Future's Past, Chapter 4

Will Riker's personal log, Sunday, April 8, 2007

While we're still confused by the reason of our presence here, we're absolutely perplexed by how long this has transpired. We both have jobs, so we have means to pay for what we need to survive, but the work is menial. It's hard to stay focused and positive when we're bored out of our minds.

So, Tasha and I are on a first-name basis. I wonder when it'll to descend into name-calling. We're irritated about everything, and we're taking it out on each other.

Command titles went away weeks ago. Tasha and I have abandoned addressing each other by our rank, because it attracts too much attention.

We considered claiming that were with the military. After all, Starfleet command titles were similar to those used by the United States Navy. But that idea was abandoned when we met a man at a downtown shelter who actually had served in the U.S. Marine Corps. He was quick to call bullshit when neither Tasha nor I 'knew' where we had served, nor which unit we'd been in. He threatened to have us prosecuted for impersonating military officers, so we left, and haven't been back to that shelter, since.

I'm kicking myself for not learning more about capitalism while I was at the Academy. I wish I had taken the economic history unit. The credit-driven economy in the 21st century is complicated. Mostly, I worry that my ignorance will cause me to lose my job. I don't understand a lot of the terms being thrown around at the grocery store where I now work.

I show up before dawn and stock produce, change prices and nod and smile at customers asking what's "on sale", a phrase that makes no sense. Everything in the store is on sale. Otherwise, it wouldn't be out there.


Kansas City, Missouri, Tuesday, April 10, 2007

Under the best of circumstances, William Riker and Natasha Yar were polar opposites in how they handled things.

Will was driven, yet more social and amiable. He found ways to enjoy himself no matter where he was. Tasha was disciplined, but was a natural loner, more comfortable being by herself. She wasn't a patient individual, and never hesitated to act when she felt she needed to fix something.

As Will learned, she preferred having the last word.

They now had part-time jobs and a small apartment. But as their new surroundings began to stabilize with more predictable routines, Will and Tasha began withdrawing from each other.

It wasn't the intense Lt. Yar who was first to snap. It was Commander Riker, just before they moved into the apartment.

He had been trying to get her to call him by his first name, not only so she would lighten up but also to avoid drawing unwanted attention. That was tough for Tasha, though she was a fellow senior officer.

In hindsight, Will realized how overdone his response was to her latest slip of the "sir". It happened the morning after they'd spent their last night at the shelter off Linwood Boulevard. They found spots in the auditorium already crowded with others who also needed a place to sleep. Tasha situated her foldout cot, curled up beneath a shelter blanket and closed her eyes . . . but she never really slept. She was an exceptionally light sleeper, always on guard for anything.

Will was exhausted from a long day and needed a deep sleep that night, but it was not to be. His two-meter-plus frame and wide shoulders barely fit on the fold-out cots, and he wound up lying flat on his back with his lower legs resting against the bottom edge of the cot. The metal frame dug into his shoulders and calves, and he didn't sleep well. By morning, his back hurt.

Exhausted, sore and irritable, he showered the next morning after standing in line with others who had stayed the night. As he trudged out of the shower room, he muttered, "your turn," to Tasha, who was next in line as he shuffled past.

"Thank you, sir," she replied, out of habit.

Her response set his fatigued mind off. "Enough of the 'sir'!" Will whispered, right in her face. "It's Will, or William, or if you like, Bill, which sounds bizarre—"

"Will," she interrupted with a sarcastic tone. She hadn't even blinked during his tirade.

"Yes," he replied. "That's better, but lose the attitude."

"Your fly's open," she said, shooting a dagger look before darting into the bathroom, and slamming the door shut behind her.

Laughter erupted loudly from a nearby man whose layered clothing made him look twice as large as his wasted frame. He sat up on his foldout cot, having slept in all his clothes and shoes, and grinned past the few teeth he had left.

"She's wearin' the pants, man," the man said, laughing deeply. The snippy exchange had made his day.


At the apartment in Kansas City, Missouri, April 17, 2007

Their single-bedroom apartment was small, non-furnished and dirt-cheap: $200 per month with paid utilities. It was on the third story of a run-down complex, located five blocks from where Tasha worked and seven blocks from where Will worked.

The apartment had a main room, a small bedroom and bathroom. A stove and refrigerator were situated next to a sink and counter in the main room, so it doubled as a kitchen. Will was excited about being able to cook. Tasha could have cared less.

They arrived carrying all their worldly possessions: A duffel bag full of clothes and plastic sacks of towels, blankets and basic kitchen/dining utensils they had just purchased at the thrift shop.

