Last Seen Blogs
kaits-arty-closet
Kait's Artsy Closet
gitsekmiki
Skinny Cams
kristinsoh
Kristin Soh
i-could-finally-breathe-13-blog
I could finally breathe 13
m-kev
Who wants to live forever
Text
Tea After Battle
Written for Comfortember Prompt 16, Coffee/Tea Break.
Tea After Battle
By Marie Nomad
Worf relaxed as he started to sip the Chamomile tea. He found it ironic that he had never tasted Earth based teas until he started serving on the Enterprise D. As a child, he had vowed to only eat, and drink Klingon based items. The Rozenkos, his Earth parents, had indulged him always doing their best to ensure that he does not lose his Klingon ways.
Yet, his crewmates and Guinan had introduced him to Earth foods. Captain Riker had often cooked foods for him, experimented many times, Worf found his experiments to be delicious. Even if his crewmates reacted poorly to them. The bartender had introduced him to prune juice and she was strangely insightful. Admiral Picard had often drink earl grey tea in front of him. Worf had also tasted it out of curiosity. It was good. However, he found that drinking chamomile tea after a battle was relaxing. While it was good for a warrior to be on guard, he also knew that he needed to rest and recover his energy. He gazed at the tiny cup in his hands and pondered at his growth. How would his younger self have reacted, seeing him drinking tea? His foolish younger self might think that he was weak. No, stubbornness is weakness, flexibility is strength. Perhaps, one day, he could teach this to his fellow Klingons to let go.
The End
0 notes
Text
First Vegetables (fan fiction)
For Flufftober: Prompt Picking
All characters belong to Paramount.
First Vegetables
By Marie Nomad
Captain Christopher Pike had spent most of his life in space, yet he loved the wilderness and the outdoors. After his accident, he didn't think he would be able to interact with the outdoors like this again. He was so glad he was wrong. The fruit and vegetable garden he had started with Vina was beginning to bear fruit. Vina and the Talosians had grown pioneer plants that helped prepare the soil. There were gardens filled mostly with cacti, ferns, and other hardy plants. Chris decided to start planting actual food crops. He had to laugh at the irony: while he couldn't eat real food, he could oversee feeding Vina and the other Talosians.
He knelt to check the zenthra roots. Although they were Talosian in nature, they resembled the beets from Earth. However, they were purple and glowed faintly in the dark. The Talosians had genetically created different plants over the years but had never bothered to name them. Chris wasn't surprised. The Talosians shared information seamlessly and had a sort of collective consciousness that he didn't fully understand. So, he had taken it upon himself to name all the plants to tell them apart.
He put his hands around the leaves of the zenthra roots, and they curled at his touch. The leaves glowed and reacted in his hands, showing they were doing well. He yanked the purple root out and grinned at the sight. It was the first harvest of a surface-based garden, proof that the garden was starting to produce food. His heart pounded as he studied the root in his hand—a tangible product of his labor, grown on a surface that was still mostly desolate. Chris might never reach the stars again, but at least he had a home on Talos IV.
The End
1 note
·
View note
Text
The Honorable Pumpkin (Worf Fan fiction)
Summary: At Deanna Troi's art class, Worf faces the challenge of carving an Earth Pumpkin. Can he handle such a task?
#star trek#fan fiction#flufftober 2023#no.20#worf#deanna troi#star trek the next generation#Pumpkins
4 notes
·
View notes
Text
I havent thought about this much but you can tell how well Starfleet is doing by how often their crew is at the bar...
ENT: Exploratory military vessel, alien conflict left and right, people mostly do the communal meals thing and drink alone in their quarters. Sir yes sir.
DISCO: People dealing with ethics and universe ending shit way too fucking often. Things too heavy, usually drinking in their quarters or at a non-federation bar with green people.
SNW: Federation at peace again, just came out of the Klingon war, scanning quasars and shit and loving it. Everyone at the bar all the fucking time, amazing any science shit ever gets done at all. Fucking golden age.
TOS: Mother-fucking Trelane and Romulans and fucking Khan and world ending whale probes and shit all the god-damn time. A whole bottle of Saurian brandy in my fucking quarters like a real man.
