Making Friends With The Shadows On My Wall

Posted on Sep 22, 2015 @ 11:40pm by Lieutenant James Barton
Edited on on Sep 22, 2015 @ 11:41pm

Mission: Civil War

“Making Friends With Shadows on my Wall” (continued from 'Forgiveness')


=[/\]=


“I'm friends with the monster that's under my bed.

I get along with the voices inside of my head.

You're trying to save me; stop holding your breath.

But if you think I'm crazy...

But if you think I'm crazy...

Well...

That's not fair...” - 'The Monster' by Eminem


=[/\]=


LOCATION: USS PHOENIX

SCENE: Temporary Quarters of James Barton

TIME INDEX: Prior to “Life's a Beach”


It took him four tries to get out of the door to the quarters they'd given him.


The first time, he was stopped by a stabbing pain in his chest as soon as he stood. The Vulcan doctor who'd overseen most of his rebuilding had told him that recovery should be mostly painless, so long as he got a lot of rest and took it easy. He'd grunted and nodded a halfhearted assent, but inside of an hour he'd been doing a series of endurance stretches within his new quarters. He couldn't resist; the days inside sickbay piled atop the days in Shantytown without the space to exercise had pushed his patience beyond its limits. Now, after a day of ignoring sound medical advice, his chest burned, and occasional breaths were accompanied by a runner's stitch pain that made him want to cry out. It was one of these that dropped him back into his chair once he'd decided to leave.


The second time, after he'd waited about ten minutes, he'd managed to make it halfway across the room before his step faltered as he thought about a destination. He knew he needed to get out of the quarters immediately. Though they were bare of any but the most basic of furnishing, the carpet was thick and soft beneath his boots, the bedspread was clean and warm, and the replicator had been activated. To someone who had grown comfortable in the depths of LIMBO, they were seemed impossibly opulent, uncomfortably so. He couldn't escape the sensation that, any moment, someone would burst him and insist that he keep his disgusting hands, or shoes, or person away from their finery. But it wasn't the strangeness of the quarters that was driving him away, it was how terribly familiar they were. How many times had James Barton been assigned to quarters that looked just as similar? Too many to count, or at least it felt that way.


But though he needed to escape, he knew that he couldn't wander aimlessly. Even if his body could have handled a long excursion, he wasn't sure what he'd be allowed as far as wandering rights. Kane had been kind enough to allow Barton the use of the quarters until the refugees disembarked, but it'd be a mistake to believe that the Irish captain and he had mended fences. So he would need to head somewhere that he could offer a justification for, if he were to be stopped by one of Kass' patrols. That limited his options, but not as much as he realized he was hoping for. It seemed like he had too many options of places to go and each of them were terrible.


He could head down to Shantytown to find Silsby and his deputies, thank them for their service, and retrieve his knapsack. While there, he could also receive a heaping of contempt for his handling of the riots and for his perceived betrayal by backing Starfleet when he'd been stirring up the refugees against them, per Embry's directives. If his luck held, they would also have gotten word of his past, exposing his lie to everyone he'd dealt with since coming aboard and those he'd have to make his home beside on Elandipole.


Barring a trip to the Cargo Bay, he could visit what remained of Arthur in Sickbay. He hadn't bothered to get the full story of what had happened to the former diplomat in the Phoenix's auxiliary bridge. He didn't want to know even what he knew already – what was as plain as the nose on Arthur's drooling face – that Selyara Chen had reached into Arthur's psyche and scooped out the bulk of his identity like she was deseeding a cantaloupe. He wasn't under any illusions and he knew that Arthur had pushed her to the point of doing so; that much had been broadcast, seemingly as a stroke of cruelty by Embry. But Barton couldn't keep himself from believing that, somehow, the worst of all of it could have been avoided if Embry had just gotten a little more consideration at the beginning. He'd worked alongside the man into several late evenings and he'd seen what he wasn't sure any of the Phoenix crew had – how smart Arthur was, and how passionately devoted he'd been to making Shantytown a decent place. They hadn't seen his work ethic, or his infectious optimism. He knew that Arthur Embry was a madman, but he'd also seen a lot of good in the older man. In that way, he wasn't too far from... The old doors slammed shut, just as they'd done for as long as he'd been Jacen Barnes, but he forced them open and demanded of himself that he finish the thought. In that way, he wasn't too far from Edward Barton, the college professor who'd raised him with love, than ruined his life with madness and fire. Yes, there was a lot of Edward Barton in Arthur Embry, or, at least there had been when there had been any Arthur Embry in Arthur Embry. Yes, he could go visit Arthur in Sickbay and stare all of those old ghosts in their bleeding eyes, while also thinking about his own experience with Selyara's mind and how much worse it could have gone and how much worse it could get from here, living with a ghost of her in his brain, and that would be the kind of excruciating pain that Klingons wrote poetry about.


Finally, he realized that he should find Kass. He wasn't sure what she was to him, but whatever it was, she was the best one he'd had since he'd given up on having friends, and he didn't want her leaving Elandipole before they'd buried the hatchet, if there was a hatchet to bury. Part of him wondered if he was making the whole thing up in his head, just because he liked to look for problems and felt more productive when he actually found them. He could find her and let her tear him apart for abandoning his duty and breaking his oaths. Then, he could get defensive and attack her right back, dragging her over the coals for every moment that she didn't tell him the truth of the Phoenix's exodus from Starfleet. Instead of owning his mistakes and apologizing for not even showing her the respect of giving her his real name after she'd stuck her ass in the wind for him, he could project all of his guilt onto her and make sure that she'd leave the star system cursing his name.


Those were the options available to him, as best as he saw them, and his great courage and strength of character gave him the resolve he needed to turn around and sit back in his chair for another half hour, hiding from the possibility of any of it.


