Fic Thing!
Mar. 5th, 2008 02:25 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
teddogTitle: Counting Time
Rating: PG
Fandom: Star Trek Mirror Universe, based on Steff's timeline
Note: This is for a trade. Steff doesn't get enough NICE fic for this pairing, so this is where I come in. Not intended to be a serious, complex or challenging fic in any sense of the word. I just wanted to give her something fluffy from her little story arc that wasn't AMU related. There's a passing reference to something that was eventually bumped to the IP&S-related MU, when we decided to split them. What that is.. you'll have to figure out.
I tend not to ask questions while on the clock.
My job, if you can even call it that, is to be an escort of sorts; not the type of escort that would have thrilled me if you had mentioned it several years ago. I'm clean now, but I can tell you some horror stories that would make you race out of a red light district faster than you can say “What do you mean she used to be a he?”
These customers are clearly not looking for a night on the town. For the most part they're fleeing the Empire's watch; resistance cell leaders, radical writers, free thinkers. A couple of rounds would be the last thing on their minds. As to which of the above my guest was tonight, I wasn't sure.
We sat in the cramped closet, tucked deep in the ship's hull, buried in the back of the engine room. On a good day, it's too noisy to have a long conversation and with barely a foot between our knees, generally you want to keep things as bland and calm as you can and tolerate the other until your destination, exchange your goodbyes and move on.
It's not that my job is terrible. It's just that there's other places I wouldn't mind being. Impossible places, yes, and I know that what I'm doing here is trying to make a real difference. Probably have. I've lost count of the number of people I've escorted and, to be honest, I don't spend my time dwelling on them. Everyone has a story that would bring you to tears.
I lazily opened one eye, looking over at tonight's guest. A quaint girl, couldn't have been a day over 20. Dark hair and eyes, pale skin, must stay indoors a lot. In her lap, though, was a curiosity. Most people fleeing the Empire barely get out with the clothes on their backs. One time, we had to pick up an author without even that, but I don't relate that story to pleasant company. Come back after the shift is over.
The item in this girl's lap was a gray, nondescript metal box. I've seen people bring along treasured possessions before, but the box seemed out of place. No dents or chipped paint to suggest it was a prized family heirloom, no visible locks to protect the contents. Just a strange metal box.
But, it's not my job to ask questions.
I closed my eyes, still listening intently to the usual sounds of the engine room. All is as it should be, allowing myself to curl up deep inside my head for a moment of peace.
The scene plays the same every time I imagine it; I'm asked to pick up someone needing a sudden rescue, an engineer, recently outed by Starfleet. I show up at the agreed safe house, some ramshackle building on the edge of a slum, the type of place that the Empire doesn't count on censuses. I walk in, heading for a darkened room. There's a dark haired man standing in the pale moonlight filtering through the window, his features barely visible.
And I know it's him.
I never imagine what I say next. All that makes it through my head is that I'd be standing in the doorway to the room, heart pounding, palms sweating, waiting for the moment when I wake up.
Despite the impossibility, I smile.
Rating: PG
Fandom: Star Trek Mirror Universe, based on Steff's timeline
Note: This is for a trade. Steff doesn't get enough NICE fic for this pairing, so this is where I come in. Not intended to be a serious, complex or challenging fic in any sense of the word. I just wanted to give her something fluffy from her little story arc that wasn't AMU related. There's a passing reference to something that was eventually bumped to the IP&S-related MU, when we decided to split them. What that is.. you'll have to figure out.
I tend not to ask questions while on the clock.
My job, if you can even call it that, is to be an escort of sorts; not the type of escort that would have thrilled me if you had mentioned it several years ago. I'm clean now, but I can tell you some horror stories that would make you race out of a red light district faster than you can say “What do you mean she used to be a he?”
These customers are clearly not looking for a night on the town. For the most part they're fleeing the Empire's watch; resistance cell leaders, radical writers, free thinkers. A couple of rounds would be the last thing on their minds. As to which of the above my guest was tonight, I wasn't sure.
We sat in the cramped closet, tucked deep in the ship's hull, buried in the back of the engine room. On a good day, it's too noisy to have a long conversation and with barely a foot between our knees, generally you want to keep things as bland and calm as you can and tolerate the other until your destination, exchange your goodbyes and move on.
It's not that my job is terrible. It's just that there's other places I wouldn't mind being. Impossible places, yes, and I know that what I'm doing here is trying to make a real difference. Probably have. I've lost count of the number of people I've escorted and, to be honest, I don't spend my time dwelling on them. Everyone has a story that would bring you to tears.
I lazily opened one eye, looking over at tonight's guest. A quaint girl, couldn't have been a day over 20. Dark hair and eyes, pale skin, must stay indoors a lot. In her lap, though, was a curiosity. Most people fleeing the Empire barely get out with the clothes on their backs. One time, we had to pick up an author without even that, but I don't relate that story to pleasant company. Come back after the shift is over.
The item in this girl's lap was a gray, nondescript metal box. I've seen people bring along treasured possessions before, but the box seemed out of place. No dents or chipped paint to suggest it was a prized family heirloom, no visible locks to protect the contents. Just a strange metal box.
But, it's not my job to ask questions.
I closed my eyes, still listening intently to the usual sounds of the engine room. All is as it should be, allowing myself to curl up deep inside my head for a moment of peace.
The scene plays the same every time I imagine it; I'm asked to pick up someone needing a sudden rescue, an engineer, recently outed by Starfleet. I show up at the agreed safe house, some ramshackle building on the edge of a slum, the type of place that the Empire doesn't count on censuses. I walk in, heading for a darkened room. There's a dark haired man standing in the pale moonlight filtering through the window, his features barely visible.
And I know it's him.
I never imagine what I say next. All that makes it through my head is that I'd be standing in the doorway to the room, heart pounding, palms sweating, waiting for the moment when I wake up.
Despite the impossibility, I smile.
no subject
Date: 2008-03-06 03:32 pm (UTC)Nicely done.