40000 Angsts Under The Sea

Posted on 11 Feb 2013 @ 1:40pm by Ansen Pawlak

4,977 words; about a 25 minute read

Mission: Episode 03 - Frontier
Location: USS Galileo: Mess Hall
Timeline: MD02: 0320 Hours

MOUSE OVER alternate language text to see the translations!

ON:

It was practically deserted at this time of the morning, and so the odd shadow of the diplomatic officer entering the mess hall was an unusual sight. Perhaps not so surprising, to anyone who knew him and the frequency with which he took to walking around the ship late at night into the early hours. He'd spent some time with Maenad, but she had fallen asleep and he didn't wish to disturb her.

Gamma shift was on, but it was sparse. People shuffled about quietly, as their counterparts slept, the dimmed lights providing a more realistic foray into night. The mess was one of the better areas on board, like the arboretum, the energy in the room was highly concentrated, impressions and echoes. The door closed behind him and he made his way over past the buffet counter toward the replicator in the back, head ducked into his PADD. He knew he should use this time to enter a proper state of meditation, but he found he would rather read instead. Used to interpreting his brain's whims (like cravings for nutrients you simply don't understand but somehow, your mind guides you along without knowing) he'd followed his braintubes down and landed here.

He started as he walked past and a form came into view. A person. They were lying on top of the island and - was that normal? Was he dead? Was he injured? Unthinkingly, unconsciously, Liyar grabbed his arm, but the tension left as he realized the person was just sleeping. Sleepy waves of random energy pulsed at him in an odd ebb and flow, otherworldly and floating in swirling, strange dream-patterns. He dropped the arm and frowned to himself, shaking his head. "Apologies," he muttered at the prone form, looking rather awkward now.

He'd been dreaming about Marek, all broad shoulders and smirking steel. It was all he ever dreamt of these days. He closed his eyes and there was his brother, alive and well, until he wasn't. He'd still been in the living portion of the dream, though, and it was pleasant, worth the coming pain just to hear Marek chiding him wryly again. The hand on his arm, though, was a shock to his system and he woke with a start to someone apologizing to him. Vulcan. "Tonk'peh?"

Liyar felt from his brief contact that the person wasn't a Vulcan, and it was more pronounced with his speech. An accent that definitely wasn't anywhere approaching Vulcan. Fortunately for the stranger, his own Modern Golic left a lot to be desired. He stared down imperiously. "Yuk-tor du fi'nash po?" A lot to be desired, but still better than Standard. He crossed his arms and settled the PADD into the crook of his elbow.

"Smo'ni-tor na shen'es t'ned." Ansen pointed in the direction of the counter opposite where a line of bowls stood side by side with damp cloths laid over them. "Fas-tor sha'shai asal-yem ri."

"Lights." The mess hall lights flew on, throwing them both in the fluorescent glow. In turn, he gestured at the man's frame, which currently sprawled over the island in a rather unseemly way. "Ri sok'i nash." He shook his head to himself and continued on his way to the replicator. He threw back over his shoulder, "Ki'du ha-shal?"

"Fas-tor fi'pasu worla," Ansen shrugged, sitting up with a half yawn. "Ki ha-shal... nan'woi." He cleared his throat. "Is-tor nel'ashayek ka'i? K'opilsu fa'du? Nel'ashau kitok-wilat, ha?"

Liyar turned, resting his hand on the counter where it turned out into the wall. "Wadan ris rehkuh dah-leh stehkuh." He looked up at the chronometer for emphasis. "Yuk-tor du." They were two peas in a quarterless pod, it seemed. "Yokul-tor i'dek-lar nash-veh ri. Ri-fainu yem-tukh-lar aifa. Nel'ashayek weh-yeht-urgam." His eyes fell on the covered and half-uncovered dishes on the counter off to the side, arching an eyebrow.

"Kumi'la'," the Pole grinned, rolling bonelessly off the island and stretching. "Shen'es t'ned eifa kreyla, ri'kahm," he nodded to the bowls on the counter. "Yem-tor du sos ri-kahm. Marom-nash-veh," he added with a wry smirk.

Unconsciously, Liyar leaned over, inspecting the bowls with ears drawn back. Realizing what he was doing, he straightened. "Bolaya mau'renkup'es nash-tor?"

Ansen snorted. "Faika-leipau yeht ah."

