Stupid Little Card

Posted on Thu 20th Jun, 2024 @ 12:29am by Lieutenant Damion Ildaran
Edited on on Thu 4th Jul, 2024 @ 10:38pm

961 words; about a 5 minute read

Mission: O' the Cardiff Rose
Location: Damion Ildaran's Quarters
Timeline: MD-19, 1715 hours

Damion Ildaran glared at the wall beside his shaving mirror. On it, a small, white card asked him: "How do you feel?"

He had not created a dartboard with Commander Graves' face on it, despite the strong temptation to do precisely that. Part of working in intelligence meant not displaying one's private emotions where they could be observed by others. Even in his own quarters, there was a risk.

If he weren't an intelligence officer, he'd have lost himself in a sea of alcohol by now--not synthehol, but the real stuff, the rotgut stuff you could buy in one of Brown Sector's seedier bars if you paid enough latinum.

But he was an intelligence officer, and getting truly drunk--or addicted to alcohol--could be a death sentence. He preferred living.

WHY? Damion asked himself. What exactly do I have to live for?

He could feel the emotions surging in him like a gigantic, roaring wave, ready to crash against a shoreline, destroying everything in its path.

I DON'T WANT TO FEEL! I've cried an ocean, and I want to cry an ocean every night. What does it matter what I feel? NOTHING will bring Elizabeth back! I saw to that.

Damion shuddered. He could still remember the feel of her holo-emitter disk in his hands, at the coordinates where her email had told him to retrieve it. He remembered taking the disk back to his quarters and thinking hard for a while, before taking it to the Intelligence department and changing into the uniform of a non-descript Operations crewman. He'd gone to the Infirmary, ostensibly to perform a routine inspection. He'd reported replacing a faulty holo-emitter in one of the surgical training suites while inspecting the system--which he had in fact inspected. Elizabeth's holo-emitter was now a collection of loose atoms after he'd fed it to the medical recycler. He hadn't dared dispose of it in his own quarters.

The encrypted message Elizabeth had sent him replayed itself in his mind.

Dearest Damion,

If you are reading this, then I am dead or as good as. Or I am in a situation that requires I must remain dead to everyone, even you, for my own safety.

I know it will distress you greatly to read this, but I need for you to do as I asked, back when we first transferred here from the Hermes. I do not wish for my personality to be restored, even by you. I want to 'die' as any human would. As I told you back then, this is to protect myself from any use by Starfleet that I do not authorize and to prevent Starfleet from forcing you to restore me against my will--and to enable you to rebuild your life without me. I know you are strong enough to do this, but I am deeply sorrowed that I must ask you for such a terrible thing. I had hoped for so much more for us. You are the only one I can trust now.

Please help me. Please let me be free.

Yours always,

Elizabeth
(Location coordinates)


The letter had been a gut-punch to his soul. Despite his meeting with Graves and the Counselor's admonition to him to acknowledge his feelings, the gut-punched feeling persisted. He was sworn to secrecy and so couldn't even tell Graves that a good chunk of his emotional turmoil involved the fact that Elizabeth hadn't even been human; she'd been an EMH. That was to protect himself, as much as for any other reason. Technically, Elizabeth had been Starfleet property. He wasn't supposed to know that.

But loving an EMH--Did that make him some kind of pervert? Did it mean he was emotionally inadequate or cowardly? Was he unwilling to risk loving a real woman? Had he simply become attached to Elizabeth because having a relationship with an EMH was more emotionally convenient than having one with a flesh-and-blood woman?

He couldn't answer that question and itched to ask Graves, but it was impossible, so the feeling that part of his soul had been ripped out of him, and all the confusion, lingered.

He didn't know what to do with himself in the evenings, now; he'd spent many of them with Elizabeth. On the other hand, he was almost finished crocheting a new afghan, so at least he wasn't completely wasting his now-meaningless life. He should find someone to give it to.

Damion glanced at his wall clock and sighed. It was into the dinner hour by now, and restaurants were likely to be packed. I don't really want to talk to anyone, but I don't want to be alone, either; I've had enough of that. I think I'll get some dinner in the Promenade, someplace I never went to with Elizabeth. I can't keep on acting like this.

He went into the main living area of his quarters. "Computer, display a text listing of good restaurants in the Promenade."

A list of eateries appeared on his computer screen, and Damion paused at one. Orchids & Jazz was still there? Hadn't Jade Lantz closed the place and returned to Earth? Damion read further and saw the words, "Under new management." He peered at the screen.

You know, why not take the targ by the horns and just face it? You never have to go back if you don't want to. You can't just hide in your quarters whenever you aren't at work. Elizabeth wanted you to rebuild your life, so get out there and rebuild it.

Damion let out a heavy sigh.

Might as well try it out, he thought. If nothing else, the food should still be good.

 

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