Living In the Past

Posted on Wed Jun 13th, 2018 @ 2:33pm by Commander Rita Paris

Mission: Curing the Black Blood
Location: USS Hera, various decks
Timeline: 2395

There were a great number of reasons that Rita Paris didn’t care for Sickbay. One, she didn’t know the ship’s doctor, which she would remedy eventually she reasoned. Second, she only visited sickbay when she was injured or unable to protest, which made it hold negative connotations in her mind. And third, having been a transporter accident more than once, she had been poked and prodded and tested by the best, and it left her with a general disdain for that part of any starship.

Which was not to say that she wouldn’t be the first one carrying an injured shipmate there if need be, which brought her to the present moment.

The brawl with the possessed security chief had left her with a concussion, which in turn made her feel lucky that she hadn’t taken more hits from the Vulcan tactician. Otherwise she most likely would be recovering from far more severe industries. As it stood, after a cursory examination after a night in Sickbay, Paris had been cleared for duty, or whatever passed for it in the twilight zone of ‘not part of the crew so no duties assigned’ in which she currently dwelled. Simulations were bringing her up to speed, but Rita would not entrust her starship to an alien from another dimension who was a hundred years behind the times were she captain, and she suspected she might not be alone in that assessment.

For now, she checked on her friend. Thex sh’Zoarhi lay on the biobed, still recovering from cracked ribs, a spinal injury and a rather surprising blood loss. The little Andorian engineer had befriended her, acted as a guide to 24th century life and technology, and saved Rita's life twice now. The petite blue alien was sleeping peacefully, with the assurance of a full recovery. But for now, Rita would let her sleep. She had to do something to express her gratitude to her friend, but she didn’t know the woman well enough to know what might be appropriate. But she’d think on it- after all, their relationship was a bit one-sided, and Thex deserved better than that from her friend the big blonde backwater.

The Caitain security officer was already checked out and back to work, leading Paris to wonder if the feline humanoids healed faster than skinny little blue girls of uncommon bravery. Mentally, she added a crash course in Federation xenobiology to her already overloaded workload of classes to absorb.

Departing Sickbay, Rita walked the halls slowly, taking it in. Her anachronistic uniform drew a few curious glances, but the crew still nodded and smiled in return to her silent pleasantries, so she let them have their moment of puzzlement. After all, in theory she was simply far, far behind the times. But on a modern starship it seemed no one wore skirts anymore- pants and short boots (not even a heel?!?) were the uniform of the day, all of it unisex and black and sinister to her eye.

The more she saw it the more she didn’t want to wear it. Trading in her old uniform for a modern one seemed to be giving up the last little link to her past, and at this point Rita was thoroughly unwilling to do that- unless she was forced to do so. That was a bridge she'd cross when she came to it.

The command staff seemed to be embroiled in something, between the away team and the tension onboard the Hera, so Paris wouldn’t bother with any of them at this point. If she was assigned to the starship then she would get involved in such things- after all, the Hera seemed to have quite a complement of shuttlecraft… runabouts, they called them now. As well as a Captain’s Yacht, and some more exotic craft. So it seemed as though not everyone in the far-flung future was all for beaming down or over or whatever, which gave her some hope. Just thinking about transporting was anxiety-inducing- at this point she didn’t think she could actually face transporting any time soon. But she was feeling moderately comfortable that she could pilot anything with nacelles that they set her behind the controls. Besides, the autopiloting and assist functions made it so that anyone could pilot one, not just an actual rated pilot.

So when trouble reared, assuming she would be assigned to the Hera, Rita Paris would likely be in the thick of it soon enough. It was odd to know that there was trouble and that other officers were dealing with it while she strolled the decks with nowhere to go and nothing to do. But that was life a hundred thirty years out of time- you weren’t exactly someone to be turned to in a crisis since half of every statement meant following it up with an explanation for the officer who had never heard of a Structural Integrity Forcefields, for instance.

From what Thex had told her, when it came to the furnishings and décor of the enormous space that was now her quarters, Rita could choose from existing patterns or design her own. Having looked over the deck listing, trying to acclimate to the enormous starship, it hadn’t been lost on Rita that the executive officer had assigned her quarters in the senior officer’s section, so the buxom blonde suspected that Captain Telvan had plans for her. But that was in the future. In the here and now, Thex had explained that for furniture, she just had to put a request in with the fabrication center on deck 29, and what she had would be beamed out and recycled as the approved requests were beamed in.

While that was happening, Paris planned to be nowhere near her quarters. Although she had reassurances that it never happened and that the transporters of the future were totally safe, she still had no desire to end up having her molecules rearranged to accidentally become a festive throw rug for someone’s quarters. It never happened, it seemed, until it happened to her. Then engineers spent years scratching their heads over how, even as she tried to deal with the effects on her psyche.

The more she thought about it, the more convinced she became that decorating her quarters would not be a waste of time at all. Instead, it would enable her to customize the space, to make it her own. To make it a familiar oasis in the strange landscape in which she now lived. She could paint the walls tritanium blue-grey, and look for some screen dividers like in her old quarters. She suspected the soft carpeting could be replaced with something that resembled her old quarters but was considerably more luxuriant on her bare feet, like the modern equivalent.

In her mind Paris could hear her old psychiatrist chiding her for wanting to live in the past, redecorating her quarters to look like an enormous version of her old quarters on the Exeter minus all of her personal belongings- her books, her souvenirs of dozens of worlds, and her collection of glow in the dark toys. But this was her space, and hers alone- the word struck a deep pang of longing and loneliness within her that she repressed as best she could. Life without Sonak was a lot harder than it had a right to be, but she would just have to deal with it, since there was no way to change it.

For now, she could change her quarters to suit her, and if that meant dwelling in the past, so be it. The starship was almost alien to her, the galaxy had changed vastly, and even Starfleet was practically unrecognizable to the lost navigator. But her quarters could be a throwback to the simpler times from which she had been hurled against her will, and while it might be construed as trying to literally live in the past, part of her was simply unwilling to let go. Her past had defined her and been her home, and while she would admit it to no one, the future world in which she now lived intimidated her. That much moreso without the somber scientist by her side, upon whom she had relied so heavily in recent years.

Having quarters that were a return to simpler times in which she felt safe and secure were worth any potential criticism. With that decision made, Paris stepped into the forward observation lounge on deck 10 where she liked to spend her time, replicated a PaDD for herself and busily set about rearranging her living space to suit her peculiar and particular needs.