Finally, when he'd silently berated himself enough to motivate action, he crossed the room and reached for the door controls. The voice that came from the bathroom stopped him this time. “I come too, daddy!” The voice drifted towards him on a current of raw joy, an exuberance that toed the line of an excited shriek. It had been a sound the boy had made often. He found himself anticipating the splash that would come as Michael jumped out of the bath, and he was already opening his mouth to answer back, to pointlessly tell him not to run on the wet floor, but then he remembered that the voice was a dead lie come back from long ago to watch him bleed. He had to not forget that Michael was dead. Forgetting that made it get bad again. He needed to remember-


“please, no...”


REMEMBER THAT!


He opened his eyes and felt the softness of the carpet on his cheek. He pushed himself up onto his hands and glanced around. He was pleased not to see any overturned furniture. He was pleased to see he wasn't bleeding. He was pleased to see he was still alone and still in the room. He glanced at the chronometer and was pleased that it was only four minutes later than it had been when he was reaching for the door controls. Four minutes was fine. Four minutes was practically no time at all.


Like it didn't happen at all.


On the fourth try, he made it outside of his door and into the hallway of the Phoenix. After considering the myriad of tortures he was sure to face at each of the options available to him, he'd chosen what struck him as the only possible answer: he was going to have to visit each of them.


=[/\]=


SCENE: Cargo Bay Three


The process of moving the refugee population out of the cargo bays had already begun, but with three bays to clear and the procedures being used to clear them being basically improvised, it wasn't going particularly quickly. The collection of makeshift lean-tos, tents, and hovels looked to have faced a capricious tornado; in some places they sat just as he'd last seen them a few days ago, in others shelters would be half torn apart, and not a few feet away from those, they had been swept away down to the shiny polish of the deck beneath. There were fewer people now, less of an omnipresent crush around him, but that wasn't to say that the bay was close to deserted, either. Well over a thousand souls had yet to emigrate from the Phoenix, and as he stepped through the cargo bay doors, he would swear that he could feel the eyes of each of them swing towards him.


There was no warmth in any of their faces. Some of them twisted their lips up into scornful sneers, others shook their heads softly at his approach. On a few of the faces, his approach caused eyes to widen and color to drain away – mostly, he noted, those faces belonged to the men who had paid lip service to assisting him, but who had actually owed their allegiances to Arthur Embry. The details of Embry's fate weren't common knowledge, but it was widely understood that he wouldn't be joining any of the refugees in their new life on the beaches of Elandipole. Now that their puppet-master was gone, it was obvious that a few of his former charges feared reprisal from the one-time sheriff, and while he had no intent to deliver their comeuppance, neither did he care enough to set their minds at ease. So when he saw those men and he saw their jaws slacken at his approach, he squinted at them and gave them his most inscrutable (he hoped) nod of his chin. Let them know they had been seen and leave them to wonder about his intentions. It wasn't their faces that troubled him, instead it was the looks he received from the rest of his former neighbors.


Some feared him. Some only distrusted him. Some hated him outright. He heard whispers as he passed, words like “Starfleet,” “traitor,” “murderer,” and “spy.” He knew, even as the whispers danced to him, that there would be no point in wheeling around and trying to find their source. Most came from people who would quickly look away and disappear back into the crowds and the rest came from inside his own head.


At first, he tried to smile, to nod, to put people at ease, but he was surprised to find that the more he attempted to placate them, the worse their scorn hurt him, so it wasn't long before he was back to his old ways: shuffling along, avoiding eye contact, saying nothing, insanely trying to sneak his ogrish frame unnoticed through a world too small and too hostile for him.


As he began to ask himself what he'd hoped to achieve by coming here, he was surprised by a portly shape drifting into his path and coming to rest. He was used to people unthinkingly moving out of his way, and he'd learned that anytime people didn't, trouble was likely to follow. His eyes narrowed, and he became even surer of trouble's imminence when he recognized the portly, ginger-haired fellow in front of him.


Steiner had an ugly “raccoon mask,” two deeply discolored black eyes connected to a nose recently broken and badly reset. Despite this, his expression was smugly satisfied – in fact, Barton noted, it wasn't greatly dissimilar from the disgusting grin he'd worn while Selyara told his mind lies about the carnal acts his body was engaged in. He fixed his piggy eyes on Barton and, after quickly glancing to his side to ensure that he was flanked by friends, a greasy grin broke across his lips. “Well, lookee here, boys. Looks like we're getting paid a visit by the old sheriff. Whatsamatter, Barnes, ain't you got your Starfleet buddies to pal around with?”


“Leave me be, Steiner.”


“Or what? You gonna have your Marines come in and start cracking heads again? Gonna beam me into the transporters and leave me there? Or are you just going to stir people up and try to get them to do your fighting for you like you and Embry did last time?”


Barton's eyes flashed, realizing that Steiner was not only trying to tie him even closer with Embry and his ruined reputation, but Steiner was also rewriting history to distance himself from the former diplomat. He let his eyes settle heavily on Steiner's own, and he saw the smaller man flinch, afraid that he'd gone too far. But the red-headed man recovered his resolve quickly, needing only to glance around again and confirm the numbers advantage. Barton recognized Harper, but the other two flanking Steiner were new to him.


All at once, he realized that in the absence of Embry's guiding manipulations, his own obstinate insistence on offering protection, or much direct influence from their Starfleet benefactors, nature's abhorrence on a power vacuum had tapped Steiner for a leadership role within the new community. Briefly, his stomach turned at the thought, but then he reconsidered. Steiner was a pig, no two ways about that, but not even Barton could dispute that he'd done the job that had been asked of him under dangerous circumstances. He'd taken knocks and received medical care far more slapdash than what Barton had received, and yet here he was, still working. For all Barton knew, that willingness to do the job might benefit Steiner's neighbors as they made the difficult transition from refugees to colonists.