Liyar rested his chin in his hands, closing his eyes for a brief moment. He was no cook, never had been. As he found himself doing nearly every minute of every day, he forced himself to shut out the past. So many years on one planet. But he was not there anymore. It was funny, how even a simple smell could bring something back. Admittedly, his mind had not been in a good place to begin with. "Ah. Gish ni."

"K'avon du?" Ansen asked, watching the Vulcan still, breathing, beside the rising dough. "Leipau-dungau khlup krei'la."

"Ah." Liyar waved a few fingers from under his chin distantly. He tracked the man's movements while he worked, only paying half-attention. "Nan'woi du ha-shal po? Weh-rasahkos do-nash a'sim ri." He looked at the island pointedly.

Ansen looked down, washing his hands in the antibacterial light and sonic vibrations before patting a bit of water on them and scooping a handful of kreyla dough out of an already risen bowl to knead and roll it out. A bed wasn't worse, until he smelled Marek's aftershave or climbed past the empty bottom bunk to go to sleep. "Ri-yeht," he murmured, focusing on the bread in an attempt to avoid thinking of the empty bunk, the stone collection in the corner, the hole in his soul. It didn't really work. Nothing worked. But he'd been trying. Forcing happiness to the surface for the sake of others. Drinking helped. Drinking went a long way towards helping. Until he passed the stage of forgetfulness and entered the part where he could think of nothing but Marek. And his own selfishness. A lifetime Marek had spent looking after him, raising him, protecting him, shepherding him. What might he have done on his own? What could Marek have accomplished without his little brother, like a weight tied to his ankle? He shuddered slightly. "Ar'kada vafer-tor; nelau vokaya-lar." He flipped the dough and rolled it out again.

Liyar closed his eyes again. It was only a moment longer than a blink. That and the lengthier than normal inhale were the only signs that Liyar was even aware that the man was alive and occupied space. He rubbed his wrists idly and reached into the side of his jacket, pulling out the thin metallic bands that were supposed to rest there. It hadn't been his intent. To pry, or sense any of this, but the tuning fork vibrated through his head, of grief and sorrow. Finding like, sticking around, letting itself multiply. From within and without. Psi-monitors had to be better. It was a breach of privacy. He had disturbed this person and for some reason felt the strange itchy sensation on his shoulders and neck, of awkwardness and discomfort. His abilities often made him feel a fool. He knew for certain this person was stuck in a hole, despair and blackness, but he didn't even know his name. He shouldn't be here. He should be meditating. Remaining perfectly blank, Liyar kept his eyes on the counter in front of him, watching the scrolling patterns on the ever-present PADD, speaking once again. "Vokaya ora?"

Ansen nodded vaguely, pointing towards the cold storage cupboard. "Dvel-tor khlup savas." He sprinkled sugar lightly over the dough and flipped it again, rolling it out. "Vokaya ora ah."

The Vulcan stood and approached the cupboard, picking out the black and purple hirat stored in jars. He took one of them. Any other Vulcan might have the excuse of politeness not to inquire. He wasn't polite either way. But it was more than that, it was simple respect. Not to pry. Emotions were always best left dealt with in private. In one's own way, and own time. To assume otherwise was insulting. Maybe, for other Vulcans. It was a decidedly more difficult concept to put into motion when one could feel the clutching fingers, tendrils of profound emptiness. Opening an airlock and sucking out everything, leaving it unbearable, intolerable. Vaikreyan's ramblings and ravings ran through his head in choppy script. We're all in our private traps. None of us can ever get out. / Sometimes we deliberately step into those traps. / I was born in mine. I don't mind it anymore. / But you should. You should mind it. / But I do. But I say I don't. Liyar slid the jar over the counter and remained standing, leaning against the wall. "Skrol kim-shah?"

"Tak; moj brat-" Ansen whispered in Polish, then pressed his lips together. "La'tusa sha'sa-kai. Vesh'ish-veh kanok-vei ni'var." His throat felt raw, but there was nothing to be done. Work. Work and try to find some way to live while he pretended it hadn't happened. He couldn't pretend in the room he'd shared with Marek. He took a breath and held a hand out for the jelly, smearing it on one side of the dough thickly, then rolling the mass into a cylinder. With a piece of string, he cut the cylinder into rounds and placed them on a baking sheet. "Ni'droi'ik nar-tor." He rubbed his face against the crook of his elbow and pushed the tray into the thermal-infuser, setting a timer.