TNG: On the one hand I got turned into a blacklight alien last week and didn't even get an apology, on the other we got Whoopie Goldberg making Risan Sunsets and dispensing wisdom down in ten forward... maybe a best of times/worst of times kinda deal?
TNG (Movies): Who's got time for drinking on this goddamn ship... fucking Borg.
DS9: HOLY SHIT THE COMMANDER JUST FUCKING PUNCHED Q AND WE ARE ALL STILL HERE AND NOT TURNED INSIDE OUT! QUARK!!! KEEP EM' COMING AND I'M GONNA NEED A HOLOSUITE CAUSE I NEED TO GET LAID LIKE RIGHT NOW!
VOY: We don't have any room on this ship for a bar, and we get in trouble when we get caught sniffing the organic gel packs running the ship, so we are gonna spend all our free time getting drunk on the holodeck till those mother-fucking programs start questioning their existence.
PIC: Guinan! My girl! You are looking fucking fit! Fuck the wine, pass me the Romulan ale!
LOWDeck: Things are chill again (thank fucking god!) Everyone is back at the bar all the fucking time again, amazing any science shit ever gets done, let's never get into it with dangerous dinosaur aliens from the delta quadrant ever again!
886 notes
·
View notes
Text
The Warrior For Peace: Tale of Two Captains
Summary: Worf is at the Temple on Boreth, seeking to hone his warrior's spirit and gain wisdom. He undergoes a ritual and unexpectedly finds himself in the company of Captain Christopher Pike. What he learns in this meeting will forever change his perception of the legendary Starfleet officer.
0 notes
Text
It's that time of the year again...COMFORTEMBER 2023
Hello and welcome to our fourth year of Comfortember!!! 🍂
First and foremost, I want to give a huge thank you to @highly--distractible for hosting this last year, thank you so so much, I appreciate it more than you know. The break was much needed 💜💜💜
Thank you for your patience on this, I know it's a little late. Here are the prompts for 2023:
For anyone who is seeing this for the first time (first of all, welcome!), Comfortember takes place for the month of November and each day has a comfort-themed prompt for any art medium like writing or fan art. Comfort can mean anything you want it to, from a fun slice-of-life story to the aftermath of an action-packed scene, anything that warms your heart while sipping hot cocoa.
The alternate prompts are there as replacements for if you don't want to do a particular prompt but still want to complete a prompt for the day.
This challenge is open to anyone in any fandom, and the link to this year's collection on AO3 is here!
Please send asks for any questions, I will be online more so you'll get your answers more quickly (well, relatively speaking, I can't answer while I'm at work 😅). Here is a link to the FAQ for reference.
The link to the Comfortember Discord server is here, and please use the #comfortember tag when you post on Tumblr so all posts can be found under a single tag.
I hope you all enjoy these prompts and don't feel pressured about a deadline!! The most important part is having fun, you can complete this when it is best for you 💜 Thank you for participating!!!
*The prompts are written out for easy readability and access under the cut.*
Safe
Sweater Weather
Leaves Changing
Warmth
Treehouse
Notes
Sick/Illness
Grief/Mourning
Aftermath
Sadness
Comfort Show/Movie
Dreams
Baking
Late Night Phone Calls
Plushies
Coffee/Tea Break
Heirloom
Cuddles
Loved Ones
Shopping
Relapse
Cry
Anxiety
Blankets
Rain
Friends
Soup
Flashbacks
Sleepover
The New Normal
Alternative Prompts:
Books
Baths
Travel
Candles
Colors
774 notes
·
View notes
Text
Dark Reflections is now accepting submissions!
Dark Reflections is an all-Trek zine focusing on the Mirror Universe and other dark universes. We welcome the dark, the macabre, the unsavoury and the morally dubious.
Please read the FAQ under the cut before submitting anything. Feel free to join our Discord server for quick answers to questions, hanging out with other submitters, beta reader requests, and work reminders.
Submissions close October 10th. Send submissions to [email protected]
FAQ
What counts as a mirror universe?
