Ensign Meris: The Subconscious Mind and the Automatic Hand

[Meris/Brian]

(( Promenade – Deep Space 14 ))

 

The promenade was alive with motion. Meris sat quietly at a small public table, a sketchpad resting on one knee. Before them, the open atrium buzzed with energy as traders, officers, and families threaded between the storefronts. The hum of conversation mixed here with the distant echo of an eclectic string ensemble playing near a shuttle that had been parked on the Promenade and turned into a food stand: Souv-lucky Day.

 

In the pilot's hand, a piece of charcoal moved almost of its own accord. Their strokes were light at first, uncertain, then quick and confident, guided by no conscious thought. Automatic drawing was a technique they had once read about in an old Terran art archive. The unfiltered voice of the subconscious drove their hand across the sketch pads surface as they observed all that was around them.

 

They didn’t try to decide what to draw. Allowing their unconscious to decide for them was the point.

 

Their eye flickered from face to face as people passed below. A Bolian Ensign laughing too loudly. A Ferengi child tugging on the sleeve of an impatient parent. A pair of Vulcans debating over a PADD, their words sharp and efficient. Meris’ hand followed the rhythm of the station itself. They felt the pulse of countless lives moving in organized chaos.

 

oO Lines intersect, people intersect. Nothing is linear here. Oo

 

They smudged a shadow with the edge of their thumb, darkening the page where the charcoal had caught a curve of motion. The shapes began to take form, though not one Meris had intended.

 

Their eyes drifted down again. Amid the color and chatter, something unusual stood out. A tall, angular figure was moving through the promenade with an odd kind of grace - an alien grace. Chitin glistened faintly under the overhead lights. The being’s head turned in small, precise movements, antennae shifting gently as they regarded a passing merchant stall.

 

Meris blinked and looked down at their sketchpad. The vague shapes on the page had coalesced into an unmistakable image: a segmented torso, multi-jointed limbs, an intricate lattice of carapace. An insectoid.

 

Before they could analyze the image further, a shadow fell across the page. Meris looked up to find the same insectoid standing directly in front of them.

 

For a moment, their pulse quickened. Encounters with insectoid species were rare even in Starfleet service, and they had never interacted with one this closely before. But after that brief flicker of surprise, they straightened and offered a calm, practiced smile.

 

Meris: Oh... greetings. I was… not expecting company.

 

Naledi: Response.

 

Meris looked down at the sketchbook. They felt the distant tremors of embarrassment brushing at the edges of their psyche. The blush they felt climbing their neck didn't quite reach their cheeks but they nodded, acknowledging they'd been sketching the officer who's uniform color matched their own.

 

Meris: I am Lieutenant Meris. I am the new helm officer aboard the USS Thor. I was... sketching. It seems I was sketching you, in fact.

 

They held the pad out slightly, allowing the insectoid to see the image, unsure if the gesture would be understood or appreciated.

 

Naledi: Response.

 

Meris: I hope you don’t mind. Sometimes my hands move faster than my awareness. I was practicing a type of sketching called automatic drawing where you purposefully do not allow yourself to focus on any one thing. Your subconscious chooses your subject.

 

Naledi: Response.

 

(( Tags/TBC ))

 

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Ensign Meris

Helmsperson

USS Thor

A240207M14