Death. Death was what clung to the walls. Like its own entity. A consuming, twisted otherworld. He'd known it, of course. He'd felt it. From the last mission, invisible threads of pain and loss in and out of focus. "Ri'thrap." Liyar waved a hand idly and sat back down, allowing the words on his PADD to blur into a continuous stream of nonsense. He wanted to look away. Or leave. Facing such emotions, brought out the inner coward. But to leave would be a denial, a disrespect. So he was left only with saying the truth. "Tushah nash-veh k'du."

"Tak, dziekuje," Ansen bowed his head, stiffening his jaw against the grief. Was 0300 too early or too late for a drink? "Lesek." He cleared his throat, "Czar du nash-mu-yor po?"

Liyar lifted a finger back toward the galley as a light flickered off. "Fasek." He watched while Ansen began preparing the biscuits, images in his mind of a different time. A different planet. One that he was cut off from. Every memory. Every smell, even watching someone make kreyla. It hollowed something in him, scraped at the pits. He had known his planet, his home, through her. And now, he could not know it any longer. Spaceships were funny things. Walking back and forth. Quarters too lonely. Homesick, Maenad had called it. But there was no home. He had learned it through T'Yron. Experienced it with her. Now she was gone. He could not know how to experience it again. I'm not saying that you shouldn't be contented here, I'm just doubting that you are. I think if you saw the chance to get out from under you would unload this place. / This place? This place happens to be my only world. I grew up in that house up there. He looked away, down at his PADD, Vaikreyan's ramblings still winding through his brain. "Czar mu-yor-kanok."

As the thermal-inducer's door was drawn open a smell of warm, fresh bread and cooked jelly suffused the galley. Ansen carried the tray over to the counter and set it on a trivet to cool. "Shom-tor du ri?"

Liyar leaned his elbow against the counter, not quite turning around, but sitting off to the side. He rarely thought of her, especially not in public. Reminders, yes. Shut down. Thrown out of the shield. Being in the mess hall now, with the failure of last evening hanging over him, was not on his list of most brilliant ideas. Thinking of her by name. Unwise. In company, no less. Familiar foods, familiar smells. Unwise. "Bolaya yuk whl'q'nlar ten-do komihnlar."

"Hi, shom du bolau, ha?"

"Czar nash-veh loit'lej," Liyar gave a miniature shrug.

Ansen shrugged back. "Ozhikaing."

"La'nash-hali, whl'q'nlar goh dahkuh. Fasan nash po? Stariben gen-lis iyik-Vuhlkansu, po?"

"Fas-tor kreyla nash-veh fai'ei tizh'esong kupong. Stariben gen-lis iyik-Vuhlkansu nash-veh fai'ei tizh'esong ek'aribenikong. Stariben gen-lis-nash du isha." Ansen transferred the still cooling pastries to a rack.

"Stariben nash-veh kup. Tizh'es rim." Liyar pressed a button on the PADD and kept reading.

"Loit'lej du gen-lis Teraya-eingelsu?" Ansen inquired with a slight wrinkle of his nose. English had always struck him as a rather bald language compared to all the other ones in the galaxy with their complexities and depths of meaning, but speech was largely subjective.

Liyar gave a blink, moving his eyes to the side slightly in the subdued Vulcan version of an eyeroll. "Teraya-eingelsu? Vah-kuv ish." He shook his head. "Miri'ahm gotavlu. Salatik gen-lis t'nash-veh," he explained.

"Miran?" Ansen asked intently. "Ki'fai-tukh nash-veh Miri'ahm gotavlu fam. ...Lakh-nash ha? Throks zhit-larong zhit-bal-larong. Stariben du."

Liyar turned the switch on the commbadge Athlen had given him, allowing a separation of both language and comprehension. This would let Ansen hear what he said and the translation a moment later. "Näkio üvvré'a Liyar. Staar'hvlïyt vré'ayan. Vĕderāyzhan-ra kea'a žtar-tel~." Liyar tilted his head a little. "As you see, the translator does not do well with the translation." His expression shifted, minutely wry. "I do not happen to own Starfleet. It is a psionic language." He switched back to Modern Golic. "Bolaya du irak-nahan."

