"I scream, you scream, we all scream for non-fat tofutti rice Dreamsicle" -The X-Files [Mulder]
Reality is a big, nasty, vicious dragon, but I don't believe in dragons. -Anonymous
Note: Sorry bout the delay! I've been really busy, and haven't had a lot of time to work on my fic. In fact, this chapter is really only half as long as it's supposed to be, but I figured I'd make the people happy and give them what I've written so far. Chapter 4 will be finished soonish, I hope.
Disclaimer: The only god is Paramount and galadriel is its prophet. Megan belongs to me. Lotty gets her last name from some random report in "Year of Hell", but otherwise, her character is mine too. Ben Affleck and Alanis Morissette belong to themselves.
Summary: Megan's first day starts off with good and bad: alarm clocks, hot guys, icky oatmeal, and introspection.
Rating: PG for minor language.
The Misadventures of Megan Quincy
Chapter 3: Tea With Veronica
by galadriel
I hate alarm clocks. No, I despise alarm clocks. Sleep is one of the greatest things in existence: an escape from problems, a cure to weariness, the ideal end to a long day. For seven or eight hours, you're in a peaceful, secure state of mind. Then, this high-pitched shriek of an alarm clock startles you into an uncomfortable form of awakeness. And all you can think is, UGH.
Surprisingly enough, I'd fallen asleep pretty quickly the night before (after having a good cry and feeling sorry for myself, of course). Travelling four hundred years and into another universe apparently tires you out. I was engrossed in a dream concerning Monopoly, Janet Jackson, a field of sunflowers, and my current infatuation, Zach Hudson, when BUZZ! a very Starfleet-sounding alarm rang.
I groaned loudly, my groan shifting into a yawn. With half-opened eyes, I looked around at the spartan room, slowly recalling the events of last night and cursing whoever had set the alarm. Probably the Captain.
For a split second I remembered that I needed to get up and get ready for breakfast, but my thoughts quickly turned to another subject: namely, self-pity.
It wasn't fair. It wasn't fair that I had been so stupid to begin with, and the government had whisked me away to the galaxy of Humanoid Aliens, and that I was never going to see my family or friends again. It wasn't fair that I was cursed to spend the rest of my life in a world that wasn't my own. It wasn't fair....
No. I wasn't going to lose my head. I was going to take a deep breath and look at the situation practically and objectively. I'd cried enough last night. There was nothing I could do. Now was time to come to my senses and realize how amazing this journey was¾ I was in an alternate universe, in space, destined to see nebulae and aliens and a thousand other miracles. The stars outside my window attested to that fact. Really, I was incredibly lucky.
So I said a prayer, the quick type that you whisper when you need some strength but don't have the time to properly request it, and went to the bathroom to figure out how to work the sonic shower.
I was twisting my hair into a braid when the door chime sounded. "Just a second," I called, patting down my hair and racing to the door. I hoped I was dressed okay: I was wearing the nicest clothes I'd brought, a blue sweater and bellbottom khakis. Perfectly normal clothes for a teenager of my time, but on Voyager, I was sure to stick out.
I tapped the button. The door slid open... and my chin dropped in a way that I wished it wouldn't.
It was a guy. A tall, gorgeous, Bajoran guy with a small shy smile, dark hair, and extremely nice eyes. In one word, Wow. My heart was doing cartwheels and nudging my stomach to join in the celebration. Before long, all of my insides were doing the Macarena.
"Hi!" I said faintly, wondering why this guy hadn't gotten more guest roles.
"Hello," he greeted. "I'm Crewman Gerron. I've been sent to escort you to the mess hall."
Gerron. That sounded familiar. Where had I heard it before? After a second of searching my brain, I remembered. Crewman Gerron was the angry-at-the-world rebel-teen in Tuvok's boot camp, all the way back in "Learning Curve", one of my favorite episodes (mostly on account of the "get the cheese to sickbay" line). Of course, that guy had been antisocial and not particularly handsome. It couldn't possibly be him.
"Are you sure?" I found myself saying.
He gave me a quizzical look. "Of course. The Captain sent me herself."
"No, I meant...." I searched for the words, and then gave up. "Never mind. Let's go."
