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Stardate 2263.217

Posted on Sat Apr 7th, 2018 @ 5:08pm by Lieutenant JG Samuel "Sam" Case

"Personal Log, Samuel Case, Lieutenant Junior Grade. Stardate 2263.217...."

Sam sighed, running his hand through his hair. He felt a touch of grease from a day gone from a shower and his midday run. He laid down on the chaise-style chair that served as a bunk in what were guest quarters for junior officers. The room was the stale modernism of a starbase: calming, un-provocative, fairly uninteresting. Safe. The word Sam was looking for was "safe." He wondered if Vel had personally selected such boring surroundings, which Sam had spent a great deal of time avoiding. Yet it did have space and solace.

"Okay.... where to begin..." he sighed again, grunting soft as he raised a still sore hip to cross knee over with his foot. "Christopher James, the Captain of the Defiant, is looking for a Tactical Officer. I've been stewing on it for awhile... no... not sure stewing on it is the right word. Anyway. It's been on a back burner. Just..." he paused for a long time, settling his head into the cushion. He closed his eyes and saw the souks of home, faintly smelling the ghost of the scents. "... I talked to Hollande and she's moving on. She's being reassigned. Our CMO suddenly turned gung-ho soldier and is trying to get on a near-front hospital ship. Compared to them I feel like I'm standing still. My gut is to go home...."

Sam snerked, "But my gut's always going for the safe. I mean.... look at it. Niners. Security instead of Flight Control." Sam stopped, well aware of his pattern. Safety was home, no more Klingons. Unless, of course, the Klingons invaded Vega IX. But they'd invade Earth before Vega. Earth was the jewel and the heart. Sam folded his arms behind his head, turned it to use his bicep to rub the tip of his nose. "Not sure I can go back home knowing there's a war on and face everybody. They'd think... or... maybe I think... I'd failed. I tell myself I didn't. But I feel hollow when I say it. A lot of people died..."

Sam paused for a long time- long enough that the computer beeped to see if he was still there. "Resume..." he murmured,reaching idly to tug at some of thee dark hair under his arm. Sleep wanted to take him, visions of home maybee? Or nightmares of Klingons. The odd scantily clad body from that stopover near Risa. So that was Jamaharon. "Focus dammit... pros and cons. Pro... good ship, battle ready, state of the art. Con... goddamn Klingons. Pro... you're not gonna let a Klingon scare you off. You don't get phased like that. Con... a Klingon deciding my rectum is a public playground." Sam's hands pat rhythmically, left, right, left, right, left, right. He was stronger than this. Duty swirled. And he could never go home knowing he left something incomplete. He knew that. Hee was stewing uselessly. He'd always known the answer but like any Human,he was afraid of what it meant. He'd seen clarity with that kid- Rana- in the pub. If a boy wasn't going to run, he wouldn't.

"Computer... open a priority one message to Captain Christopher James, USS Defiant.... and end log." He sat up, fingering his hair into something presentable, wishing he'd shaved today- and maybe thrown on more than running shorts and a tee shirt. He leaned back on his hands behind him, taut, and waited for the Starfleet symbol to click over to a face on his comm screen.

 

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