"Gla-tor nash-veh," Ansen murmured, plating one of the kreyla and nudging it towards him. He ground his back teeth together lightly. It was an inaccessible language, like waving ice cream in front of a child and then denying them. The language on its own was beautiful, if not a little redundant, but that likely had to do with the psionic component. Still, he'd gotten the name - Liyar - and Starfleet. If he listened to it longer, he might actually be able to piece together the non-psionic elements of the speech. "Nazywam sie Ansen. Nie jestem wlascicielem Floty albo. Nadal jest milo cie poznac. To jest moj jezyk - polski Terran." He shook his head, pulling a container of cooled fruit tea from the refrigeration unit and pouring a couple glasses. "Irak-nahan rim."

Liyar touched his finger to the tip of the plate and pulled it forward. He sat there idly, as if waiting for it to tell him something. "Do you cultivate an interest in languages?" He studied the biscuit a while longer before he picked up the small fork, cut a piece off and began eating.

The Pole shrugged. They were back to Standard. Everyone on this ship spoke Standard. It was such a dull language. Not that people couldn't do interesting things with it, he assumed, but the language itself was dry. Like manioc on the tongue. "I've got an ear for them."

"I have also found Standard lacking in sufficient form," Liyar said, speaking what had clearly passed through Ansen's mind. "As you say. Nevertheless, it is highly prevalent, and therefore logical to master." He paused. "You have an ear for languages?" Liyar cocked his head, peering at him sideways. He took another bite of kreyla. Swallowed. Still didn't make sense. "I have always operated under the assumption that Terrans possess only two ears."

"Yes," Ansen agreed, taking down a bottle of vodka. Maybe it wasn't too late or too early. He poured a measure into his own tea and swirled it around in the cup. "And both of mine are attuned to the way languages work. 'Having an ear for them' is an idiom, referring to a particular skillset."

Liyar was indifferent to, ignoring, or outright ignorant of what Ansen was doing as he moved about. Liyar ate some more kreyla, contemplating his explanation. The chef was a civilian. It wasn't duty hours. That was what Terrans did. It was the man's own business. And, Liyar eyed the glass thoughtfully, he understood the impulse a little better than most Vulcans. Like clockwork, the back of his neck prickled, reminding him of the Lexorin he had forgotten to take. Lexorin shored up his shield, made the cracks reinforce themselves. Just enough to get through the day without the beating endless drone of voices and sensations. Enough to section away the thoughts. The planet that lived behind the wall, the memories. The psi-monitors helped, but not like those first few seconds. Lexorin. Not breakfast. He ate. "In this case, the subject referred to would be languages," he made a vague gesture. "That is, you would not have an ear for cooking?" Liyar asked.

"I'd have a 'knack' for cooking," Ansen explained. "In Standard parlance, anyway. You like?"

"It is acceptable," Liyar said with a nod. Better, he had to admit, than the replicated fare he'd been subsisting on. It was often enough that eating became a chore, but that everything was so perfectly bland and unnatural just added insult to injury.

"Good." He poured more tea into Liyar's drained cup. "Could have an 'ear' for music, too. Anything that requires hearing as a skill."

"I see," Liyar said, picking up the glass. He stuck his fork back into the kreyla. "The way the figurative phrase is structured, suggests that the metaphor for a skill can be applied to any object which is related to that skill." While Sarai Dahan had helped him immeasurably with the acquisition of Standard itself, the limited time to learn had left him with a very literal understanding of things. He doubted his own native language made that any easier. "Would one have an eye for target shooting?" he asked quizzically. He paused to eat the last bit and set the fork down on the plate.

"Exactly so," Ansen agreed. "And skills that aren't immediately related to a particular bodily skill are called 'knacks'."

"That terminology remains elusive to me," Liyar told him, watching his tea swirl random shapes and patterns in the glass. "Why is it you stay here?" He buried a quixotic expression in another drink. "You sleep on a counter. To avoid your quarters. Why stay on board?"

"Don't know where else to go," Ansen shrugged. "You have a suggestion?"

"You do not believe anywhere else would be suitable?" It was out of his mouth before he could stop it, and the Vulcan shook his head to himself and stood. "Forgive me for prying." He finished the tea in another long gulp and set the glass down.

Ansen shook his head, "Not prying. It's a good question. I wonder myself. More and more every day, really. Did you want more?" he asked, pointing to the tray of still steaming kreyla.