According to Fanlore, a mirror universe is any alternate universe which is a dark reflection (pun intended) of the original. Whether this is the mirror universe we see in the shows or in beta canon, or a completely new universe that is simply not as kind to our characters as the original is up to you. Keep in mind that this zine focuses on and embraces the more "evil" aspects of those universes.
What can I submit to the zine?
Writing (fic and poetry) and art (traditional or digital, including comics) can all be submitted. We don't accept manips, meta essays (essays written in-universe may be allowed), mood boards, or anything that can't be printed, such as vids and podfics.
Fics must not exceed 25,000 words, though depending on quality and number of submissions we may choose more, shorter works over fewer, longer ones. There is no lower limit for writing. Art must be completed, which means no sketches. Traditional art should be scanned, 300p. Written files should be .docx or .pdf, and art files should be .png, .jpg or .tiff. Links to Google Docs are also accepted.
Is there anything I can't write about?
Despite this zine embracing and encouraging potentially controversial subject matters, there are a few things we won't accept. Generally speaking, though, unless you're writing nazi roleplay erotica (for example) we're not likely to reject your fic on subject matter alone.
What show/ship/characters does the zine focus on?
Ideally, all of them. We'd like for this to be an all-Trek zine. However, if we get an overwhelming majority of one series we may end up rejecting a single work from a different one, even if it normally would have gotten in, just to keep everything cohesive. Either way, we will not accept OC-centric works.
Can I submit a work that has been published somewhere else? e.g. AO3, another zine, ect.
No. We only accept new works.
Does my work need to be beta read before submission?
Preferably, yes. We will edit works which have been accepted and which require it. All works in the zine will match in editing style, though we'll try to keep the author's style intact.
If I submit multiple works, how many are likely to get in?
We would prefer to give as many creators an opportunity to participate as possible, but if there is room or your works are particularly fitting, we will include multiple.
Do I need experience to submit works?
No. We will gladly accept works from new creators.
Do I need to join the discord server to participate?
No. The server gives you easier access to the editor, granting quicker answers to any questions you may have, as well as general accountability and greater sense of community, but that is all.
How do you match fic and art?
Ideally, we will have some solid matches from the get-go. If necessary, we will ask submitters who have volunteered to pinch hit for fics with no art. Art with no matches will separate poems or end up on one of the covers.
Will there be merch?
Possibly.
After the zine is published, can I post my work to AO3/social media?
We reserve printing rights for six months after publication (the day printed zines will be shipped). After that, you may do with your work as you wish.
How much will the zine cost?
This depends on a number of factors. However, we will endeavour to keep the zine as cheap as possible. We cannot legally make money off of fanworks, nor do we wish to.
A free pdf copy of the zine will be sent to everyone who has purchased a physical copy, and these digital copies will be available to purchase at a much discounted price.
I have another question that isn't listed here.
Shoot us an ask! All asks are tagged #qna to make finding them easier. Please check if we have answered your question there before sending a new one.
206 notes
·
View notes
Text
Posted for the @trektober-challenge Day 7 prompt, "Mirrorverse."
I wrote this a number of years ago (2016, iirc). It was originally the prologue for a much longer TOS Mirror Universe fic that I plotted out in detail but only wrote a few scenes and snippets of. I was rereading some of my old notes and WIPs and decided that this scene could stand well-enough on its own, and since I doubt I'll ever finish that fic I might as well post it.
CW: Discussion of torture
"Your position is illogical, Doctor."
McCoy threw up his hands in obvious frustration. "That's what I keep trying to tell you, my pointy eared friend – this has nothing to do with logic!"
Spock did not purse his lips, or show any other signs of consternation with his colleague's line of – well, he couldn't very well call it reasoning. "The agony booth inflicts as much pain as a human body can tolerate without losing consciousness, infusing the entire system so that every part of the body is equally affected. Your preferred method inflicts pain only on a discrete portion of a person's anatomy. I fail to see how you could argue that it is the more effective choice."
McCoy took a step closer, deliberately infringing on Spock's so-called personal space in a predictable and transparent attempt to discomfit him.
"You fail to see it because you are too Vulcan to understand human psychology."
