I sighed, throwing my bag into the temporary room I had been assigned for the evening. Looking around, I measured the size to be barely seven and a half foot by seven. I laughed when I recalled that it was two square feet bigger than the room I had left behind in Iowa. The lights were dim and the window was small, but the room seemed to be to be just so dark. It could have been just because this room was the intermediary between myself and the institution my mother had sworn off twenty-five years ago.

I couldn't help but smile sardonically to myself before sitting down heavily on the unforgiving bed.

There really wasn't any going back now.

There was so much that I had to consider.

I had managed to make it through this day without anything going wrong, but it could all just be chalked up to the dim morning light and the grim shuttle. I knew I wouldn't be able to continue on along this way for long before her secret got out. I certainly knew enough, but last night I hadn't had the time to really get everything I needed to make this work.

I sighed again, running my hand through my shorn hair; I would need to fix that later as well. There were a few things I needed to take care of before reporting tomorrow to the Academy at midday, and I really hoped that I had a sufficient amount time to get what I needed. It drove me crazy how complicated this had been made to be. Why did it have to be Iowa that was chosen for the Draft? I slammed my fist against the mattress, letting out a low groan. Nothing could ever be simple for me.

But I would give anything up for my brother, would sacrifice everything to let him have the life he should, with everything he's always deserved and fought so hard to earn. He had the sense to have gotten out, and I always envied him for it. I had never had it easy in all of my life. Some people flourished in hardship, I just couldn't. I always felt tied down, held back. I just never felt like I had a reason to do anything.

Sam had always had mom's blessing, something I never had. He was the oldest; he wasn't the child born on the eve of his father's death. He was the tall, proud son with the drive and ambition to know when it was time to move on. I had never been able to stand tall with the weight on my shoulders; I think I know how Atlas feels, bearing the world on his back for all of eternity. I don't think I'll ever be able to stand up straight.

In spite of it all though, I could never hate my mother or Sam for it.

I just couldn't, and they didn't deserve it.

I set an early alarm and peeled my shirt off, unbinding myself. It didn't even hurt anymore. I couldn't let it hurt. I took a shower, trying to wash the feelings I hated off my skin; my envy, my pain, my sorrow, I tried to force them off with water, wanted them to swirl the drain and get sucked down into the pipes, but no matter how hard I scraped at the skin, it still lingered and I angrily punched the wall, quivering, but trying not to break down.

I stepped out of the shower, but ended up sitting on a towel, leaning against the cold porcelain of the stall. I ran my fingers through the knots in my short hair, pulling the strands apart, trying to distract myself.

I was afraid of what would happen next, of what would happen upon my acceptance, what would become of me. I felt so isolated and alone, and I had nowhere to go.

It hurt to think that mom probably didn't even notice that I was gone, and if she did, she probably just assumed that I was out, losing even more of myself to strangers, to people I would never know or see again, slowly killing myself a little bit at a time. She had tried to talk sense into me once, tried to get me to think about my life, to try to accomplish something, but I was so angry, I just didn't want to listen. She had tears in her eyes, but so did I, and I couldn't stop them when I told her that she had no idea who I was.

She didn't talk to me for months after that, and somewhere along the way, I stole off, unable to live under her scrutinizing gaze that condemned me and expressed a pity for me, as if I were some limp animal, unable to defend myself and constantly on the verge of death.

Perhaps that was how I lived my life.

But living so dangerously, that was the only way I could feel anything. Pain I felt, broken bones and cuts and bruises I felt. I could feel sorrow and anger. But I couldn't respond to kindness or love or happiness. I didn't know what to do with them. I had never been able to do anything with them.

I was an actress. It came with my broken past, a lesson I needed to learn to be able to adapt. I couldn't show my weaknesses. I had every illusion of stability, even though, when no one else could see, I was fragile and so very close to breaking apart.