Neither of them said much. While Tasha inspected the apartment, Will lay down on the far side of the bedroom, and fell asleep on the years-old, tramped-down, shag carpet that reeked of cigarette smoke.

Tasha dropped her pile of clothes on the opposite side of that bedroom, grateful that Will had chosen the other side. Her side would be a good defensive position, and much better than if she slept in the main room because of the way the apartment's door opened. From the main room, she wouldn't be able to see intruders coming through the door until they'd closed the door behind them. But from the bedroom, she could see anyone attempting to enter the apartment.

Will had rolled over onto his back, unconscious after a sleepless night at the shelter. She regarded him for a few seconds, envious that he had not only an opportunity for sleep, but an ability to pull it off. She felt as if she hadn't slept in a year, but still she stood back up because duty called: She needed to be at work in an hour.


Will had no trouble sleeping in the apartment, even on a floor. But in spite of the more secure surroundings, Tasha slept fitfully. She often woke to sirens, vehicles passing on the nearby street or nothing at all. When she couldn't fall asleep, she got up and switched on the main room's overhead light to re-read the newspapers that had accumulated there. Sometimes she left the apartment to go for a walk, even in the middle of the night.

Before he became stuck in the 21st century, Will had slept naked in his comfortably cool cabin on the Enterprise. But in deference to the non-intimate female roommate he now had, he relented to wearing shorts when he slept. Tasha always curled up on the opposite side of the room, with her back to the wall.

It didn't help that they had no furniture. When they returned to their apartment, they sat and slept on the floor. They had little else but a meager supply of clothes. Every bit of their saved salaries had gone to pay their deposit and rent, so their few belongings were scattered on the floor.

They kept some food in the kitchen, but couldn't afford much extra, yet. Will bought crackers and canned soup back from the grocery, but after he got home he realized they had no way to open the cans.

Tasha tried using the phaser as a can opener, and only succeeded in spraying soup across her face, shirt and one of the overhead kitchen counters. Will couldn't suppress a good-natured laugh at what had happened. But Tasha merely shook her head, embarrassed at what happened and irritated because she had just put on a clean shirt.

Now there would be more laundry to drag downstairs to the apartment complex laundry room. While she was grateful that they didn't need to go back to the smoky laundromat, she never looked forward to sitting in the sweltering, downstairs laundry room for two hours while their clothes spun around.


Will and Tasha worked different schedules (he in the morning, she in the evenings), so they barely saw each other except in passing. He knew he should be addressing the relative lack of communication between them, but ultimately chose to let it go, mostly because he thought that as they grew more used to their environment, the tension between them would pass.

Since he was responsible for stocking produce at Westport Grocery, Riker had to be at work at 0500. He worked hard in the mornings, removing fresh fruits and vegetables off various trucks, washing and preparing them for sale, and then stocking them in open coolers. He spent the early afternoons cleaning the department, picking up stray grapes that had been smashed onto the retail floor throughout the day.

Tasha worked evenings at 43rd Place Bar & Grille, often until after the bar closed at 0200 hours. The 43rd had live music several days a week, and on those nights the place was busy. Large televisions mounted on wall brackets often broadcast sporting events throughout the establishment, and on nights when area teams were playing, the entire bar was packed with fans.

Some patrons drank until they threw up. After they threw up, some paid to drink more. Tasha grew tired of cleaning vomit from booth seats and beneath tables. The restrooms were ground zero: Sick customers often didn't make it to the toilets before everything came up.

But on several occasions, Tasha got to do what she did best: Subdue people. Within her first weeks at the bar, she'd gained a reputation among regular patrons that she was not someone to mess with.

The manager who had hired her knew she would be a good fit for the environment, and he was right. Tasha was polite and prompt, only spilled a few drinks. But she wasn't afraid of conflict. She didn't hesitate to confront intoxicated, angry patrons—and when she did, she more than held her own. She had multiple advantages, but usually all it took was her capable fingers driven into a pressure-point of the offender. Word spread that fighting wasn't tolerated.

Still, Tasha reserved her advanced-level abilities for fear of going too far, genuinely hurting anyone or involving the local authorities. She'd done a great deal of research about what she could and could not do legally as far as detaining people and defending herself, so she was careful.

She knew she was lucky to have a job, so she focused her attention on research, and fitting in. She eavesdropped on conversations, learning more slang of the era.

It had been Will's idea to write down slang terms and other "lessons of 21st century life", consolidating what they'd learned onto a paper notebook that they kept at the apartment. While she was at work, Tasha scribbled notes on napkins and scraps of paper. She carefully squirreled the notes away in her jean pockets so she wouldn't inadvertently place a drink on one of her term-covered napkins.


