Disclaimer: All the things I love to write about are owned by Viacom. Three cheers for corporate monopolies!
It's been a while since I've stepped out of the box and written something for a fandom that doesn't include cartoons. For me, though, the first step is always angst. Voyager isn't exactly new to me; I used to watch it with my dad when I was little, but after it ended (leaving me utterly confused, by the way) I drifted off into things that ten year olds should be watching, like Zoids and Dragonball Z. I recently rediscovered it, and while I'm somewhat less confused, as far as I'm concerned, Endgame never happened. (Ever).
Except for the purposes of this fic. I have no sketching/drawing capabilities whatsoever, but this image stayed in my mind and I decided it needed to be set to page somehow. A picture is worth a thousand words. Lets see if I can make it.
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Sandrine's.
Happier times, though the times couldn't get any better than this. Simpler times, though the immediate future was not so shrouded with hidden dangers as it had been for the past seven years. For times before reality, when its insistent grasp ended things before they could really begin.
But it was late here, and the lights had dimmed to a faint flicker. Denizens both photonic and organic had long since abandoned the hallowed home of memories. It was certainly late enough that the captain should have been in her quarters, resting, relaxing for once after seven years of half-sleep and troubled dreams and sore, stiff shoulders.
Her head rested on her palms, propped up on the worn bar. No drinks, just a soulful violin to replace the accordion and the jovial atmosphere that accompanied it with gut-wrenching gloom that a well-programmed EMH did not need a tricorder to detect.
Of course, Voyager's Doctor was not at Sandrine's to warn the Captain against self-destructive tendencies -- depression, nihilism, alcoholism -- were he organic, he would be indulging in them himself.
Instead he sat beside his captain, shoulders slumped as he stared at a single speck in the wood's grain. He reveled in the nothingness he was experiencing -- for once, he was not so certain that expanding his programming was such a great and noble pursuit.
One of the terrible side-effects of his learned humanity was hurt. Terrible, writhing, crushing pain that he, as a hologram, should not have been able to feel. But once again, Voyager worked miracles, so after B'Elanna and her baby were fit to depart and all the negative consequences of their most recent excapade with the Borg dealt with, the doctor had downloaded his program into holodeck 2, only to find it already in use.
"I have never been more happy in my life," Janeway said, her voice betraying tears that her eyes would not. She was not trying to convince herself of that fact -- it was truth, but it was also proof of yet another human paradox.
The Doctor understood; he was as fallible as his programmers, and had learned the lesson. He had the ability to experience happiness, joy, compassion, and love, but he had discovered the greatest tragedy of life -- what were those emotions worth without someone to share them with?
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A/N: Actually, this picture is only worth 391 words. More bang for you buck.
If you find any glaring errors, keep me posted. Sometimes I can be more dense than the Doctor when it comes to taste. (Might need a dermal regenerator for that burn).
By the way, Syrus is my favorite Roman author, if you were wondering about the title(so he pretty much wrote the summary). Just like Thomas Jefferson is my favorite president, Thomas More is my favorite humanist, and Fruity Pebbles is my favorite cereal.
Are. Fruity Pebbles are my favorite cereal. Stupid grammar, trying to cramp my style.
Hope you enjoyed and please review!