“I'm not looking for trouble, Steiner. I'm just passing through.”


Steiner looked intensely pleased with himself. “You better be. You'd just better be. You're not calling the shots anymore around here.”


“I know that.”


For just an instant, Steiner's eyes narrowed as he tried to figure out if Barton's passivity was a stratagem or genuine. “And when we get down to Land Pole, you're not gonna be in charge there, either.”


“Elandipole,” Barton corrected. “With an 'E.'”


“Shut up,” Steiner growled, as his entourage made a great show of trying to look subtly intimidating. “I'm not putting up with your horseshit anymore, Barnes. You may think you're something special just cause you used to be in Starfleet, but nobody else does. If you were so smart, they wouldn't have kicked you out in the first place, would they?”


Barton would be damned before he gave Steiner the satisfaction of engaging with him on his past, even if only to correct the doughy bastard. “Right,” he said with a dead-eyed stare.


“And you and your buddies didn't make any friends dragging people off of LIMBO, breaking up their families and keeping us all locked up in here like animals. So don't go thinking that you're some kind of hero for getting us here, because you're not.”


James Barton didn't bother to point out that it hadn't been the Starfleet crew who had decided to exile humanity from LIMBO, nor that most of the families that had been broken up had done so only when weeping parents had desperately thrust their children forward in fervent hope that they'd make their way aboard the starship. He didn't bother to point out that a great many of the refugees – families, children, many of the elderly – had been housed in comfort, though dark comfort due to the power restrictions imposed on the entire ship. Barton let all of that roll over him, quietly staring a hole through his former deputy and growling, “I ain't never claimed to be a hero, Steiner.”


They stood there for just a moment longer, each fixing the other with a dangerously humorless smile, before the new sheriff, or whatever Steiner was now, signaled to his escort and they strode away. Barton watched them go, torn between a need to chase Steiner down and beat him into pulpy juice and a humiliating embarrassment that he would even let such trash get under his skin so deeply. Barton glanced around, hating himself for bothering to hope that he wouldn't be a spectacle, and not surprised at all to see that there were still a half dozen pairs of eyes glued to his every move.


“Liar...”


“Terrorist...”


He ignored the whispers as he crossed the distance across the bay towards where 'his' bunk and Silsby's tent lay. He hadn't seen the smaller blonde man since he'd left Shantytown with Selyara, leaving Silsby, a man who prided himself on being friends with everyone in every situation, staring into a sea of hostile, tear-gassed rioters, standing at the controls of the transporter that had stolen their friends away, with only a contraband Ferengi disruptor to keep the furious crowd at bay.


It was a dick move and he felt bad about it. Not least because he owed Silsby more than he knew how to explain. Jacen Barnes had been a cipher to most who saw him and half a laughingstock to anyone who knew his name. He was a man without friends and without favors to call in. He'd initially tapped Virgo because the smaller man struck him as outgoing and personable, which Barton had hoped would cover his own deficiency of graces. He hadn't expected the nearly limitless contacts, keen eye for trustworthy talent, and astute advice that Silsby had provided him with since the beginning of their endeavor, but he imagined that without those things, the body count associated with Embry's machinations would be considerably higher.


Now, after Silsby had found the right men and women to comprise Barton's secret police force, after he had approached them and negotiated and cajoled them into contributing their skills and talents discreetly, after he had lead them as Barton's lieutenant in the sheriff's stead, after he had done all that, Barton had been given comfortable private quarters and Silsby had remained locked in the cargo bay, under the watchful eye of Kass' Marines. And, perhaps worst of all, Barton had failed to come through with the promised payment for his service.


He stood outside Silsby's tent, where the whole misguided partnership had begun, and stretched his finger out to THWACK against the fabric of the tent. A second time, and then again. He heard Silsby's curse, and then that was followed immediately by a response from several other voices from within the tent. Barton frowned. It seemed like TOO many voices... There came the sound of grunting, and he could see a series of heads, or elbows, or maybe knees against the fabric of the tent.


The tent zipped open and Silsby was there, his rougishly handsome disheveled style looking much more disheveled and much less handsome than usual. The bags under his eyes were dark, and the way they darted around, searching for danger, troubled Barton. He'd heard from Kass' Marine guards at the gate that there hadn't been any outbreaks of violence in days. It seemed like the proposition of finally escaping the Cargo Bay and building a new life in an ocean paradise was inspiring a little of the old brotherhood of man among the refugees. But Silsby didn't look like he was getting a lot of that brotherly love tossed his way. His tired eyes fixed on Barton and hardened in anger. “Go to Hell.”


“Virgo. Look, I'm... Can I step inside?”


“No.”


Barton loosed a heavy sigh. “I'm sorry, okay. I-”


Without another word, Virgo Silsby disappeared into the tent. Barton was left standing, mouth hanging open and blinking at nothing. A moment later, the smaller man reappeared at the entry to the tent. He was holding the leather knapsack that Barton had entrusted him back when he had been Jacen Barnes. “Here. Take this.” He thrust it into the former officer's hands.


Moving his hands over the knapsack, Barton could feel the picture frame and the bound volume inside, alongside the clothing within. The weight of the past contained within – his past, thrust once again into his hands unexpectedly – dropped him rudely into silence.


“Go on,” Silsby demanded.


Barton's voice returned to him. “Silsby. I just wanted to let you know that... Look, I feel like an asshole trying to talk out here where people are looking at me.”