Random observations from the handwritten notebook kept by Will Riker and Natasha Yar

"Road repair tar will not come out of clothing."

"No one doubles $1 coupons."

"The bus won't stop for you if you aren't standing at a designated bus stop."

"Exact change means what it sounds like."

"Never wash clothes without using fabric softener."

"Tequila = Romulan Ale"


Both accepted extra hours at their respective workplaces, mostly to get away from each other. They were frustrated and bored, dreading the possibility they might live out the remainder of their lives in the 21st century.

Tasha occasionally made offhand remarks about uneven distribution of justice, which seemed prevalent and bothered her greatly. They read about it in newspapers that they occasionally picked up.

"So, this guy was drunk," Tasha remarked, nodding toward a newspaper story she was reading. "He drove his car onto the sidewalk and killed two people waiting at the bus stop, and then drove away and tried to hide the car, and now he's getting probation?!"

"Sounds that way," Will remarked. He was reading the business section of the paper, feeling ridiculous. His face bore five, tiny scraps of toilet paper to soak up blood from his latest foray into shaving with razors that men used in the 21st century. "The driver's father is a prominent attorney here. You should have heard people lighting up the local, talk radio channel about it, this morning. It was on in the stockroom. Very interesting. People are outraged."

"Well, at least there's some outrage!" Tasha said. "He left two people to die, but he's getting off because the city is afraid of a lawyer?"

"Lawyers are powerful people, here," Will remarked. "Nearly everything in this time period is tied to litigation and power and under-the-table deals."

"What kind of a crazy fucking place is this!" Tasha angrily exclaimed. "He killed two people. How in a civilized society does he just get away with it?"

"He didn't get away with it. He got probation," Will replied, more than a bit disturbed by her choice of words. Where is she picking this up? he thought.

"Probation is bullshit," she remarked. "He got rewarded for being the son of so-and-so, and the prize he won is getting to go back to his posh life. The two victims in the case got the maximum sentence. I can't believe this actually went on—"

"Would you just drop it?!" he said. "I don't agree with it, either, but this is how things are, here. You know we can't get involved. Just . . . shut up about it, all right?"

"Fine," she muttered, and that was also fine with him. He wasn't in the mood to deal with her.

Insubordination normally wasn't something he tolerated, but rank had fallen by the wayside, here. She hadn't said much after his rebuke, so he didn't worry about it. She did as she was told, but gradually that isolation ate at both of them.


Late April, 2007

One afternoon, Tasha stumbled on a karate school in the Westport area. She had taken an alternate route home, and found the dojo by accident. She stopped for more information, and learned that for $60 per month she could join the dojo and take classes or work out whenever the facility was open.

She saved her tips from one week of work and signed up, looking forward to furthering her knowledge of another martial art. She had learned basic karate at the Academy before opting to focus on Aikido, Tae Kwan Do, Krav Maga and other fighting forms.

This time, she was signing up for exercise and some semblance of discipline in a world that seemed to have little of it. This was a society that was rich in resources, but deprived of appreciation of them.

Dreary days passed into weeks made more comfortable by warmer weather and blooming Redbud trees along the route that Tasha walked to and from work. The Midwest's notoriously unstable weather, with yo-yo temperatures and thunderstorms, finally gave way to more consistently nice weather by early May. But communications had chilled considerably for Will Riker and Tasha Yar.


Now that he knew how to operate a manual toilet, Will left the apartment's toilet seat up on purpose because Tasha increasingly pissed him off.

Will thought she was spending too much time with the same, street people whom he'd believed they'd rented the apartment to get away from. On more than one occasion, he'd seen her sitting outside that Broadway coffee shop, chatting with people who panhandled their way through existence. She seemed at ease among them, and he couldn't understand that.

She fits in better than I do, he thought. She's a chameleon. I can't tell who she is, anymore.

He was comfortable around the haute crowd, the group favoring upscale eateries and shops on The Plaza, a high-end shopping area just south of Westport. But Tasha was seemed most relaxed with the people who didn't fit in anywhere. Now that the weather had warmed up, she'd started to dress like them: Jeans and plain capris, sandals, t-shirts.

Will's job demanded that he appear more professional, so he adhered to the business-casual dress code of the time, even when he wasn't working. He still perused the thrift shop for khaki pants, but purchased shoe polish to make his used shoes appear new. His work at the grocery store alerted him to coupons, sales, and ways and means to save money on purchases he did make.

