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Guest Laarell

"Depths of Cyanide"

"Halt lift."

 

The Orion's unusually terse tone cut through the otherwise-silence of the turbolift. The faintly perceptible vibrations beneath her feet ceased as the mechanism ground to a gentle halt.

 

Why was she surprised by this assignment? Wait, no, not quite. Not precisely surprised the mission itself; Excalibur and her crew had been building to this sort of encounter for... the gods knew how long. No, surprised by the cold, hard facts of the operation's nature being presented openly, to be actually looked in the face for once rather than skirted.

 

She appreciated honesty behind it. It was reassuring in a dark sense -- when something as dangerous and potentially fatal was before you, so many times the truth of it was distorted to something humorous or comparatively light. Maybe the definite somber casting placed it in its proper perspective against other, previous endeavors. For while there was always risk, the odds were usually better than theirs in this round testing fate.

 

Odds, which Corizon elected not to put in the level of numeric clarity which he could have. However, one could guess from his uncavalier attitude that those in favor of a pleasing outcome were slim. Quite slim.

 

"Deck Two," she said, choosing her quarters for a detour before picking up her decision of a 'last resort' in the medical bay.

 

It didn't surprise her that she was the only member of the team that had decided to carry the offered cyanide. There you had it again -- the brutal honesty coming into play for better or for worse, and for which she was grateful. After all, she thought grimly, when one stormed a facility that was going to have untold scores of hostile arachnids determined to discover your origins (though, not like they wouldn't suspect their being from Starfleet anyway), methods, weaknesses and purpose, the prospect of possible torture was like it or not going to be on the back of your mind. And there was another reassurance -- you didn't exactly want to be the one to simply ask if you could bring something to commit suicide with upon capture, yet... having it presented clearly as a last resort's option was calming in a morbid way. And despite most of the detail's belief, it was hardly a suicidal measure. Not more of one than the other facets of the mission totaled to.

 

But what did that place her as, in their eyes? The fretful, innocent bystander whose place in such an undertaking was due to being caught with the wrong knowledge at the wrong time, in the wrong place? As far as she was concerned, hardly. Did the newly-minted lieutenant Segami doubt her abilities? Not likely -- his concern was more in the protective vein, being respectfully and so 'properly' placed in the collective of 'brass'. Did she doubt her own capabilities, and that of the team as a whole? Clearly, yes; otherwise she wouldn't be planning a to visit Sickbay.

 

But it was based in precaution rather than fear. She could keep telling herself that, and maybe it would somehow become rooted in reality.

 

She felt a hollow feeling as she stepped into her quarters. Her breath sounded calm, and her heartrate was within boundaries of normalcy. Where then did it stem from? 'Gut feeling'? Laarell didn't place faith in that. Fear? Not in a traditional sense. Fear of death wasn't on her mind, and now nor was fear of living through the operation's unplanned possible aftermath of torment.

 

Perhaps it was from fear of what she had to do, and a fear that her own shortcomings would be what could cost them. Because even though they needed her, she didn't feel 'right' going in there; didn't feel comfortable with it.

 

Neither did the others; she wasn't going to lie to herself and make herself try to believe she was the only person with reservations. But the others... they openly showed what they felt and thought, and ended up giving off that whole-hearted "Let's go get 'em, live or die" model-Starfleet attitude that she was seeming to lack of late. She envied them. Hers ended up something that was not quite resigned, not quite cynical, but not exactly hopeful, either.

 

She gulped down a few lukewarm ounces of water, mindlessly packing a few essentials before seating herself casually across her couch to collect her bearings. More precautions; more standard preparations crossed her mind.

 

A quick note to family, perhaps? What was she going to put in it, exactly? You couldn't just write a "I'm going on a mission I'm probably not going to return from, everyone. If I die, just know that thoughts of you entered my mind somewhere between all of the arachnids trying to and succeeding at killing us." missive and call it good. Something clichedly emotional, "Know that whatever happens, I love you" without openly stated reason wasn't much better. Besides, it wasn't going to be helpfully timely right now. There was a backlog of communiques as it stood; there were previously recorded messages to let people know she had been thinking of them that hadn't even been received by Beta and Alpha Quadrants yet. And there was a last will and testament on file; as for shipwide business, she felt no need to worry that her replacement would be less than competant. No instructions to him were necessary.

 

Another replacement for a communications specialist on Morningstar. She tried not to think about the fate of her own operations predecessor on that vessel -- dwelling on the negative (as if she weren't already doing that) was neither productive nor helpful. But then again, how easily fleet lives were served out, brought to a violent halt, then replaced. But... she wondered who her own replacement would be. How fateful Morningstar was going to be the one that carried them.

 

Engaging a few low-level security protocols on her quarters, she started for the lift -- and Sickbay -- once more. She breathed as deeply as she could, the icy depths of her emotions spreading through her like a freezing cancer. And then she stopped fighting the feelings.

 

This was the Starfleet she had sworn to serve, the Federation she'd bound herself to protect. This was it. Not the happily-organized colonial developments. No. Unavoidable descents into doubt and despair for the common good. Descents into death and destruction that seemed based on fringes of suicidal madness. Unavoidable. Yes, that was what Laarell Teykier now stood for, and calmly, in this hour, she accepted it.

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If I were a philosophical man...

 

Oh, heck, I'm dead; I'm allowed to be philosophical.

 

Perhaps it would comfort you to think that there's a little bit of the Federation in each of those Scorpiads?

 

Well, the younger ones, anyway.

 

 

 

 

And you'd better take good care of my ship!!!

Edited by LtCmdr Kennin

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