“Too bad, fella! You can't come in cause there's no room at the inn for your big ugly ass!”


As if on cue, a female voice came from within the tent. “Virgo, who's out there?”


“You won't even believe it, but we've got ourselves a special visit by the man himself. Mr. Jacen Barnes, otherwise known as Jason Barton.”


The one-time sheriff's brow crinkled in confusion. “Jason Barton?”

“You didn't think I'd find out? I heard it from Win Win.”


“What Win?”


“Nguyen. The terrifying Marine that was in here with Stacy.”


“Which one's Stacy?”


“Okay, not even you're that blind, Barnes. What do you mean, 'Which one's Stacy?'”

“Oh, she's the one with the, uh-?”


Silsby couldn't get all the way through the word without a lascivious chuckle. “Yeaaaah...” Suddenly, the goodwill brought on by the memory of Lance Corporal Stacy Flannagan burned away and the scowl was reborn on his face.


The female voice came from inside again, “What does he want?” Though the voice was familiar, what concerned Barton was the way she made clear her feelings about him. They obviously weren't friendly.


“Is that Nguyen,” he asked Silsby, pointing at the tent and the unseen woman inside.


“Marta,” Silsby corrected him, then he immediately looked disgusted with himself.


“Villalobos?” The woman was one of the ones Silsby had brought to him, and while he hadn't gotten the chance to get to know her well, she'd made a good impression on him. According to her, she had no background in any kind of security work, and she kept her reasons for joining his endeavor to counter Embry close to her vest, but she had been consistently calm and capable. He'd heard from Guerrero and Maines that she had taken an ugly beating in the riots while defending the refugees housed in the 'safe zone' quarters. She'd been triaged and out of Sickbay before he'd awakened from his own treatment, so he hadn't seen her. He moved for the flap of the tent and Silsby could see that the larger man wasn't even taking his presence into account. He was a non-entity in the ugly behemoth's thought process and he saw his best move was to just veer away to safety, like a seagull avoiding a battleship.


As Silsby danced around him, Barton dropped to his knees and thrust his head and shoulders into the tent, then he stopped. He'd been surprised to think that Villalobos had fallen for Silsby's attentions – the he hadn't struck Barton as her type – but he'd assumed that to be the case when he'd realized she was calling to Virgo from within the tent. So he was surprised to see her sitting, arm in a sling and with a vicious purple bruise on one cheek, fully clothed and alongside Salvador Guerrero and Cam Carter. There were cards in front of each of them, and he could see a fourth back where Silsby was sitting before his arrival. His former deputies looked as if they had been competing to see who could get the least sleep. The aroma of bodies was thick within the tent, as if they hadn't left the tent in days. He pushed himself backwards out of the tent, and looked up at Silsby who stood over him.


“What's going on,” he asked, pushing himself back to standing.


“Nothing at all, we all just figured we'd camp in each other's laps for a few days,” Virgo sneered at him. “What do you think's going on? We're watching out for each other as best we can.” Barton gave him a quizzical look. “People are pissed at us. They're exceptionally pissed at you and they're pissed at us for going along with you. Everyone figures we were lying to them, most folks think we're probably Starfleet spies. Just about everybody's got some reason that you and Starfleet are to blame for getting us all thrown off LIMBO in the first place. You left me standing there pointing a weapon at everyone who lived in here while you went running to save people out there!”


“But you guys had nothing to do with that.”


“Yeah. I know that. But the bitch is, we can't get anyone to listen when we tell 'em that. So we've got people knifing our stuff, and Guerrero's entire ration allotment just disappeared, and if that Maines kid hadn't found Marta when he did two days ago, she'd have gotten a second round of what she got in the Safe Zone. So would you mind telling everybody?”


“Where's Maines?”


“He's with Hennig and the Vulcan in their own tent. “


Barton sighed. “Look, Virgo, I can fix this. I'll talk to Kass and-”


Silsby put a palm in his face, cutting off his promises. “Save it, Jason. Your Marines aren't gonna help us. They've already started deferring to Steiner and his guys – part of 'letting the colony establish itself organically.' And Steiner has made it perfectly clear that he's not losing sleep over our troubles, so we're on our own. Best thing we can do is just stay out of people's way while this thing blows over and people forget all about what we did for you. That'll happen a lot faster once you get yourself gone.”


Barton felt embarassment wash over him, even warming his ears in shame. He knew that Silsby was entirely correct – he had traded on the goodwill of other people and it had cost them dearly, both presently and in their prospects for their futures with their new neighbors. Even knowing that the worst of the contempt was reserved for himself didn't ease his guilt, because he knew that he could bear it better than the rest of them. He'd chosen it for himself, and unwittingly tricked them into wearing it themselves. He hoisted his knapsack and nodded at his former deputy. “Okay. I'm going,” he took just a few steps before he turned back to Silsby, who was watching him go. “There are a lot of people alive who wouldn't be. That's all because of you, and the rest of you in there. I want you to know I know that.”


For a moment, Silsby didn't respond, instead he just watched the former sheriff with impassive eyes. Then, he nodded and spoke, though his tone didn't warm. “Thank you, Jason. I'll pass that along.”


“It's not Jason,” Barnes said, so quickly that he surprised even himself.


Silsby blinked, “What?”


“My name's not Jason. Win Win told you wrong. It's James. James Barton. My...” his voice trailed off.


“What,” Virgo asked.


Barton coughed and found his voice again. “My friends call me...or they used to call me... um, Jim.”


He wasn't sure what he expected Silsby to say in response, but he couldn't deny that watching the smaller man turn without a word and negotiate his way back into the tent was disappointing. He felt the weight of the knapsack on his back, the sum of all his possessions returned to him, and resolved to not let the disappointment trouble him further. After all, he thought, if being Jim Barton wasn't disappointing, he would never have given up on it in the first place.