Their collective income paid for rent, but not much else. After a month of sleeping and sitting on the floor, they discussed their furniture options. The main problem would be getting that furniture to their apartment. Will had checked into used furniture stores that delivered, but the cost of delivery was expensive. He was very tired of sleeping on the floor, but Tasha hadn't said anything about it, as if she were comfortable sleeping on a floor.

Will wondered if she was still digging through the trash for her meals. Her language had turned trashy as well. She had picked up colorfully obscene terms from her work at the bar and had dutifully written everything down in the notebook they kept in the main room.

"Are you learning any slang that isn't obscene?" he asked her one day.

"Depends on how much people have had to drink," she said, shrugging. "Usually in that venue, everything is either fucked, fucking or fuckable."

Despite himself, Will inwardly nodded at that quip. He'd need to remember it when describing the linguistic tendencies of the culture they now inhabited.

"What about the crowd at your street corner hangouts?" Will said, not attempting to disguise his contempt at her choice of company. "Are they at least more well-spoken?"

She shot him a look, but still replied. "Basically, the same."

"It wouldn't hurt you to expand beyond the street crowd," he said. "Maybe visiting the art galleries, or the museums near here. I was there two days ago, and the collections of art are impressive."

"I'm not comfortable in those places," she'd said, and her tone betrayed an insecurity that Will had seen before, even on the Enterprise. As he reflected, he realized he'd never seen her attend any recital, theatrical presentation or display of art by her fellow Enterprise crew, and she appeared ill at ease when conversations revolved around those topics.

"Why don't you think you'd be comfortable?" he asked.

"I've never been interested in art," she replied. Tasha knew only the basics of art history as they'd been presented in Earth Civ, but anything beyond that was beyond her. She wasn't interested in it, so it bored her. The last place she wanted to be in this century was staring at paintings and sculptures that had been made centuries before that.

"Have you been, yet?" Will asked. "To the Nelson-Atkins or Kemper?"

She shook her head.

"Why not?" he said. "The galleries are within walking distance, they're interesting, and they have both local and international art. They have pieces that are considered important even in the 24th century."

She cast her eyes down. "I just haven't," she replied. Not only had she been indifferent to the galleries, but she felt out of her element in the "art crowd" who seemed to operate as if advanced art history was common knowledge and that people who knew little about it were somehow inferior. She knew plenty of people like that even in the 24th century, and that made her uncomfortable around them. "Art's not my thing."

"So, what is your thing?"

"Not that," Tasha replied, although she had several things in mind that she suspected wouldn't be thrilling to Will. When she wasn't working, she walked all over the neighborhood or worked out at the dojo. Being active kept her from ruminating too much on her situation. Will regarded her for a second, then shrugged and returned his attention to the newspaper. If she wasn't interested in expanding her horizons, he wasn't going to waste his time.

Whether Will Riker wanted to admit it or not, they were both near the bottom of the 21st century barrel of influence, living in a low-rent apartment and working menial jobs. Will still operated as if his charm and intellect would get him everywhere. But Tasha was more practical, more reserved, and no longer wanted to be in the position of needing to suck up to people — Will Riker included — who would look down on her, anyway. She was going to lay low, get a read on what she WAS comfortable doing, and then figure out how to make that happen.


Early May, 2007

Unbeknownst to Will, Tasha had begun volunteering at Reconciliation when she wasn't working at the bar. As Will was developing a revulsion at the others who depended on homeless shelters, Tasha had gravitated toward them. She identified with them, and felt a need to give back. She suspected Will would be upset because as a volunteer, she wouldn't be making any money.

Before frustration and tension had diminished their conversations, Will and Tasha used to talk about what they'd seen and done, what they'd heard from those around them. Now, Tasha didn't want to say anything, because it almost always promoted a critique from Will. He didn't seem interested in listening. He only wanted to take the pundit's viewpoint. In response, Tasha withdrew from him.

Will put aside his worries that Tasha wasn't doing anything worthwhile by immersing himself in learning more about 21st century economics, which proved more convoluted and therefore interesting than anything he'd learned about in school.

Although he hadn't understood the Ferenghi when the Enterprise crew had to deal with them, the species and its attitudes suddenly made a little more sense. Will pondered that future dealings with the Ferenghi might be easier if he knew more about that type of economy and culture.

He spent time at a used bookstore after he got off from work. It was across Southwest Boulevard and in the opposite direction as the apartment, but it proved a terrific escape for Will, who lost himself in the vast array of reading material.