Continue on AO3
9 notes
·
View notes
Text
The Game
This is an entry for the Trektober. The Prompt is 3-D Chess.
The Game
By Marie Nomad
Spock is a logical man. He is a Vulcan and, as such, follows a logical way of life. This logical mindset has helped the Vulcans survive the aftermath of wars and tame the fire of emotions in their blood. Spock also approaches chess logically, making the moves that make the most sense. He watched patiently as Kirk made his moves. Unlike Spock, Kirk is more erratic—or rather, he thinks differently. While Spock is methodical, Kirk tends to think outside the box.
"Wow, how does he play chess?" A new Ensign, recently assigned to the ship, admired from across the room.
"Which one?"
"The captain! Who plays 3-D chess against a Vulcan?" he whispered. Spock was pleased by the sense of astonishment their game had garnered. No one bothered to inform the ensign that Spock could hear them.
Jim made a move that would put his king in check in approximately ten moves. Spock followed through, keeping a watchful eye. It was unlike Jim to play into anyone's hands.
After nine moves, Jim executed a quick counter-move and saved his king at the last second. "Interesting move. But you will be in checkmate in six moves," Spock warned.
"I'll figure something out; I always do," Jim smirked, moving a piece in a way that didn't make immediate sense but wasn't against the rules.
"Indeed. You are a worthy opponent," Spock complimented. "However, I will win."
"I'd like to see you try," Jim retorted.
"Are they flirting?" the same ensign asked another crewmember.
"Shhh!" the other responded.
Spock couldn't comprehend why people tended to think that he and Jim were together in an intimate manner. Jim's exploits with various women were legendary in Starfleet. Spock decided not to engage with this line of thinking, as it was pointless.
Time dragged on as Jim and Spock continued their game—Spock applying logic, Jim embracing the illogical. Suddenly, Uhura's voice came over the intercom. "Captain Kirk, Commander Spock, an unknown ship is approaching us."
"We must stop our game," Jim sighed as he stood up. "We'll pick up where we left off later."
"Agreed. It has been most challenging," Spock said, following his captain to the bridge, leaving their chess game unfinished. Kirk was set to win in eight moves.
The End
11 notes
·
View notes
Text
Flufftober
0 notes
Text
The Many Roles of Dr. McCoy
The Many Roles of Dr. McCoy
By Marie Nomad
Dr. Leonard McCoy, affectionately known as 'Bones,' despises dress uniforms. "I'm a doctor, not a diplomat," he often says. Many visitors to the Enterprise consider him the 'practical' one among the trio consisting of himself, Spock, and Jim. While McCoy isn't fond of being categorized in this way, he can't deny that it's accurate.
McCoy would rather be in sickbay, healing the sick and treating the injured. His adventures in space have stretched his medical skills to the limit, such as the time he had to figure out how to treat a silicone-based creature using concrete as a remedy.
On the bridge, McCoy serves as a de facto counselor to both Jim and Spock. His role often involves voicing the emotional perspectives that need consideration. He also tries to prevent Jim and Spock from pushing themselves too close to the brink of death. Jim is action-oriented and would readily lay down his life for his crew. Spock would make the same sacrifice but would justify it as 'logical.'
However, McCoy detests the diplomatic duties that come with his role. These duties require him to don uncomfortable dress uniforms and engage in formal dialogues with various dignitaries. His struggle even extends to his inability to perform the Vulcan greeting correctly. Though, as he's heard, even Zefram Cochrane struggled with it during the legendary First Contact.
Assigned to a flagship and expected to serve as an 'ambassador of humanity,' McCoy has resigned himself to let Jim take the lead in diplomatic endeavors, with Spock as a secondary diplomat.
For now, all Dr. McCoy can do is fulfill his duty and count the minutes until he can shed his uncomfortable dress uniform. Then he can return to the sickbay, where he believes a doctor truly belongs.
The End
0 notes
Text
Whumptober 2023 Day 8
The Tribble Trials of Commander Paris
Disclaimer: All characters belong to Paramount.
This is written for day 8 of Whumptober 2023.
