drink and took a glance at her arm. "It hurts and I have limited movement--Hell, I can barely even grasp a handle with it. Sometimes it feels more like a damn club than an arm."

Butch nodded. "Sounds about right. I remember that stage, and being angry at losing my life, and at the PT. Look on the bright side, though... you don't have to learn how to walk again."

"I suppose you're right, but if I don't get 100 percent better soon, I'll be forced to medically retire and never fly again," Brooklyn said before downing the glass. "How in the hell did I even survive that crash?" she slammed the glass down.

Butch was quiet, leaning forward to refill the glass, then setting the bottle aside. "One to spin, one to measure, and one to cut," she said at last, looking down into her own glass, one finger running around and around the rim. "One eye, one tooth... and no hearing trumpet. The wails of mortals mean naught to the Kindly Ones."

Brooklyn let out a long sigh in an attempt to calm down as getting worked up seemed to cause her arm pulse with pain. "What's that from?" she asked as she picked up the refilled glass.

"Greek mythology," Butch answered, taking another sip. "Sort of like 'The Moving Finger writes; and, having writ, Moves on: nor all thy Piety nor Wit. Shall lure it back to cancel half a Line, Nor all thy Tears wash out a Word of it.' Which, by the bye, is Omar Omar Khayyám by way of Fitzgerald's highly dubious 'translation.'"

"So you're telling me I should just deal with what's happening and move on?" Brooklyn asked before taking another long sip from her glass.

"I'm saying you can't go back in time and fix it," Butch answered. Then she paused, and amended, "Well. I guess you could, but there are many practicalities and a zillion laws against it. As my wife... my ex-wife... used to say, 'suck it up, buttercup.'" She tossed off the rest of her drink, then appeared to change topics. "You know why hot dogs come in packages of eight, and hot dog buns come in packages of ten?"

If it had been anyone else, Brooklyn would have told them to jump out the nearest airlock but she knew Cassidy had been through a similar experience. "Never really occurred to me. Never been much of a fan of hot dogs," Wellington admitted finally.

Butch shook her head, making a chiding sound. "Kids today," she teased. "The answer is that there is no 'why.' There is only that." She sat forward in her chair, setting the now-empty cup on the table. "Look, Brooklyn... I've been where you are. Metaphorically. I lost all four limbs, twenty years, my entire frakking life. I know that what you want more than anything else is a logical reason. Something you can point at and say, 'This! This right here! This was where I made my mistake!'

"And there's a certain value to that, once you've processed things emotionally. Once you can absorb the lessons. Once you can realize that there was no one moment, just a series of decisions which seemed rational at the time. But right now? Now is not the time. Start where you're at. Take the next step. And then, the one after that. So you're flying a desk for a while. Okay; it sucks. What do you have to do to get up from behind that desk? Do it. Let everything else take care of itself."

"How? All my life, I've always taken care of others and things myself," Wellington admitted.

Butch chuckled. "That's a good way to make Colonel, but a horrible way to live. Look... what's the first thing we tell the pilot candidates in training? 'Stick to your wingman; two is one, one is none.' You simply can't do everything. You have to train people to do things, and then trust them to do them."

"I don't like leaving things to chance--never have," Welligton explained. "Sure, it works in Starfleet because we have a chain of command. But in the grander scheme of things, it's hard for me to let go."

Butch nodded, refilled her glass. "As a scheming, manipulative little green man once said, 'There shall be an answer. Let it be.'"

 

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