Lieutenant(jg) Regan Wilde - The Mirror of a Man

[David Hemming]

 ((Atlas Base - Main Gathering Hall))

The crew were gathering around the food table, but things soon were awry when a drunken crewman ended up embarrassing himself. Regan was not particularly amused and was going to escort him to the brig to cool off. No one else seemed to interject, until Commander Traenor approached sympathetically.

Wilde: I'll take him up to the ship. He can either sleep it off in the brig, or I'll leave him in your care if you wish, Doc?

Traenor: I'd rather take care of him myself, if you don't mind, Mr Wilde. He doesn't need to spend any more time in the brig. With assistance, I can escort him back to the ship.

The older voice startled him back to the moment. An older voice, but one not stern with authority, rather a wiser, less assuming tone.

Wilde: What? No, I know. I just meant he needs a safe place to be... but yes, I guess the ship is safe enough. ::His thoughts wandering.:: Of course. He can rest in his quarters...

Traenor: Excellent. If you'll help me support him?  ::pleading glance again to Wilde before turning to the Arrow's newest medical officer::  I'll administer an anti-intoxicant hypospray once he's back aboard, Doctor. If there's anything else amiss, I'll let you know immediately. Is that okay?

Sival: Response

Traenor: I'll make sure that he checks in with you tomorrow regardless of his condition tonight. Is there anything else that you'd like me to do with him?

Sival: Response

Traenor: Alright, Doc.  ::to all the rest of the assembled crew:: Please, enjoy the rest of your evening. I'll ensure this poor man is taken care of.  ::to Wilde, who had the prone man's other arm over his shoulders opposite Traenor:: Are you ready, Mr Wilde?

Wilde: Aye sir.

Regan managed to hook the man's free arm around his neck and prop him upright. He wasn't heavy, but it was awkward to move him through the gathering of crew whilst trying to be as discreet as possible. All Regan had to do was focus on his footsteps and coordinate them with Commander Traenors. The smell of alcohol coming from the man blasted his senses, making him take longer breaths of air to try and dilute the aroma. Oh God how did he end up in this situation. He'd told himself tonight was going to be easy. Of course there'd be drinks. It was a party, but carrying out an inebriated man like this, who only six years ago could have been Regan himself was too much. He felt his eyes sting.

Traenor: Mr Wilde... Regan. Thank you for your discretion in this matter, not to mention your assistance.

Regan nodded. A courteous nod, one grateful that Commander Traenor had used his name. He hated 'Mr. Wilde'.

Wilde: Oh. You're welcome, sir. I wasn't going to charge him with anything back on board, Commander. I... know how important it is to keep him safe. I thought the brig was the best place. Forcefields, you see. ::Beat.:: Oh he's going to hate himself in the morning that's for sure. Poor chap.

Traenor: ::incredulously:: You don't recognize him?  ::more softly::  Of course not, I barely recognize him lately. He's taken everything very hard, understandably so, and let himself go. This is Crewman Thomson.

Regan almost lost his footing. This was Thomson!? How had he not even realised? He'd made a promise to try and help the man not a few hours earlier, knowing what it was like to have been rejected by those around you and demonised for your mistakes. What the hell had happened to let it get this far?

Wilde: What!? But... how?

Traenor: Response

  ((USS Arrow - Sickbay))

They signalled the ship for a beam out directly to Sickbay, and soon they were deposited in the sterile confines of the Arrows medical bay. They placed him directly onto a biobed and Regan hurriedly took a few steps back instinctively, as if Thomson had a contagious disease. He didn't, of course. Even if he did Regan would be immune by now, but still the thought, or the association left him feeling contaminated and ashamed. 

Maxwell and another member of the medical team oversaw him, but Regan just stood there, fixated on the man. This was him. This was Regan all those years ago. Smashed out of his face not knowing where he was, or what planet he was on or what his own name was. He didn't care anyway. He didn't care about anything. Caring only hurt him and he drank to stop the hurt.

Out of curiosity he picked up a hypospray of the anti-intoxicant used to effectively dissolve the alcohol in the man's blood stream. Anti-intox. The cure? The magic potion? Could he take it and not suffer the effects of the drink. No. He'd confided in Counselor R'Ariel his fear of the drug. What if it didn't work. He threw it with distaste back onto the medical tray by the biobed. The nurse administered a sleeping agent too, to let the poor man rest. They'd beam him to his quarters later.

Traenor: Response

Wilde: Slipped. Sorry.

Traenor: Response

Wilde: How did this happen? ::His voice was emotionless.:: Who let it get this far?

The answer was obvious really. Thomson himself had let it go on. Regan knew the ways of lying to people. To hide it until it reached boiling point.

Traenor: Response

Wilde: Check his shoes.

Traenor: Response

Wilde: I know what I'm talking about! Check his shoes. He's alone. Alone on a ship of forty people, his friends and his colleagues have abandoned him. He needs safety. He needs protection.

Regan stepped forward forcefully and pulled the crewmans boots off. A shrill metallic clang hit the floor and Regan closed his eyes. It had gotten that bad. He carefully picked up the makeshift blade in his hands and securely put it on the tray beside the hypospray. Alone and scared, not knowing what would happen next makes you edgy. You see enemies everywhere. Danger. A knife is discreet, can be hidden. 

Traenor: Response

Wilde: This man was me, Commander. Only this is just starting. How long has it been since Gonzalez died? A few weeks? I was in a worse state than this for nearly three years! Lost, alone and desperate, I lived on the rotten streets doing just about anything to keep myself numb! I didn't care. I'd steal it if I had to. You learn to adapt. So many beatings from the street gangs makes you a little wise.

Slowly, deliberately, Regan knelt down and took a deep breath. Bad habits are hard to break. He'd been clean for 6 years. Sent to all the best hospitals and seen the best counselors in the Federation thanks to his mummy and daddy. But he was still alone, still struggling like on the streets all those years ago. He took the blade out of his own boot, and felt the cold steel in his hands. His was not a makeshift weapon, forged from a scrap bit of wall panelling he'd forced off. It was gilded, Reman steel. It was in typical Regan style - the best. Dangerous. Effective. 

He held it in his hand as he showed it to Commander Traenor before placing it beside Thomsons on the tray. Proof that he'd live that horror, and in a way was still living it. He always carried a weapon in his boot, in case he ever fell off the wagon and ended up back on those terrifying streets, or these lonely decks of the Arrow. Regan looked to Maxwell, and did what he hadn't done in many years. What he swore he'd never let anyone else ever see of him in public. He cried.

Traenor: Response

TAG

Lieutenant(jg) Regan Wilde

Security

USS Arrow

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