The Tribble Trials of Commander Paris
By Marie Nomad
Commander Tom Paris had been in many situations. He had traveled through different eras, been captured, and cloned, and even started a salamander species with Admiral Janeway. Now he found himself in the strangest situation he had ever faced. Dressed in his Starfleet uniform and wielding a Bat’leth, he stood beside his wife, B’Elanna, and his little girl, Miral. Ever since returning to Earth, he had vowed to support his daughter in her Klingon celebrations. Not only was Miral the "Chosen One" among the Klingon people, known as the Kuvah'magh, but Tom also wanted to show that he accepted her Klingon heritage.
He still remembered the trio of Klingons who had appeared bearing gifts: gold-pressed latinum, a Qapla’ Medallion, and a Memory Crystal filled with Klingon Operas. He had safely stored the latinum for when Miral was older.
Now he was among other Klingon parents and their children in the middle of the plains. Although these children had not yet hit Klingon puberty, there was no doubt they could beat him up if they wanted to.
“Commander Paris, Commander B’Elanna, Miral,” Commander Worf greeted them, dressed in ceremonial garb. “Thank you for coming to the Tribblemey QotmoH.”
"Yeah, I've never done this before," B'Elanna pointed out.
"Neither have I," Worf reassured her. "This ritual was common in the 23rd Century during the Great Tribble Purge. It used to be a rite of passage until the Great Klingon Empire annihilated the tribbles." His lips parted, and he growled. "That is, until a foolish changeling smuggled one back to the present after we prevented a... timeline disruption. Quark even sold tribbles to the Federation, granting them their own homeworld again. We can't bomb it, but we are allowed to cull the tribbles using only blades." He glanced at Tom. "Can you even harm a tribble?"
Tom couldn’t lie, the piles of purring Tribbles at a distance look really inviting. He just wanted to dive in and reenact the one picture of Captain Kirk being buried by Tribbles. Those tribbles look so adorable and he wanted to cuddle them. But he is here to support Miral and B’Elanna with the whole kill tribble tradition. His stomach turned. He really didn’t like the idea of watching the poor innocent tribbles get killed. “I volunteered for this. I don’t know if I could actually kill them but I won’t get in anyone’s way.”
“I’m here to bond with my son, Alexander. I thought that if we do the Tribblemey QotmoH together, we could get closer.” Worf pointed to Alexander who was warming up. The young man looked fully grown with a beard and he was practicing his form.
"That's... nice," Tom replied, looking down at Miral, who had her own child-sized Bat'leth. "I'm not sure if Miral will be able to kill any tribbles. She's three-fourths human, and the tribbles might actually like her."
M'Rek, the head Klingon, clad in a multi-colored fur coat, approached them. In his hand was a glommer, a creature known to eat tribbles. "Welcome to the Tribblemey QotmoH! Slaughter the tribbles and bring honor to your house! Skin them, eat them, and turn them into a coat as a trophy. Make sure you bring great honor to your house," he said, gesturing to his own coat. He then looked at Tom, the only full human among the Klingons. "Oh! A human! Can you even raise your blade against a tribble?"
Tom stood taller as the other Klingons stared at him. "I AM TOM, SON OF OWEN OF THE HOUSE OF PARIS! I GO WHERE MY WIFE AND DAUGHTER GO! I KILL WHAT MY WIFE AND DAUGHTER KILL!"
"Ah, not even Captain James T. Kirk could kill a single tribble when they infested his ship," M'Rek chuckled. "This should be most interesting."
Tom tightened his grip on his Bat’leth as the drums began to sound. His wife and daughter were visibly excited. Even sweet little Miral seemed almost savage, her Klingon blood apparently giving her an appetite for the battle ahead.
"Begin!" M'Rek roared, and the Klingons—including Tom—charged toward the piles of tribbles. Screeches filled the air, making Tom want to cover his ears. Miral let out a gleeful scream as she began her attack. At least she was fitting in with the other Klingon children. Now all Tom had to do was avoid embarrassing her.
He paused before a tribble, captivated by its tranquilizing coos and purrs. "It's not sentient, it's not sentient," he muttered, closing his eyes and thrusting his weapon downward. The tribble screeched. Tom felt his stomach churn and fought back the urge to vomit.