=[/\]=


SCENE: SICKBAY


When he was a young man, he'd once read the journals of an ancestor of his who'd lived in the late 20th century. His father, the anthropologist, had repeatedly insisted to him that what made the journals fascinating was that their writer had came of age alongside a new global information network that had gone on to color and influence Humanity as it made its first faster-than-light forays into a larger Galaxy. What he'd found much more fascinating were the tiny, nearly inconsequential details that either had changed to extremity or not at all. He had commiserated with the young man of so many years ago who had tried to make an appealing impression on a young lady while being entirely distracted by the copious amounts of sweat coming from the palms of his “stupid, stupid, idiot monster hands.” He'd been entirely mystified by the seemingly unjustified drama over a personal transport constructed around an internal combustion engine. He couldn't understand the desperate need for such transport, the enmity that had developed between the journal's writer and his parents over the acquisition and safe operation the vehicle, the elation when it had finally been purchased, or the heartbreak when it was “totaled” less than a year later. It was the juxtaposition of the progress of time and its sometimes unchanging nature that had drawn him to the books.


One of the strongest sensations of timelessness had struck him when he'd read of his ancestor's hatred for the smell of medical facilities. Four hundred years later, he'd been gratified to know that he wasn't the only one who couldn't bear the olfactory residue of the medication, the antiseptics, and the sickness in such areas. As a teenager, he openly wondered why no one had never seen fit to solve the problem of the hospital stink and now, as he stood in Sickbay as a much older adult, he silently asked himself the same question again.


It stank. It was exactly the opposite, but somehow equally as bad, as if someone had dropped a pile of rot and putresence in the middle of the floor. Beyond that, it was too bright. It seemed unkind that the lights were bright enough to perform surgery by when there were three people obviously sleeping under them. For running on such a skeleton crew, the long-term biobed region of the PHOENIX's sickbay had surprisingly few vacancies. He recognized one of the two women there as the one who had been with Arthur in the corridors after the riot broke out. The other was unknown to him. He was ignoring both of them and facing the third bed. It seemed like, with the captain having ordered shore leave for the majority of his crew, he and the three comatose patients were the only inhabitants of Sickbay. He turned his attention on the bed in front of him.


The creature there looked both every bit, and not at all, a man. He had eyes, and a nose, and lips and teeth, but he didn't stare. He barely breathed. He neither spoke, nor smiled. Sometimes his lips worked against something invisible, twitching and writhing, but not in any expression that Barton could identify. He'd heard the medical staff refer to good days – even that Arthur had been heard to utter a word or two – but in neither of his visits so far, had he seen any sign that such a thing was possible.


So he talked. It wasn't comfortable. Arthur had done most of the speaking in their relationship previously, but he did the best he could.


“The beam down has started,” he said while he fingered the leather knapsack in his lap. “Seems like it's going well. Things are quiet, mostly, in the cargo bay. It looks like Steiner has taken on a leadership role. That might have been what you planned for him, I guess.”


The biobed beeped back at him, though if it was meant to be a response, he didn't know how to interpret it.


“Anyway, I haven't been down to the planet yet. I figure once I go down, they're probably not going to let me back up and I wanted to take advantage of having those quarters to myself for a few more nights, if I can swing it. But I hear it's insanely nice. Great weather. Lots of resources. I'm not exactly a fan of seafood, so that's gonna be an adjustment, but I figure I'll get hungry enough eventually. I don't suppose you were big into seafood, were you?”


No answer.


“Well, I don't imagine it'd make much difference anyway. I don't know if the medical facilities they're putting up will be enough to take care of you, anyway. So you'll probably be staying with these Starfl...with these folks when they leave. They've probably got a better chance of getting you some help, so that's probably for the best.”


No answer.


“So, when I go down, I probably won't see you again after that. So, uh... I dunno. I wanted to say thanks. For what you tried to do for folks in the Cargo Bay. You weren't wrong; that was a messed up situation for people to find themselves in. You tried to help out when a lot of people were either only looking out for themselves or trying to solve every problem by beating someone's brains in. That was me and your ideas were better. At first. So thanks. And I'm sorry that I went behind your back like I did. I just didn't think you would... You weren't making a whole lot of sense there at the end. I never wanted to make an asshole out of you, I was just trying to keep people from getting hurt. I'm sorry.


“Well, then, you're even dumber than you look.”


Barton blinked, stunned, feeling hope and horror mingle within him as he searched Embry's face, only to realize that it was just as blank and slack as it had been moments before. Then, he realized that the voice had come from behind him. Red-faced, he whirled to face a smaller, older man. He wore a sardonic expression behind a two day beard. His stare was withering, and would have been moreso were it not for the Hawaiian shirt he was wearing and the zinc that covered his nose. Barton had seen him in Sickbay before, enough to know three things: the man was named Foster, he was the chief medico on the PHOENIX, and Barton didn't like him. “Which, let's be honest, is considerable.”


“Do you mind? I'm trying to-”


“Are you actually asking me that? Because, if so, yeah, I do. Actually, even if you're not actually asking me, I mind. I mind anyone being here who isn't a trained professional but I tolerate it because I'd prefer not to hear Kane's lectures on bedside manner. I mind *you* being here because it seems like every time you come around, I end up having to rebuild Thytos. I mind you being here *right now* because I have an appointment with something that is equal parts rum and tiny umbrellas down on the surface while you are here wandering around my sickbay unsupervised and blathering worthless apologies to a psychopath who's not listening to you.” He stopped and gave Barton a scrutinizing stare. “Catholic?”


“What?”


