Coming Down

[Ethan Neufeld 0]

"I'm fine," Ethan reassured, finding the attention troublesome; "just a little stiff." More than that, he privately admitted; he hadn’t slept in the last thirty-six to forty-eight hours - not since the night before they’d launched from the Qob - and, though he couldn't completely relax, he was plummeting off the adrenaline dump of sustained hyper-vigilance. He cringed good-humoredly at those who’d expressed concern. “Tired,” he added; “If it’s all right with you, Nickles, I’m gonna claim a bunk and some sleep.”

 

Ethan didn’t receive any objections; he suspected they couldn’t think of an immediate purpose for an outsider like him to fill in the investigation. Currently, interactions with his teammates implied that they hadn’t discerned the level of his qualifications while on Zoalus. In fact, there were intimations that they suspected he was inept, reckless, or trying to endanger the team intentionally; just another Xorax expeditionist that required a chaperone rather than trust. But - given that he’d demonstrated compliance and voiced no objections, despite the disparity between their training and opinions; and had done nothing, of which they were aware, to warrant such a reaction - there was no accounting for why. If anyone warranted their wariness, in his opinion, it should have been Rosetto for the stunt he’d unilaterally pulled at the beginning of their insertion. Yet their reactions to Rosetto’s subsequent, repeated requests to power up tricorders had been markedly different than what Ethan received for his sole request to dry fire his weapons. That Ethan, as an outsider, simply made an unfavorable impression on his counterparts: it was the only explanation he had.

 

But, for the moment, Ethan shrugged it off and left them the mess. He really didn't care and didn’t want things another way. It would have been inconvenient if the situation had been different; if they’d been actively seeking his opinions and participation. That they might leave him alone, in these circumstances, was an advantage.

 

Ethan navigated through the Capricorn’s passageways unaccompanied. The familiarity of her unfailing Starfleet design was nostalgic; and finding privacy on the old Constellation-class was easy as most of the raiders preferred the officers’ suites. He took a bunk on a sparsely occupied deck in old the group of shared quarters set aside for Starfleet Chief Petty Officers - the ‘goat locker’. The irony wasn't lost on him.

 

Securing his gear against curiosity and possible thieves, he surveyed the unused compartment. The Capricorn had seen better years, he privately mused. He shook his troubled right hand, cringing as sharp sensations permeated his arm into his neck and forced him to sit from the threat of blacking out. He had nothing nice to say about the motive behind the drones that had stunned him. Though some of the numbness and muscle spasms in his right extremities had abated, the agony in his back and head was unrelenting. He should have visited the doctor, as Byblos suggested, but he’d convinced himself that they had better things to do. There was a ship full of patients that were worse off than he was. More than a decade earlier, doctors and therapists had told him he was lucky to retain any feeling at all, let alone live through the incident. One had equated his human nerves to a sheet of aluminum foil: once it’d been rolled into a ball, he’d never completely eliminate the wrinkles. What else could another doctor do short of handing him pills that might barely ease off the edge and compromise his mental state?

 

He'd deal with it and, right now, he wanted nothing more than to shower, shave and just sleep it off. But, first, he had a report to write for Joe Manning and the expedition; and he smirked half-way into the opening line. The charade had grown stale to the point that identifying himself as ‘Selek’ didn’t come naturally.

Edited September 11, 2011 by Ethan Neufeld