"Hey, are you okay?" B'Elanna called, pausing in her own bloody work.
"Just stay with Miral. I'm just a weak human, remember?" Tom said, dismissing her concern. He moved to another tribble, steeled himself, and thrust down again. Another screech. He clenched his stomach, fighting nausea. Looking up, he saw Worf and Alexander, jubilant in their slaughter, and felt a wave of vertigo wash over him. What was it about killing these creatures that was affecting him so deeply?
Sweat pouring down his face, he approached another tribble, Bat’leth in hand. Each kill seemed to add an intangible weight to him. He recalled reports about tribbles affecting humans neurologically—was that why this was so difficult? Were the tribbles defending themselves through some sort of psychic manipulation?
"That's enough. You've killed two; that's a record for a human," M'Rek declared, placing a hand—covered in tribble blood—on Tom's shoulder. "I'm impressed you even managed one. You shall henceforth be known as 'Tom the Killer of Tribbles.'"
Tom looked into M'Rek's eyes, his own a mixture of relief and shame—relief that he could finally stop, and shame that he had felt so conflicted in the first place.
"Thank you, M'Rek. This was not an easy task for me."
"It's easy for a Klingon to kill a tribble. It's in our blood. But for a human? The struggle is intense. I've killed many tribbles in front of humans; they even protect the tribbles from me, even when the creatures are infesting their ships. Not even the oh-so-logical Vulcans can resist the tribbles."
"The Vulcans?" Tom repeated. He couldn't imagine that Vulcans would lose control over the tribbles.
"Yes, they hide the tribbles, claiming logic. No humanoid species, except for Klingons, can resist the tribble's spell. Take pride in your kills. Here, have a drink. Don't worry, it's safe for humans," M'Rek offered Tom a flask.
"Thanks, I appreciate the words of encouragement." Tom drank from the flask. It wasn't bloodwine or anything alcoholic, but more like a juice. "Wait, is this prune juice?"
"Warrior's drink."
"Of course."
He looked over to see B'Elanna and Miral gathering their 'trophies.' "Daddy! Look at all the tribbles I killed!" Miral gushed.
"I see! You'll make a nice coat!" Tom congratulated her. "I... killed two." He glanced at the two tribble corpses, small compared to the massive amounts that the Klingons had gathered.
"I'm impressed," B'Elanna said, smiling at him. "I've realized I hate them. They're adorable, but I just... hate them."
"Commander, you killed two tribbles!" Worf congratulated him, carrying his own kills. "Impressive. A human can't kill tribbles."
"I... I'm sure there are other humans who have killed tribbles," Tom said, confused. "Tribbles have been causing trouble for years. There must be humans who have killed a tribble or two."
"Not in the records. Humans usually gather them, contain them, or even use transporters to beam them to Klingon ships, but they don't kill them," Worf stated. "Even when the tribbles infested Deep Space Nine, Captain Sisko wouldn't let me hunt them, and he's... intimidating. No doubt there will be a song about 'Tom, the Killer of Tribbles.'"
"Two tribbles. Just two," Tom said, starting to feel embarrassed. "Please, no songs about me being the 'Killer of Tribbles.' I can picture Harry hearing about this and having everyone sing that song wherever I go."
"Why not? Killer of Tribbles," B'Elanna laughed. "You should be honored. It's not every day that a human gets a song from the Klingons."
"Daddy! Can we make a coat out of my kills?" Miral asked.
"Sure thing," Tom said, helping his family gather their kills.
M'Rek stood on a platform. "The culling is over, and many tribbles have been defeated! They'll respawn, but we've made a dent! Today, there's hope! We've witnessed a human killing TWO tribbles! This is a day of great honor! I'll commission an opera in 'Tom, the Killer of Tribbles' honor!"
The Klingons roared as they faced Tom.
"I'm... never going to live this down," he muttered, waving awkwardly at the cheering Klingons. He was pleased to earn a song in his honor, but most importantly, he had made his little girl proud. That was all the honor he needed.