“Nevermind. Probably not. You don't look bright enough to grasp the nuances of the guilt complexes.”


“You really want to talk about looking stupid dressed like that and with that shit all over your face?”


“To you? Yes, because first, protecting yourself from sunburn is the rarest trinity in medicine in that it's easy to do, effective, and cheap. Second, because I can change my shirt but you're stuck with whatever caveman package they jammed into you while you were stuck in the tube, so I think I've got plenty of material to work with.”


“Okay, so I've had my genetics altered,” Barton conceded the point. “Who's to say I didn't augment my mental capacity as well?”


“Returns on those kinds of modification are based on your initial capacity and the age at which you receive the treatments. Even if you did get a brain builder packed in there, you obviously weren't very bright before you got the treatments or you never would have let them do what they did to you in the first place. And being full grown-”


Despite himself, Barton couldn't help but grin. He was half-tempted to lay Foster out, but something about the doctor's utter lack of self-censorship or remorse in his dismissive Sherlock Holmes act insulated him against the larger man's temper. He found himself rising to the doctor's bait. “How do you know I was full grown-?”


“Because I saw your service record, Jimmy.” Barton felt the grin fall away from his face. “Oh, did you forget that not everyone is as stupid as you are?”


Barton turned his attention back to Arthur. “Just give me a couple minutes. I'll get out of your hair.”


“Actually, I've been waiting in that office since you came in and my patience is run through, so why don't we just call your visit over now?”


“I'll just be a minute-”


“No, you won't. He can't hear you and you're not saying anything worthwhile, so you're done wasting my time.”


“Jesus, why are you such a dick? Just let me-”


“Pot and kettle, Jimmy. You think I'm a dick because I'm not postponing my shore leave so you can whisper sweet nothings to your girlfriend? Guess what I think of a guy who walked out on Starfleet to blow up little kids on Vulcan. Go ahead, guess. We've patched you back up as a courtesy, primarily because you have brought back our dearest little Major when she gets herself broken and, for no reason I can explain, I don't actually hold her in pure abject contempt, but now that all of you Limboners are getting the boot, that's the end of that, so it's the end of you in my sickbay. Don't like it, take it up with Kane. I heard you two are best buddies so I'm sure he'll see it your way.”


Barton hated himself when he caught himself looking to the barely alive shell of Arthur Embry – for support, for defense? - he wasn't sure but he hated himself nonetheless. He guessed he wouldn't be so bothered if the doctor's estimation had been based on fewer facts. Again, the notion of breaking bones in the doctor's face came to him like an angel with cool water, but he forced off the notion. Kass might get away with that shit being a member of the crew, but he knew that he'd be trading his private quarters for ones with a force field door, so he fought back the impulse to do violence and walked out of Sickbay without another word.


Cade Foster turned to look at Embry. “Is he always such a whiny baby? I thought he was gonna cry. How did you put up with that everyday?” He paused for a long moment and nodded at the comatose diplomat. “Yes, I see. Well, that's harsher than I would be, but I can see your point. You're a real judgemental bastard, Embry. I'm glad you're a vegetable.”


=[/\]=


SCENE: Corridor


*To Hell with all of them, then.*


His first impulse after fleeing Sickbay had been to cut the quickest path back to his quarters that didn't involve squeezing himself through a maintenance hatch. His skin itched and tickled, or as he knew better, he thought it did. He knew that as the tic grew stronger, he'd reach a point where he was rubbing and scratching at himself like his skin had been made host to a colony of ants. It was about even money that, at some point, he'd scratch or rub until he broke and bled. It was a sign, like the others, that it wouldn't be long before the ghosts of Vulcan came for him again. Like the whispers in his quarters, like the blinding impulse to do bloody violence on the good doctor – he knew these things and he knew what they portended.


It had been a mistake to come outside today. It had been compounding that mistake to make this series of pointless visitations. It may have been a mistake to have even come aboard the Phoenix in the first place. No sooner had that notion come to him than the same spark of self-preservation that had driven him off of the station flared, just briefly, in his belly. It hadn't been a mistake to survive. No, where he'd made his mistake was in trying to insinuate himself into the governing of the refugees. He should have kept to himself, stayed near his cot, and kept to his own business. What he should not have done was get caught up in delusions of grandeur and playing make-believe that he was...


His step faltered, just briefly, as he let himself realize that he had been playing Starfleet officer again. Just like the rest of Kane's crew. As deceived as he'd felt, and as deeply as his curiosity burned to understand all the whys and wherefores of their exile from Starfleet, he had to admit that he could understand the desire to pretend they were still what they'd used to be. Perhaps it was something about the décor, he mused. Maybe, to a certain kind of person, surrounding them with the right shade of bulkhead and a few LCARS monitors provoked dutiful service and self-sacrifice, the same way a house of mirrors inspired people to pose ridiculously.


Whatever it was, wherever it came from, he demanded that he concede it had been a mistake. The refugees had shunned him. He was no more endeared of the ersatz Starfleet crew, and neither had prevented him from getting his brains beat in.


*Even though Selyara had saved him, and Silsby had covered him, and Kass had protected him and...*


*To Hell with all of them.*


Soon he was fully locked within the mental feedback loop of those thoughts, stalking through the corridors like a caged animal. He realized that not only was he no longer heading for his quarters, but he was making good time to a different location entirely, and at first he wasn't sure where. Then, as he surged forward through the halls, he realized where he was headed. It had been far too long since he'd had a proper workout and being cramped into the quarters wasn't going to cut it. The ship was empty and he was all but guaranteed to have the Marines' training gym all to himself.


After all, who would be fool enough to hang out on the ship when there was an ocean paradise just waiting on the planet's surface?


