Redshirt
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By Mikaa
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I walk down the corridors, hearing the jokes. I walk through the mess hall, seeing their faces. I sit at the Brig, mocked by the "guests" residing behind the forcefields.
I am a Redshirt.
I know the jokes and tales all too well - several of my friends have fallen to various foes while serving on this ship. When being assigned to ships, my fellow Redshirts dread being assigned to the Enterprise, for her record is famous.
Not the fact that she has encountered the Klingons numerous times and lived to tell of it. Not because she is the farthest out from Federation space. Not because she travels through time, exploring civilizations long since past.
It is because of her reputation for Redshirts.
The record is staggaring. Each mission, at least one of us is sent on a mission. Each mission, one of us doesn't come back.
Why do we keep going? Why do we continue to serve on the Redshirt Deathtrap? We do not know. Some do it for duty, some because they enjoy the danger. Others say that they don't have a choice.
Some do it hoping to change the reputation.
I sit in my quarters, knowing that we are sitting in orbit of a planet, knowing full well that we are about to send down another landing party. For what, I do not know, nor do I care.
I don't want to go.
But if my superiors tell me to go, I will go.
I heard the stories of Ensign Rizo, one of the few lucky Redshirts that survived. I know that the mission is to go find whatever it was that slaid him and two other Redshirts.
I cringe at the notion.
Suddenly, the intercom sounds:
"Ensign John Doe, please report to the Transporter Room."
I try to put up a front, try to show that I do not fear what we will face. Standing, I walk out of my room and into the hallway. Along the way, I pass Yellowshirts and Blueshirts, and feel their glances and smirks.
"Goodbye, No Name!"
"Adios, Dead Meat!"
I straiten up, facing my fate with dignity. Though a Redshirt I may be, I go to my fate.
I go to meet my end.
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Dr. McCoy sighed as he faced his monitor, miserable at the task at hand. His screen showed the very thing that every doctor dreaded to see.
A death cirtificate.
Typing in the information, McCoy numbly completed his task, having already filled out three other such forms earlier today.
John Doe
Died - Stardate 3623.0
Cause of Death - Unknown
Saving the data, McCoy turned the screen off, rising to go tell Jim of his findings...
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I DO NOT OWN STAR TREK!!!
PLEASE READ AND REVIEW! ^_^
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By Mikaa
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I walk down the corridors, hearing the jokes. I walk through the mess hall, seeing their faces. I sit at the Brig, mocked by the "guests" residing behind the forcefields.
I am a Redshirt.
I know the jokes and tales all too well - several of my friends have fallen to various foes while serving on this ship. When being assigned to ships, my fellow Redshirts dread being assigned to the Enterprise, for her record is famous.
Not the fact that she has encountered the Klingons numerous times and lived to tell of it. Not because she is the farthest out from Federation space. Not because she travels through time, exploring civilizations long since past.
It is because of her reputation for Redshirts.
The record is staggaring. Each mission, at least one of us is sent on a mission. Each mission, one of us doesn't come back.
Why do we keep going? Why do we continue to serve on the Redshirt Deathtrap? We do not know. Some do it for duty, some because they enjoy the danger. Others say that they don't have a choice.
Some do it hoping to change the reputation.
I sit in my quarters, knowing that we are sitting in orbit of a planet, knowing full well that we are about to send down another landing party. For what, I do not know, nor do I care.
I don't want to go.
But if my superiors tell me to go, I will go.
I heard the stories of Ensign Rizo, one of the few lucky Redshirts that survived. I know that the mission is to go find whatever it was that slaid him and two other Redshirts.
I cringe at the notion.
Suddenly, the intercom sounds:
"Ensign John Doe, please report to the Transporter Room."
I try to put up a front, try to show that I do not fear what we will face. Standing, I walk out of my room and into the hallway. Along the way, I pass Yellowshirts and Blueshirts, and feel their glances and smirks.
"Goodbye, No Name!"
"Adios, Dead Meat!"
I straiten up, facing my fate with dignity. Though a Redshirt I may be, I go to my fate.
I go to meet my end.
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Dr. McCoy sighed as he faced his monitor, miserable at the task at hand. His screen showed the very thing that every doctor dreaded to see.
A death cirtificate.
Typing in the information, McCoy numbly completed his task, having already filled out three other such forms earlier today.
John Doe
Died - Stardate 3623.0
Cause of Death - Unknown
Saving the data, McCoy turned the screen off, rising to go tell Jim of his findings...
-----------------------------------------------------------------
I DO NOT OWN STAR TREK!!!
PLEASE READ AND REVIEW! ^_^