The Third Pip

Posted on 29 Jan 2019 @ 2:23pm by Commander Juan Zamora (Dec [CDO]-Jan 2389 - TRSNFR to Gorn Dip.)

Mission: Ka Hakaka Maikaʻi - The Good Fight
Location: Zamora's Quarters
Timeline: Night, 17 Jan. 2389

Juan stumbled into his quarters, shoulders sagging beneath his dirty, sweat-stained uniform. With slow, shuffling steps he moved across the room, setting his now empty mug on the desk, and making his way toward the bed. He ran a hand through his hair yet again, only adding chaos to the riot of tangled black curls atop his head.

With a wordless sigh, he sat down heavily on the edge of the bed, and reached down to begin pulling off his boots. He tossed them carelessly aside as soon as they were off, and fell back onto the bed. He stared up at the ceiling in the gloom of the unlit quarters, and although he was tired, as tired as he had ever been, the darkness was not welcoming, instead the shadows seemed to close in on him. The suddenly oppressive atmosphere of the room made him sit back up.

"Lights" he commanded, a touch hoarsely.

The lights came up to reveal a room much as it had been when he had left it that morning. A few things had been knocked over or fallen from their places as the ship rocked, but there hadn't been that much to knock over in the first place. The quarters were big, and he'd traveled light, making them seem empty, or like he was only a temporary guest.

The uneasy, gnawing tension was growing in his gut again, the same feeling he had been fighting to control since the desperate minutes of the battle earlier. He breathed out, trying to clear his mind and focus on what was in front of him. He had to change out of this dirty uniform, and shower, so he could sleep, so he could wake up and begin to review damage reports, casualty lists, risk assessments, supply requests, and start putting together a timetable to return the ship to full effectiveness. People were counting on him.

His hands fumbled with the clasps of his uniform, stiff, hesitating fingers struggling to free him from the outer layer. Next he pulled the shirt over his head and then paused, there held perfectly at eye level, were three gleaming pips, pinned to the stained red fabric. There, clutched in his hand, was the sum of years of work and ambition, the crowning achievement of his entire career in Starfleet, three pips.

For years he'd worked hard, done his best to be a dependable and effective officer every day, and advancement had remained out of reach. There had been chances, openings for a single officer, or closer to the borders, but he and his wife Maria had turned them down. They would stay together, and they would not put their family in danger. They told themselves they were making the right choice, what good was a rank if you didn't have anybody to go home to, and they had been happy. Their old ship the Matsumoto had grown familiar, and they had forged friendships with the rest of the crew, it had been home. Right up until the day and old friend had called in a favor he couldn't get out of.

Now he was risking his life, fighting over a god-forsaken expanse of border territory, and the third pip had landed on his collar with dizzying speed. He had just spent Christmas apart from Maria and Reina for the very first time since his daughter was born, and now, before January had even ended, he had jumped two ranks and was serving as executive officer of a Sovereign. It seemed as though the moment he had let go of his family, his career had come roaring back to life, speeding along to make up for every day spent in stasis.

And what a raw deal that had turned out to be, right now he would gladly trade it all to be back with the two people he loved most in the world. He wanted so badly to be back in their arms, doing a job that he understood, that he was good at, that he believed in. What could possibly make this trade worthwhile, what could make up for the cold, empty bed, for the silent, joyless quarters, for the fear, and tension, the uncertainty, the violence, the failure as he struggled to cope with so many new responsibilities?

He felt tears stinging his eyes, he balled up the red shirt in his hands, and with unnecessary force, he threw it into the replicator, where it unfurled to hang limply, half in, half out of the tray. He sank to the floor, feeling even more exhausted.

"Damn it Maria, how the hell am I supposed to do this without you?"