Captain Picard would love this, he thought, knowing that Jean-Luc Picard was a history and literature buff. The classics still were there, but also books about contemporary politics, economics, management.

He purchased only a few of the books, usually the ones that looked interesting on the 50 cent rack: World Almanacs, a slang dictionary, a used economics textbook, paperback guides that were aptly labeled with titles like Personal Finance for Dummies. Having learned about coupons at the store, he also acquired coupons for books, and with one that earned 50 percent off, he purchased a book about the history of Kansas City for $2.

Will brought the books back to the apartment and spent evenings reading. He pored over the Kansas City Star, The Pitch, and any other local publication he could get cheaply, or get for free.

He became interested in local politics and culture. The city's politics were always interesting and somewhat frustrating to Will, who didn't have a lot of patience for pandering, nor payoffs for political favors. He shook his head over the revolving door of public school superintendents who seemed to be annually run off by the Kansas City, MO school board.

He was intrigued with the upcoming political candidate races, which were firing up for city positions. The next United States presidential election wasn't going to be held until 2008, and already it was being discussed in many news articles.

Will didn't know if they still were going to be around to witness the outcome of those races, but the pre-election squabbling was entertaining enough that he almost wished they'd be around to watch it play out, even though he remembered from Earth Civ how it turned out.


Natasha Yar's log, written on paper, Wednesday, May 9, 2007

Wednesday morning, walking home in the middle of the night. I'm always glad to be walking back one block away from Westport, and not through Westport. Will has related stories of being grabbed (and not in a threatening way) while walking through the party crowd on his way home from work.

I think he's bragging. I'd often wondered why he didn't just walk one block north so he could avoid women trying to pick him up. He never does walk north, which confirms for me that he's really a walking gland masquerading as a stranded Starfleet commander.

It's loud to the west and gorgeous to the east. Thunderstorms are billowing in the eastern sky and lightning illuminates those clouds. It's so humid that a phaser blast would sizzle in midair. I've learned to appreciate this unstable weather. I can relate to it.


Friday, May 11, 2007, 0130 hours

"It's your turn to do the laundry," Will said, even before she'd shut the apartment behind herself. He had gotten in only five minutes earlier from a marathon double-shift at the store. He grabbed the extra hours when he could, and this one happened when a checker didn't show up for work. So he learned how to operate a register, and now he felt as exhausted as Tasha appeared.

Anything involving laundry was the last thing Tasha wanted to hear. They took turns washing their clothes. Both of them believed there couldn't be anything more boring than waiting in the apartment complex basement while their clothes sloshed around, then rolled around in the dryer, and then were folded or hung up in the closet.

She just wanted to pass out as soon as she reached the apartment, instead of taking her turn washing their clothes. But he was right. It was her turn.

"You OK?" he asked after a few seconds. He'd really looked at her for the first time in days, and she looked horrible, like she hadn't slept much.

"I don't know," she replied, without even thinking. She was so tired that she couldn't see straight, but she caught herself before telling him about it. He didn't want to hear about it, anyway. "Long night," she added, before he could ask.

She didn't say that it had been a busy evening, with a raucous bachelor party plus the regular crowd crammed upstairs and squeezed against the bar to watch the Kansas City Royals lose their baseball game against the New York Yankees, a team against which Kansas City had a long-term animosity.

Game watchers tended to leave losing games early, but the bachelor party was just starting. One attendee vomited on Tasha's shoes as she attempted to help him up off the floor. The bar was so busy that she'd only had time to quickly wipe off her shoes, and now dried chunks were stuck fast within the shoes' mesh vent holes.

She took her coat and shoes off, leaving them in a pile on the floor.

"Why are you leaving your things there?" he asked, irritated at her already. He hated that her belongings tended to stay where they fell, instead of being placed somewhere predictable.

"My shoes got vomited on," she said, just wanting to get out of there, at that point. Will was about to yell at her again for being a slob. Truth was, she no longer gave a damn what he thought, and didn't want to hear about it, either. "I'll clean them up when I finish with the laundry. Is it ready?"

"Bagged up," he nodded toward the corner nearest to the door.

"Thanks," she said, grabbing it and leaving for the small laundry room downstairs.

Will fell asleep within minutes. When he woke the next morning, Tasha was curled up in her corner of the bedroom, with neat piles of clean clothes on respective sides of the bedroom. When he came out of the bathroom after a quick shower, he found her in the kitchen, using a washrag and her own fingernails to clean dried vomit off her shoes.

It only occurred to Will later, as he crossed Broadway en route to work before dawn the next day, that they didn't say so much as "good morning" to each other.