The End
#whumptober 2023#No. 8#outnumbered#Tribbles#Star Trek#Klingons#star trek voyager#tom paris#b'elanna torres#b'elanna x tom#fanfiction
5 notes
·
View notes
Text
Whumptober 2023 Day Six
The Commodore's Regret
The Commodore’s Burden
By Marie Nomad
Commodore José I. Mendez glared at Lt. Jr. Rosario. "What were you thinking, having Ensign Rozenko do inventory? He's not fully trained in dealing with dangerous items. I gave the assignment to you."
Lt. Jr. Rosario said, "But sir, he said that it was okay. Besides, what's the big deal?"
"You can't pass your own duties on to someone else, even if he says it's okay. You never know what could happen," José sighed as he looked at the bottle of whiskey in the display case. It was a twenty-year-old bottle of whiskey kept in a sealed display case. "I'm not lecturing you because it's wrong; I'm telling you this because you'll regret it. Do you know Captain Christopher Pike?"`
"Of course, sir. He sacrificed his life to save the cadets from the training vessel USS Republic. I heard he was sent to some distant planet to heal, or he was put in stasis. No one knows."
Commodore Mendez sighed. Starfleet Command had decided to protect Captain Pike and Talos IV; it was all kept secret. Some interesting rumors popped up, including one that Captain Pike was sent to the future for better treatment. "I can't say what happened to him, but the fact is he was badly hurt, and it was my fault. It should have been me on that ship."
Commodore José Mendez groaned as he looked at the latest assignment: another ship inspection of a J-Class Training vessel. They were all the same. He would go there, walk around, say 'good job,' point out flaws that wouldn't be fixed because they were just training vessels, and keep going. He was tired, and he had some vacation time coming up. He wanted to spend time with his family. He pondered the thought that he could just ask someone else to help.
He called up Fleet Captain Christopher Pike. He and Chris were friends, and Chris had offered to help when possible. Chris appeared on screen. "José! How's the wife and kids?" he greeted.
"Same as usual. The wife is pregnant with our fourth kid," José bragged, holding up four fingers.
"Wow."
"I know. I need to ask you a favor. Can you take my place for an inspection? It's for the USS Republic. It's just a J-Class—easy. Just go in, say 'good job,' and leave. If you do, there's a bottle of whiskey for you."
Chris stiffened as he took a deep breath. José had never seen Chris look so nervous. He looked more like José had just asked him to go to Quo'noS alone. "Yeah, sounds easy. Don't worry about the whiskey."
"I insist. It's the least I can do."
"Then just keep it for me," Chris smiled, but the smile didn't reach his eyes. José felt a little uncomfortable but shoved the feelings aside. Chris probably just didn't like the idea of doing an inspection either. "By the way, if anything happens, don't feel guilty."
"Oh... okay. Thanks," José ended the call. Why did he suddenly feel guilty?
Commodore Mendez sighed as he put his hand on the display case. "And then I heard about the accident. It's funny; he acted like he knew what was going to happen. That's the funny thing about being in Starfleet—it just... causes things. He never blamed me. I asked him many times if he blamed me, and he always said no. Starfleet lost a good captain, and I damned a man to hell." Mendez remembered the recordings from Talos IV. Chris was trapped on a planet full of telepaths. He chose to go there, but he shouldn't be there. He was promised an illusion of health but at the cost of reality. "So, I never reject a request again. You see, the duties you've been given are yours to fulfill. You can ask for help, but you must take responsibility. That's what it means to be a leader."
"Yes, sir. I will do my duty, sir," Lt. Jr. Rosario said as he saluted and walked off.
Commodore Mendez stared at the whiskey. He wished he could change the past. The smallest decision had changed the lives of two men. Pike had been more than a fellow officer; he had been a friend. And Mendez had failed him.
He looked up to see he was still in the office. He had spent too much time regretting the past. All he had was the present and the future. He would guide the men and women under his command to be the best leaders they could be. Chris had forgiven him; he wished he could forgive himself.
"Duty calls, right Chris?" he whispered to the whiskey bottle. He walked out of the office, resolute in his desire to be the man Chris would have wanted him to be.
The End
1 note
·
View note
Photo
Stardust performing the mind meld with Micheal Cole.
2 notes
·
View notes