=[/\]=


SCENE: Gym


He realized that he should have expected to find Kass in the gymnasium. Of course, she'd be there.


She was in the middle of making a series of half-hearted feints towards a holographic Klingon as he walked into the room, and he could tell from her posture that she hadn't heard him. He resisted the urge to let out an audible * whuff* as the enhanced gravity of the room suddenly latched onto his shoulders and pulled down forcefully. The knapsack, which weighed only a few pounds, was suddenly a considerable inconvenience, and he let it drop to the floor with a thud that seemed incongruous with its small size.


He turned his attention to Kass more fully. Her fighting was off. It was hard to find a better word for it. When he'd been in the Academy, he'd given physical combat no more attention than any of the other subjects he'd had virtually no interest in, though it was enough to ensure that his grades wouldn't suffer. He'd joined the fleet as a capable, if disinterested, combatant. His first posting as a Security chief, or, more specifically, the first training session he'd run with his team immediately after his first posting as a Security chief, showed him that he would need to improve. He was tasked with giving orders and critiquing people who could have broken his bones faster than they would break a sweat. He had immediately dedicated himself to redefining his view of fighting, and as a result, his capacity for it. He'd begun to earn the respect of even the bare-knuckle devotees among his staff on the Odyssey when he'd been reassigned to Gateway, and then left Starfleet weeks later. In his memory, he went from training with his crew to training with his father's students nearly immediately, though he knew that it took months before he'd become so involved with Edward Barton's lunacy. However it happened, though, it happened, and he went from working with Starfleet officers to untrained Vulcans. He'd been forced to adapt to not only their lack of formal combat training to build from, but also their naturally greater physical strength and endurance. Then, his time on Vulcan was over, and it wasn't long before he was earning his way across the Beta quadrant by virtue of his fists and his mean streak. Over the years, he had developed a keen eye for appraising a fighter. Kass was just about as good as anyone he'd seen...or at least she had been on LIMBO. Watching her now, he couldn't help but think that if she'd tried this pussyfooting around with Kalenda the Black, he'd have never reached her before her body went cold.


He thought he should say something, greet her before she noticed him there, spying on her in the dark. But he couldn't think of anything to say to her beyond pointing out the mistakes she was making, and he knew they were similar enough to know that she'd hate that. He would hate that. Then, they would have to talk. She would ask for the whole story and he'd have to lay out the whole Barnes/Barton thing for her and...to hell with it. He decided instead to sneak out the way he'd came; there had to be other gyms on the Phoenix.


Of course, his luck held as solid as it ever did, and in that moment, Kass' facsimile Klingon threw her bodily in a heap at his feet. He watched her stiffen as she caught him on her sensor network, and didn't bother to hide his stare as she turned her sightless eyes towards him. Any real Klingon worth half an ounce of Targ piss would have pressed the advantage, but her current opponent was outright courteous, and stood quietly while they stared at one another.


She seemed to be on the verge of speaking. He didn't know if she was more afraid that she'd ask him questions or give him answers. Neither seemed an attractive proposition. He found himself hoping that she'd forget how to talk, or experience sudden-onset lockjaw, but as he realized that wouldn't happen he resolved to beat her to the punch. He could say anything, and it would be better than having to explain or be explained to. Just so long as he didn't say something awful like...


“Your weave is too exaggerated, inefficient, and you're not light enough on your leading foot.” He heard the words coming out of his mouth,


*Shit,* he thought. He was reaching out a hand now, doing the decent, human thing and offering her assistance, even as he continued to press forward on his unasked for critique. His mind checked in with what his mouth was saying and was appropriately mortified to discover that he was now directly referencing her blindness and her sensor nets.


Instead of calling him out for his insensitivity, Kass deactivated the Klingon program and called him out to the ring, tossing him a pair of wrist wraps and using the nickname she'd evidently decided on for him. 'Jebediah,' he really didn't mind so much, but even if he couldn't remember the last time he'd fallen short of the moniker, 'Chastity' wasn't going to be anybody's favorite handle. “School me,” Kass was saying, beckoning him on with one finger, like someone had gotten their Greek mythology confused and had packed warfare and seduction into the same demigod.


He was surprised by how unprepared her invitation caught him. They were both the kind to find their joy somewhere between the moments they were punching someone and the moment where someone else was punching them back. It was part of their connection, and it was only natural for them to eventually test each other. But for all that, he realized that he didn't want to spar with her. He was tired of being beaten on, tired of throwing blows of his own. Also, he was scared to let himself relax that way when the voices were whispering in his ears. That was an invitation to trouble he didn't want or need. “I don't think that's a good idea, I just came in here for a workout before I started to help them set up the security and law enforcement center on Elandipole.” The lie didn't come to him easily, but he wasn't sure how she'd respond to him telling her he was tired of violence, and frightened. He hoped it was convincing, but he guessed from the shadow that crossed her face that it wasn't. She probably knew he'd taken a backseat to any of the establishment of the colony.


“Why isn't it a good idea,” she asked, and it seemed to him like she was digging at his untruth, working to expose him. He abandoned the lie as he quickly as he'd taken it up.


“It's not a good idea because it's not a good idea.” His felt his temper spike; why couldn't she just listen to him. What was it about these people that made them so deathly allergic to listening?


She looked as if she was about to tear him a new one, but then stunned him when she began talking instead about the way she was being treated by the crew of her ship. He could see how it hurt her to explain how they made her to feel an outcast. That was one of the differences between them: he had grown accustomed to thinking of himself as a monster on his own, Kass thought of herself as one belonging to this ship and her crew. Though it might be easy to envy her for the friendships and support she had, he also sympathized with how it must feel to be so feared by those you called your own. It was a different kind of loneliness she dealt with.


