Lieutenant Ras El'Heem - What's in a choice?
Ras El'Heem
((Officer’s Mess, Deck 13, USS Khitomer, en route to Alpha Trionus II))
Ras sat alone at the far end of the mess hall, the tray before him a small rectangle of bland, reheated rations. The smell of congealed protein mingled with the faint tang of recycled air that was extra noticeable in higher foot traffic areas like that one. He had cut his food into neat little sections, moving each piece with deliberate slowness, but he hadn’t eaten anything in more than a few minutes. It wasn’t a habit he did frequently, or really ever for that matter. It was more a quirk of trying to process such a heavy and chaotic briefing that had ended so abruptly.
He stared down at the food. The potatoes glistened under the harsh overhead lights, a dull yellow that seemed almost unnatural, and the crust of the bread felt too dry in his fingers, that left behind crumby reside that made him uncomfortable for some reason. He forced himself to take a bite, chewed, swallowed, and found the act hollow and mechanical. Like watching a projection of himself perform some domestic ritual. The taste was a reminder that the world continued. That the universe hadn’t paused for the catastrophe of the briefing, but it was impossible to silence the echo of what had happened. Every voice carried weight, every accusation carried weight, every glance carried weight. It was all remarkably heavy.
He thought of the paradox again. Of the Hobart Hole that apparently defied what they scientifically understood about the timeline. The warnings and the delicate scaffolding of cause and effect that he had no right to manipulate. But that reasoning was both a shield and a trap. It was rational, it was also in line with protocol, not that he had ever had a particular affinity for protocol. But this was a bigger breach than he’d ever even considered. Yet it all felt brittle against the tide of instinct. The instinct for protection and to assuage vengeance. Could he really abstain and call it duty? That felt like another form of complicity. The thought of committing mass murder to prevent some hypothetical future twisted his stomach more than the tasteless rations in front of him, and yet even here, in the distant chatter of the mess hall, he felt the absurdity of it blanket the difficult bits. The three of them, stranded by time, sitting with knowledge that was both gift and curse, and he and many of his fellow officers were protesting that a rule was being broken. To consider too, that knowledge would always demand action, and action would always demand judgement, but whose judgement, whose conscience, could measure the consequences of what lay ahead?
And then, through the fog of thought, he noticed her approaching: Ginny. Not the Admiral. But Ginny. He did not move, did not acknowledge her presence immediately. The air shifted subtly, a familiarity that seemed impossible layered. He kind of knew this, Ginny. Brief time spent in proximity when receiving orders and nods in passing. Two versions of the same person in one day. What did it mean to confront someone fully present, while carrying the shadow of who they will become, especially one so dark? She stopped in front of him, and he looked up from his fog of erudition.
Lacy: Excuse me, sir. May I join you?
He stared blankly at her and if one wasn’t the wiser, it would seem he was looking through her. And he was, at least through her to the Admiral behind her eyes. He gave a slight nod towards the chair across from him.
Lacy: Thank you, sir.
El’Heem: ::dryly:: Of course.
Ginny sat down quietly and without ceremony. The lieutenant realized that though she was a huge gravity well in his thoughts presently, he was likely still just as insignificant as he was before in hers. He watched her prod her soup like observing a specimen under a microscope.
Lacy: I— erm. Eventful day so far? Sir?
When she finally lifted her gaze from the orange liquid, Ras met her eyes at last. They were clear. Green-gray and sharp enough to catch thought but not yet the steel they would become. The light in them still held curiosity rather than urgency and hardness. He saw the faintest hint of how time would reshape her. The soft lines in her face would tighten and the warmth in her gaze would cool into something measured and resolute. Even the way she held her posture carried the traces of what was coming. Within her was the poise of someone who would one day wear the title of Admiral half in jest, half in defiance of what Starfleet had once meant. He tilted his chin up and the back down so he had to look up through his eyebrow ridges at her, peering around non existent spectacles.
El’Heem: Ensign, are you aware we have never spoken at length?
Lacy: Response
Her hair framed her neatly, the style practical in that Starfleet way, but he could also see the future her, who’d abandoned such symmetry. The Admiral’s hair was unburdened by regulation and the hierarchy she so despised, even now. The face before him belonged to an officer, the face in the conference room had belonged to a survivor. And yet, the difference between them was thinner than it seemed. As though the years between were only a membrane, delicate and transparent, through which he could watch her becoming herself.
El’Heem: About anything.
Lacy: Response
There was something oddly precipitous in the overlap. A sense that she hadn’t changed so much as condensed. Whatever would drive her to lead a resistance, to wear that rank like a scar rather than an honor, was already there in her eyes. Latent. Waiting. And looking into them now, Ras wondered if it was truly time that changed people, or if it just gave it room to surface.
El’Heem: Why did you choose pumpkin bisque?
Lacy: Response
El’Heem: I mean, did you feel like it today? Did you just choose something at random? Do you always choose it when it’s available? Why did you make that decision today? ::pause:: I promise it’s relevant.
Lacy: Response
TAGS/TBC
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Lieutenant Ras El’Heem
Science Officer
USS Khitomer (NCC-62400)
K240106RE3