round 15 Cmdr Blueheart - The Loneliest Job In The World

[Guest]

((Presidential Palace – Kuantan, Uzoka 4))

::When Marcus left, he took a bit of Raj’s joy with him. Left alone on the wind-swept verandah, Raj turned a sorrowful face towards the nocturnal cityscape that was Kuantan. The air was pregnant with the scent and moisture of a recent drizzle. Somewhere in the distance red lanterns swung lazily, tickled by an invisible finger. He sighed, looking up into the starless black sky. Somewhere high above him in that sea of infinite black, the USS Atlantis hovered, a moth encircling a blue-green marble. His home away from home, away from home.

Incredible loneliness. There he was surrounded by the roaring orchestra and flamboyant cast of characters of the city at night and yet he was incredibly, profoundly lonely. He would get to see his sister and brother-in-law less and less frequent, not returning to DS-285 like he used to after the Discovery completed a mission. Now it was DS26. He knew no one on DS26. It wasn’t even in Federation space to begin with. He was still gazing up and into the deep black grave of a sky when he pretended he could spot the Embassy, and there, he could barely discern, preparing his men for the next battle, Tyr Waltas. Tyr Waltas, the man who had pinned ever single pip on his collar. The man who had handed him his first and every award. Today Raj Blueheart handed out promotions and ribbons for the very first time. He wished the man was beside him to beam with pride over his achievement. The winds had grown terribly cold and Raj shivered.

He turned around and leaned his back against the stone railing. Bright yellow festive light streamed out through a series of tall but narrow glass windows that stood open to the night. Music, alien but equally and unmistakably festive, flowed out with the golden light of the party, a warmth and radiance he never felt. Within, his crew was merry and mingling. The pale-skinned, flame-haired gentleman could not be made out causing a riot among the crowd of celebrants. Suddenly the winds felt colder. Uzoka had grown colder. Even his heart shivered. His glass was empty, the wine having left behind a disc of a pale purple stain on the bottom. The solitude was smothering. The solitude was asphyxiating. Among six billion souls yet he couldn’t breathe.

It was the loneliest job in the world.

Stone stairs on either side led from the verandah to the manicured gardens below. Bidding the emptied glass adieu atop the railing, he strolled down the moss-lined steps and into the sweet fragrance. Sentinels watched his every step, his every move, but he only cared for the solace the sanctuary would offer him. Encountering a wet stone bench, he removed his jacket and placed it on the bench before seating himself on it. A night-creature sang a song to the moons of Uzoka, unseen through rainclouds. But it might as well be singing to him. A requiem for an era come to past, for friends and family left behind, for the innocence of youth buried somewhere in that infinite, cold, black grave above and beyond him with maws wide open waiting to devour him, worlds and all. A heartless grave he now stared defiantly at, supine on the cold bench, arm bent underneath his head.

Odd, how he should be melancholic following a successful first mission. Joy that is shared is doubled. Joy that is caged envenoms the heart with bitterness. Odd too, how terribly alone he felt in an exotic garden on an alien world on the other side of the sky, realizing with intense pain, how no one, absolutely no one among his present crew, will know just how lonely the central chair on the bridge can be. And the only one who might know, the father figure who cleaned the smudge off of his infant face, was not beside him to finally and gently nudge him over the threshold he was about to cross.

The night-blossoms shed their scent on the lonely heart seeking shelter beneath them, while the hymn of the night-creature lulled it into dreamless slumber. Remnants of a dead storm fell softly upon his tear-stained face. The infinite, cold, black grave above, silently watching. Always present, always watching.

Always waiting.::

Commander Raj Blueheart

Commanding Officer

USS Atlantis

NCC-74682