I was overconfident because I overcompensated for everything in me that made me so frail. I was patchwork and barely stitched together, but I could hold myself together as best I could. It was adequate, even if it still hurt. As long as it all remained my own, I could live with it.

I couldn't get to sleep that night. I ended up sitting on the edge of the bed, just staring down at my hands, at my twisted pinky finger, at the scars and calluses, the broken nails and stiff joints.

When the alarm did go off, pushed myself up off the mattress, shoving my wallet into the back pocket of my jeans and headed out, pulling the hood of my baggy sweatshirt up over my head. No doubt my eyes were blood shot and ringed in black, and every inch of skin felt over sensitive and my muscles ached from lack of rest.

I ran through the numbers of pi as I walked to the nearest convenience store, having left my bike back at the shipyard. I wasn't adverse to the walk; the chilled morning air rasped my lungs, filling them, stretching and cooling them, and my muscles started to wake up. Hell, I was a farm girl. I was fit, built well, dare I say. I could take anyone in a fight. At least, I always held my own.

I didn't need to buy much, and I had just enough to pay for it.

Again in the bathroom, I took to finally fixing my hair, getting the back far shorter, getting the sides proper. I tried to remember what my brother's hair looked like. I laughed when I could barely remember. I laughed as my hand shook.

I ran some gel through the strands, and then mussed it up, trying not to look like I was working to too hard. I never cared what my hair looked like before. I didn't think now was the time to start. But when I saw the result in the mirror, I was proud of myself. I could get this to work yet.

I took care of a few other things, then collapsed onto the bed, tired out of my mind. I was so exhausted that I barely got up when my alarm blared, indicating that it was some time around eleven. I shot up and off the bed, trying to get everything together as quickly as I could, packing up everything and heading out the door, anxious for the final mile that would take me to Starfleet and the end to my freedom, and me, because now I had to become someone else.

The transport was quick and Leonard was significantly calmer, which eased my nerves. He was telling me something about his daughter, how he was barely going to be able to see her now, I and felt a tug in my heart for him, and was instantly reminded of my brother. I wouldn't have been able to let Starfleet take from my brother what they would take from McCoy; the entire childhood of his own daughter.

He asked me why I was here.

I told him I got drafted. He scoffed, and wished it had been that simple for him. I smiled, telling him that it was far less simple than he thought, explaining, vaguely about my brother, and my mother, my father's death. His eyes widened and it seemed as if he finally figured something out.

Sitting back against the seat again, he told me that he remembered learning about the Kelvin, about my father, and what he had done. I felt so worthless in his shadow, but I tamped that flicker out. Leonard looked at me, with a half smile and a hand on my shoulder, but didn't say anything else. I didn't know what to say in response. I closed my eyes and slid a little further in the seat, smiling a little wider, and a little less forged, and he scoffed again and took another swig from his flask, offering it to me again. I took it, and another swig of the bourbon, the feeling sliding down my throat, burning and it made me feel real again. I handed the flask back.

I could really get to like this guy. He was the closest I'd ever had to a friend in my entire life.

I stared ahead at the campus sprawling ahead, backlit by a sun that didn't seem to shine in Iowa. There was something about San Francisco, about getting the chance to start all over, that made it seem brighter here. Maybe this is what would help me figure out what the Hell I should be doing with myself, with everything I've been given and wasted.

In spite of myself, I felt excited, though I dampened the outward expression of it, and just rested my head back against the headrest, letting my eyes close for the last twenty minutes.

Everything else could wait for a little while. I just wanted these last few moments for the real me, for the girl I'd leave behind in here. I hoped that all the baggage I carried with her would stay here, but I knew it was foolish to expect that. And she would always be a part of me, and I couldn't truly leave her behind, just, I couldn't be her. Not anymore.

When the transport came to a stop, I got out, this time not nearly cracking my head open and stepped onto campus, not taking a look back as I shouldered my bag and headed for the admissions office to get sorted through.

The sun burned my eyes, but it reached inside of me and get me hope, and I took it all in.