He tried to explain she was wrong, and she pressed him. He tried to explain to her his thinking, how it felt to have an entire life resurrected inside of you against your will, then have it exposed to two populations of strangers. He tried to explain how it felt to go home again, but he could do no better at that than every poet who'd ever tried, and failed, to capture the feeling. So, instead of pressing on with the hard work of telling the truth, he decided to take the easy road of getting punched.


As he wrapped his hands, he figured that he'd just play defense, let her tire herself out by throwing her aggression into him, time and time again. It seemed the friendly thing to do, so he kept his guard high and his eyes open as he circled her, waiting for her to begin her offensive rhythm. She'd rolled her eyes when she finally moved in, making her disgust for his defensive approach clear, even as she loosed a kick at his midsection. He evaded it easily, letting his mind begin to fade away, only paying passing attention to Kass' movements. Most of his cognitive power was focused on replaying his mistakes with the refugees, with Kane, with Embry. Suddenly, he realized that he had taken his focus off of the fight when he realized that Kass was standing stock still in front of him, defiantly jutting her petite chin towards the meaty fist he was had thrown her direction. As he forced his hand to slow, he saw her eyes darken and knew he'd messed up badly.


She was shouting now. Screaming at him. He could see moisture in one of her eyes. He let her anger wash over him, rolling across his shoulders and down his back like ocean waves. He didn't argue, or correct her, or defend himself. He knew better; it was like the voices whispered to him, even now, he was ruined and he would ruin everything. Kass was beginning to understand that, so she was beginning to hate him. That was fine. He'd been hated before.


“DO YOU REMEMBER THAT?” The blood in his veins turned to ice water, and he found himself staring at her through new eyes. Part of him desperately screamed that her words meant nothing – that they were an awful coincidence – but the whispers told him that wasn't true. She had exposed herself, they told him. She was a part of the whispers, part of the galaxy's mechanism for just vengeance. She hated him, had hated him from the beginning, and had only played his friend to manipulate him. To maneuver him into a vulnerable position where his past could be dredged up and put on display. She'd been part of it all along.


*No,* his rational mind pleaded with him. *That's crazy. It doesn't make any sense! She's my friend!”


Then, while he tried to beat off the lightning of his fury with his fists, Kass lunged at him and knocked all of his reason, and fear, and guilt away. She hit him just hard enough that he lost his grip on everything but his anger and his hurt, and he failed to notice as everything about himself he wanted to be slipped away.


There was nothing left now but the killing urge, and the need to satiate it on Kassasndra Thytos.


He began to throw real strikes instead of the placating feints he'd given her earlier. They weren't particularly fast, or expertly aimed. There was nothing of skill in his movement now; it was all animal cunning and the desire to cause pain. Her jabs and counterstrikes became coming in faster, with more intensity, now as she realized the danger of her situation, and more of them landed as well. He shrugged them off, unfeeling. Let her wound him, it wouldn't save her.


She pirouetted away from one of his blows, throwing herself off balance and tumbling to the ground outside of the sparring ring. He didn't care. If she thought escaping outside of some arbitrary boundary would protect her, then she would just die surprised and that was fine with him. He moved to fall on her like an avalanche.


Quicker than a hiccup, she reached out to the weight rack and sent one of the circular disks flying towards him. He twisted to avoid the worst of the impact, but he still felt his shoulder give agonizingly against the flying steel.


Suddenly, he was staring at the light glinting off of the disk as it rolled along its edge and came to a rest. It reminded him of looking into an eclipse and how they'd always said you should never do that...

Pieces began to fall together. He remembered meeting her. He remembered walking in here. He remembered so much of it that it was maddening when he realized that his memory faded while she had been yelling at her. They had been standing only a few feet apart, and she had been angry, but now she was on the ground and he was standing over her and he hurt so much more than he had and she...


She...


He leapt backwards, feeling the barest breath of breeze as the freeweight she swung displaced the air in front of his nose. He didn't even have time to consciously process his thoughts; he just knew that she was trying to kill him and that, tempting though the idea may be, he shouldn't let her, so he snatched her about the waist and held her tight as her own hysteria of pain and fear wore itself away.


Now they were standing there, staring at each other. He couldn't remember what had happened in the last thirty seconds, but he knew that it had been very dangerous and he guessed that it was all his fault. His own and those of the whispers, who were chortling and guffawing at him, and through their mirth they asked him again, and again, and again...


*Remember that?*


For a moment, they stared at each other, and then she was gone.


=[/\]=


SCENE: Barton's Quarters


He never should have left. He knew that now, so here he would stay. Losing time wasn't so bad if you were all by yourself. There was no one to explain to. There was no one to hurt.


He'd tossed the knapsack aside as soon as he'd walked in. He knew that he'd have to deal with its contents soon, but he didn't have it in him now.


Now, there were much more important tasks to be seen to. He needed to pry the replicator access panels out and figure out how to put the device into a diagnostic mode that would override the safety presets coded into its standard operating systems. It was a classic operation, one perfected anew every year by engineering students at the academy, and it would probably raise a dozen alarms in different systems all throughout the ship. But he didn't care.


When you couldn't count on your mind, to keep your body in check, you needed an ally. His ally would slow his destructive thoughts, would rob him of both strength and coordination, and eventually would gently render him to sleep until tomorrow, when the nightmares would wake him up and he could begin anew.


“Computer,” he began, even as he moved isolinear rods in the replicator's guts, “Kentucky bourbon. Straight...”


=[/\]=


NRPG: Doesn't exactly move things forward, but now at least you know where Barton is, if you need him. (Why would you need him?)


=[/\]=


Dale I. Rasmussen


~writing for~


James Prophecy Barton