Lt. J. G. Silveira: Tough and rough.

[Bruno Abreu]

((USS Columbia, deck 6, transporter room 3))

Vitor had his eyes closed as he materialized. He was well used to being beamed in and out, the fear that was growing inside of him had nothing to do with that. 

He opened them to see the familiar transporter room. He nodded to the transporter crew and made his way out quickly, hands on the backpack straps as he walked.

It was fairly empty, one spare uniform, the staff shirt from the Maklau resort he had on during dinner, the framed photo of him and Jonathan and two PADDs. Still he held the straps firmly, and his jaw tensed as he walked the corridors.

Returning to the Excalibur was difficult. He didn’t expect to feel like that again.

Truth be told he wasn’t. He was feeling worse. 

The turmoil of emotions running through him, since the Wyke incident, just got a luxury reinforcement, to use an old soccer metaphor. The new star player, being fear.

He was already afraid he might not be up to change, to behave properly, to act like the officer that he still was. But that was like the fear of the unknown, the fear for one's life, one of those that he manages to confront and move beside it.

Now it was enhanced, brought forth by the place he was in, raised to a higher level.

Curiously, although it was the attack he suffered here that caused it, the fear came much after.

When he suffered the mental attack from the Iconian he wasn’t that afraid. He was actually more afraid for Antero than himself. And as he managed to get to sickbay he wasn’t afraid, just kind of tired.

The fear came when he woke up. Over one year later, of the coma that resulted from the attack. He woke up not being able to see, to speak, feeling trapped in his own body. 

To this day Vitor didn’t know how long it took for him to voice something, and even then it was nothing more than a gurgle. The same for his sight. After some time he sensed the brightness around him but it took long for him to be able to distinguish shapes. Until he was able to see properly it was over a week. Breathing was painful. He felt strangled, like a giant weight was on his chest. And he couldn't move. He tried but didn’t feel any of his limbs responding to his commands. He felt the medical team touching him, but even that looked like hours after he gained consciousness.

Trapped in his own body, Vitor's fear grew. That was the time he felt more afraid in his life. And now it was coming back. He turned the corner of the corridor heading to the turbolift. 

It was coming back because he was already afraid. Afraid to fail. Afraid of not learning. Afraid of what was going to happen. Afraid of changing.

He stopped, entered the turbolift and turned looking down the corridor. His temporary quarters were on deck ten, and he wanted to drop the backpack there. After that he wasn’t sure. 

Silveira: Deck ten.

When the door shut and he was alone he took a deep breath. Leaning back he rubbed his eyes, instinctively rubbing his, now absent, beard. Surprised, he stopped and straightened himself. 

Vitor was still getting used to not having a beard anymore. Twelve or eleven years of belonging in the “bearded club” had carved deep some gestures into him. And rubbing his skin didn’t feel the same. It was odd how one becomes a creature of habits. He always scratched his beard to focus, always rubbed his neck when nervous. Now he had no beard.

Would that mean he couldn’t concentrate?  

He shook his head, closed his eyes and clenched his fist so tight his knuckles cracked. And hurt. He took another deep breath and when the turbolift door opened he stepped out, heading through the corridor to his temporary quarters where he dropped his backpack on the bed.

He returned to the turbolift, narrowing his eyes at each corridor he passed. 

It was on this deck that he and Antero confronted the “alien”. If the then Ensign Antero Flynn hadn't tackled him, who knows what would happen.

But that was then, now he had other foes to face, specially himself. 

That was why he was facing his fears. Head on, back on the saddle. And there was one thing he needed to do, one place where he felt he should be to gain strength, to feel inspired, a sort of charm for good luck. Even if he wasn’t superstitious. Because being superstitious brings bad luck. 

He entered the turbolift directing it with a strong voice.

Silveira: Bridge

The turbolift door’s slide shut and he stood in attention in the empty lift.

  

((USS Columbia, deck 1, Bridge))

Vitor stood for a second. It was as if he was returning home, after being away for so many years. Standing at ease he stepped into the bridge, walking to the center railing. He was oblivious to those around him.

The tactical station was empty, so he walked to it, standing there a second as he did so many times. He passed his hands through the smooth surface. It had been over six years since he last stood here. 

Here he was again. Fearful, doubtful, submerged with emotions but where he felt he belonged. Back on the saddle because like the last song in his playlist said…

oO When the going gets tough, the tough get going. When the going gets rough, the tough get rough. Oo

And it was. No doubt in his mind that the trek ahead of him was going to be.

Tough and rough. 

With one final look around he turned back to the turbolift.

TBC

Lt. J. G. Vitor S.Silveira

Tactical Officer

USS Resolution, NCC-78145

O238907VS0