Author's note: I've been working on this story for over two years and it's still far from done. It will probably be a while longer before I post more, because I want it to be almost done when I do. However, I wanted to post at least this introduction, to show you and myself that I'm doing something and because I'm so excited about this story and I hope you'll be too. So consider this a teaser/trailer.
Image was a Spring Fling gift from the wonderful Caffey.
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A Life of Conflict
Introduction
I wake up suddenly, my body buzzing with a sense of urgency I can't place. I'm staring up at a grey ceiling, which seems indistinguishable from any standard shuttle or sickbay ceiling. Yet something, I can't pinpoint exactly what, is different. I'm absolutely certain that I'm not aboard a Starfleet ship. The realisation makes me jerk up. Too fast, it turns out, because a pounding headache stops me before I get fully upright and the pain forces me to slump back down and rest on my elbows. Though I hate to spend even one moment in ignorance, I force myself to keep my eyes closed and take deep breaths. After a few moments, the pain subsides to a more manageable level. Only then do I reopen my eyes, waiting that extra moment for the black stars to recede to the edges of my vision. I relax when the light doesn't aggravate the pounding in my head. Then I sit back up, more carefully this time. My whole body aches, but I ignore it as I look around. The room I'm in is unfamiliar and looks anything but friendly. It's dark and bare, as far as I can see made completely out of cold steel. I recognize the glittering at the far end as a forcefield, locking me inside. And it's too warm. Maybe that's what tipped me of that I'm not at Starfleet anymore.
I'm lying on the floor, with a wide ledge or shelf next to me. Now that I'm sitting, it's at about shoulder height and it looks large enough to lie down on. I think it's sturdy enough to hold my weight, so I use it to hoist myself to my feet. The ledge, like everything else, is made of metal and cold to the touch in the otherwise hot room. I'm already beginning to sweat, though I'm just wearing my tank and regulation trousers, both of which look decidedly the worse for wear. There's no sign of my jacket and my hair has come undone. I reach up to retie it in a low ponytail, but my hands shake badly, making it rather difficult. I know that it's the adrenaline coursing through my veins, a sure sign of the panic that threatens to swallow me whole.
I jump at the sound of a loud clang, coming from somewhere outside my cell. The sound reverberates painfully though my head, distracting me so much that it takes me a moment to realize that I wasn't the only thing in the cell to move. Across from me, beneath another ledge, a heap of rags comes to life, accompanied by a chorus of moans. I drop into a defensive crouch, facing the heap but careful not to turn my back on the forcefield. A second later, I recognize my commanding officer. The sight of him releases a wave of relief so powerful my knees almost buckle. I'm not alone. Surely the Captain will know what to do.
I wait as he shakes off the effects of our violence-induced slumber and takes in our surroundings. A large purple bruise stands out vividly against the too-pale skin of his temple. The shooting pains that have been radiating from my side since I've gotten up hint at a similar injury. I probe the site carefully, but can't find a wound, though the reddish-brown stain that saturates that side of my tank top can only be dried blood. Aside from the tenderness, however, my side seems perfectly fine. My head is still pounding with every beat of my heart, but aside from that I seem to be no worse for wear. I reach down to help Captain Paris up, gritting my teeth as the downward movement makes the pounding in my head worse. Judging by Paris' groans, he is worse off than I am. The thought does nothing to slow my heartbeat.
'Captain, are you alright?' I ask when he's fully standing. He looks at me sideways, still catching his breath. Though when his answer comes, his voice is surprisingly strong.
'I'm fine, Ensign,' he says. Then, after he's glanced around our cell, 'Report!' The familiar command helps to quell my rising panic. But as I tell the Captain all I can remember, most of the details only coming back to me as I tell the story, I can feel myself growing colder. Our present surroundings, coupled with my reawakening memories, make it abundantly clear who our captors must be: Cardassians. Even I, fresh out of the Academy, have heard the stories. They're ruthless, hierarchical, proud and merciless. That doesn't sound like a good combination for their prisoners. Despite the heat, I shiver.
To Be Continued