Liyar paused, staring from the counter back to Ansen again. Not a good idea. Wasn't getting any better. "One." Apparently his mouth hadn't yet caught up with his logical capacities. "Is that how you deal with it?" he asked, nodding down at the bottle of vodka behind Ansen's hand.

Ansen sipped his spiked tea. "Every little bit helps."

"How does this help?"

"Gives me something else to think about. Like walking straight, and cooking without burning myself. Instead of him."

"Yet, you stay here." Liyar carefully separated one of the biscuits from the tray, plating it. "It appears counterproductive to avoidance."

"It does, doesn't it?" Ansen agreed and drank anyway.

Grinding his back teeth together, Liyar went from almost approachable to harsh in the way that water turned to ice, with cold cracks of anger splitting through him. It made no sense. These were not answers. A flash of an image went through his mind, of standing up, taking the man's head and slamming it on the side of the metal island until he could see blood and then stillness until there was nothing. Nothing left. Cold and empty. No more confusion, mindgames, semantic runarounds. Liyar breathed out once and the tension left, expression smoothing over into perfect calm. Picture perfect, but an illusion. Whatever inside of him that was Vulcan, that could shape the internal landscape into serenity, was out of reach. Just in-reach enough to flicker a small glow of remorse and fear, somehow warmer than the dead-rage. Wrong thoughts. Twisted. The rage in the place where the katra did not go. Fear and anguish were Real, at least.

Peace. Peace. Peace.

Mantras helped. Leave. There is no offense. He wanted to understand, it was without will or conscious direction. Everything was, when you couldn't look at your own mind without it crashing on top of you. How one could see a place like this, where part of them had died. Liyar could feel it. In the sense that it lived in Ansen - hopped, skipped and jumped across the room, through the air, stretched out atop the ceiling and through the chairs and out into the main mess, floating particles, landing on Liyar's skin, seeping into his bones, living in his atoms. Why someone would want to stay here. How someone could sit and work and exist. While, he switched the page on his PADD. Endless lines of equations that made no logical sense. Nonsense. Unproductive. "Obfuscation is unnecessary." Nerves normal. Breath normal. He ate. Drank.

"Obfuscation?" Ansen laughed hollowly. "What meaning do you think I'm hiding?"

"Your statements are contradictory," Liyar spoke, meeting the chef's eyes without any warmth.

"I'm contradictory," the Pole shrugged.

"And therefore misleading. You ask a question to which you already know the answer. You hide your meaning. I feel it. Anywhere else is somewhere else. Why do you stay here?" Liyar asked, with barely discernible intentness.

"I don't know," Ansen repeated. "Because I can't leave. Because I haven't. Because... I don't know. Where to go. What to do with myself. I was always his little brother; now I don't know who I am. How can I go somewhere without knowing who it is I am that's moving?"

"You take a shuttle." The Vulcan was literal as always. "Or a ship. The mechanics are not very difficult. Hire an engineer. Terrans, Federation, they will do it for free. Why not? Here there is only pain. Is that your preference?"

"My preference is that my brother were not dead. That I hadn't seen him bloody and shredded and ended on the floor of a corridor. My preference means nothing." Ansen scrubbed a hand over his face.

"You are here. He is not. Your preference is the only thing." Liyar had long pushed away the kreyla, too tense to eat. "I do not understand your reaction. Rdhase-ziyreh vré'a," he repeated under his breath, shaking his head.

"I'm not asking you to."

"Not with words. It is surrounding this place, this time. It is impossible to mistake." He disregarded his unfinished breakfast and tea, picking up the PADD beside them instead and studying it. "But that is not why. I must depart now."

"Whatever you want," Ansen said, gaze focused somewhere past the floor. "I'm here to serve."

Liyar stood, tempering the slow buzz of irritation and agitation, two voices of va-ta-pak, screaming louder above the rest. 0400. An hour. To meditate. Force the emotions out and through. Work. He had to be focused, especially now. He knew, in the back of his mind, that this had nothing to do with Ansen. That he was behaving irrationally, projecting anger at a stranger. Who happened only to feel the wrong thing at the wrong time. "Nemaiyo," he said tersely. "For the meal." Liyar pushed the plate and glass forward and then abruptly stalked out of the galley without another word.

OFF:

Lieutenant (JG) Liyar
Diplomatic Officer, VDF/SDD
USS Galileo

Ansen Pawak
Chef
USS Galieo
(pNPC Lilou Peers)

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