Captain Shayne - Faces

[Jacin Ayemet]

A superlative bit of writing from my Captain. Evocative and heartfelt. Just wonderful stuff…
 

((Deck 1, Bridge, USS Khitomer)) 

PADD mountain had dwindled, but he doubted it would ever be fully defeated. For every issue he addressed, another arrived, and the rotating cast of fearful-eyed junior enlisted messengers had started to show their trepidation with the haste of their departure. The captain’s glare was not something they wished to contend with, especially on instructions from someone else- the middle was an ugly place to be caught in bureaucratic tizzy. 

But it was the last arrival that had ground Shayne’s gears into a fine ash. She’d stepped in, and almost fell backwards, as if a gust of wind had blown her askance. She eyed the captain as you might eye a sun, blinded by the glory of, in his case, grumpy obstinance. He grit his teeth in fury as he noted her black eyes. 

She’d placed the PADD down, and left without a word. 

Thirty seconds of tight-toothed grimacing later, the rage and fury and violation left him, and he was almost consumed with an exhaustive despair. His whole life, he’d struggled with feelings that were more than feelings. They were physical sensations, often ailments, indistinguishable to him from lacerating pain, or stabbing sharpness in the chest. The anxiety, the doubt, the anger… all of it boiled. And all of it stayed hidden. Out of sight. Out of mind. Out of judgement. 

He could fool the onlooker, the subordinate, or the passerby. But the telepathic Betazoid, or Deltan, could not be so easily assuaged. They felt it. All of it. Whether they wanted to or not. He was naked before them. The violation was unintentional, and absolute. 

And unacceptable. 

Red-tinged eyes blearly gazed at the bottom drawer. The exhaustion that had built up, physical and emotional, could be blamed on the difficult mission. It could be blamed on Ash’s leaving. It could be blamed on simply being in Starfleet. But he knew deep down what his normal exhaustion looked like, felt like. It was a tinging of everything, into a muddled grey haze that left nothing but overwhelming distress with anything colorful or vibrant. 

What he was experiencing was not that. Bloodshot eyes were the least of his problems. Fury… fury he couldn’t swallow… had tinged his entire stymied interaction with the last damned messenger. That wasn’t right. Paranoia, a sensation of stuckness, of threat, loomed in the horizons of his brain. 

The medication was taking its toll. 

Not for prolonged use, the file had read. The “why” of that equation was coming into focus. 

He had to lay it off. But the effects, the teeth-gnashing strain, would last for days, certainly. And now, of all times, he couldn’t afford to be that vulnerable around people who needed him. 

The door chimed. 

He bit his lip. It might be nothing. Another messenger with another PADD, and bearing with him a distinct lack of telepathy. 

Then again…

Grudgingly, promising to make amends later, Shayne grabbed the hypospray, and strained as he braced for the sudden depletion of energy that rolled across his psyche. Muscle memory found him putting the hypo away where conscious thought wasn’t interested. A moment later, the familiar thickness in his head told him it was safe. For now. 

Shayne: Come on in…