Soldiering On

Posted on 04 Oct 2023 @ 4:11pm by Ensign Orion Belmont

837 words; about a 4 minute read

Mission: Miranda
Location: Fighter Bay

Orion’s head was throbbing as he moved, seeming to pulse with every step. It had been the first annoyance but it had not been the last. He had had such a promised star aboard the Odin too, meeting new people, getting a new Valk – even if it had had to be repaired – and actually enjoying just being there. That last one had been a slight surprise, usually he’d have tried to find the drinkiest, most smugglerish of the pilots and tried to drink them under the table on one of their downtime evenings. Even a non-downtime one. Yet he had found more satisfaction in working alongside Kat, amongst others that switched in and out, to fix Valk #27. He paused in the endless suffering that was work, to smile slightly with some pride. He had done that, at least part of it. It was working again, and he would fly it.
Just not now.

He groaned and leaned forwards, turning slightly to press and rest his forehead against one of the many crates stacked along the side of the fighter bay. The cool metal eased the pain slightly, the pressure of his tilted bodyweight easing the feeling that his temples were going to implode. He took the water bottle he had replicated that morning and took a swig as his knees gave out and he slumped to the ground, turning to then rest his back against the crate, eyes hazily casting themselves across the fighter bay before him. Word had gone around the ginger, honey and lemon were good for whatever this was – at least to help ease symptoms – and whoever had told him that he'd kiss when he had recovered.

“If I can remember…and recover” he snorted to himself, toasting nothing in particular and taking another swig before he sealed the bottle once more and his hand fell to the floor beside him, “poor Jester, not sick enough to not work but not well enough to work fine” he said in an almost sing-song voice before frowning, shaking his head and trying to focus his blurry vision with a few blinks.

He took a few, deep breaths and shut his eyes hard to get the blackness that usually reset his eyes and then opened them, his lips cracking in a grimaced smile – it had worked again. He slowly pushed himself to his feet and let his body, and his stomach, settle before he grabbed another box and began the long, hard and sweaty journey to transport it to its place by the Valks. He didn’t know why they were needed there and hadn’t asked. All he knew was that a good amount of the crew aboard the Odin were literally incapacitated. He wasn’t quite there, not yet. So, he worked. He did like being alive and a ship like the Odin would end up getting all of them dead if it couldn’t have at least basic functionality.

“Bloody hope we don’t get attacked. Not sure I could stand all of the manoeuvres. All the flying this way and that way, this wa-“ his sarcasm got the better of him and he dropped the box, dry retching and heaving just a moment before it slammed into his foot and he leapt backwards and sideways, sprawling with curses, pain and nausea. At least no vomit this time, he would have noted had he not been curled up grabbing his foot and rubbing it vigorously.

Once he had recovered, he simply lay there, waving off someone who had noticed him go down and stumbled over to see him, mumbling that he was fine. Or, at least not as bad as others were. He stayed there for a while, letting his body calm and rest. He ached all over, sweated in places he didn’t know he had and was having to really focus to keep what little food he could get into himself down. Oh, and his head felt two sizes too big. He was alive and mobile though, and the looked up at the dull ceiling, so far above him, and laughed.

“We really need to decorate this place. Touch of colour really picks up the spirits. Maybe some ornaments. Humane workplaces people, humane” he rolled over onto hands and knees, still chuckling to himself.

Lazy he had been called. No potential for more than flying. Lacked stamina. Little regard for others and narcissistic and complacent when it came to duty. Not fit for Starfleet. Lost cause. He grit his teeth and pushed himself up, slowly picking up the box and beginning the rest of its journey.

“Sod off you grumpy old grey hairs. Like to see you lot carrying on…buggers. Show you…I…will. Soldier keep on marching” he muttered to himself, for once finding a way to harness the bitter anger into something more productive, even if it was carrying boxes.
How long it would last he wasn’t sure. He felt weak. But he would find out.

 

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