Two seconds into our walk, I realized I'd omitted a major piece of information. "I'm Megan Quincy," I said. He probably already knows that, I told myself afterwards. What a waifhead comment. Completely out of the blue.
Gerron didn't seem to notice the suddenness of my introduction. "Nice to meet you, Megan," he said with his Ben-Affleck-class smile. "Do you like Voyager? As exciting as the entertainment show?"
"I haven't been here long enough to say. I'm sure it will be fine," I told him. "How do you know about it being a TV show? Did Janeway tell you?"
"She didn't need to," he replied. "The whole ship is talking about you. We don't get new crewmembers very often, and any news spreads fast."
"I'm trying to decide if that's a good thing or a bad thing," I said nervously. "But I suppose it's fair, since I know a lot about everyone else."
"If I were you, I'd keep any personal information to myself," Gerron said. "As I said, news spreads fast—"
"And we wouldn't want the entire crew's secrets in the hands of, like, Tom Paris," I finished.
"Exactly." We were at the turbolift now. The doors slid open for us. "Mess hall," Gerron instructed as soon as we were inside.
Hardly ten seconds later, we were walking through the mess hall doors. The room was slightly larger than it looked on TV. The stars were prettier. Neelix was just as weird looking, currently behind the counter, passing out breakfasts of questionable origin and smiling in an endearingly annoying way.
The most amazingly... *cool* thing was that a large percentage of the room, including the handsome guy next to me, were aliens. Some were even blue. I walked behind Gerron to the food line, in a daze.
"Good morning!" Neelix greeted when I reached him. "You must be Megan Quincy. I'm Neelix, the morale officer and chef here. And a pretty darn good one if I do say so myself." His last sentence was followed by a peculiar drawn-out laugh reminiscent of "Ex Post Facto". "Well," he said once he had caught his breath, "Welcome to Voyager."
"Thank you," I said, trying to smile convincingly. Neelix's cheery disposition must have rubbed off on me at that point, because my smile *was* real. Until I looked at the breakfast, that is.
Now, I know that, contrary to popular opinion, Neelix's food isn't completely awful. It just tends to be... flavorful. Unfortunately, this fact was not registering in my mind when I saw the lumpy, multicolor oatmeal-like substance, complete with black specks that were probably some Talaxian herb.
"Take an orange one."
I turned around and saw Harry Kim standing behind me, eyeing the oatmeal suspiciously just like I was. "The orange ones are best," he explained, quietly enough so that Neelix couldn't hear.
"Thank you," I mouthed, taking an orange oatmeal and what appeared to be a cup of tea. Drinking tea is a strange habit that I got from my older cousin, Veronica. She's in college and very into self-improvement, yoga, and finding her inner Buddha. After spending several Saturdays together one summer at the cafe in Barnes & Noble, reading books without paying for them and sipping hot beverages, I acquired her taste for herbal tea.
I really missed Veronica.
Anyway... where to sit? Gerron had disappeared into oblivion; besides, I didn't want to impose on him. I stood in the middle of the mess hall cluelessly, like a new kid in the cafeteria. A pretty accurate analogy, if you thought about it.
Harry took an orange oatmeal and a red fruit juice and left the line. "Hey, you can sit with us if you want," he told me.
"Thank you," I said, relieved. "I don't know anyone, and I'd feel sort of stupid sitting down with strangers."
"But you don't know me," Harry pointed out as we approached his table.
"I suppose it feels like I know you. You're a main character on the show," I clarified.
Harry was about to reply when a voice shouted, "Harry Kim, I am going to kill you!"
Harry shook his head and smiled, setting his tray on the table where the voice had originated from. "You're going to scare our guest, Lotty."
Lotty was tall and brunette. She had a big mouth that was smiling widely, showing off perfect Starfleet-issue teeth. She reminded me of Alanis Morissette except with better hair.
"I bet you're Megan," she said. "Sorry about my outburst. Harry here lost an extremely important family heirloom of mine."
"It was a napkin from a Parisi Squares tournament," he countered, giving her a "you're a lunatic" look.
"The first ever Parisi Squares tournament!"
Harry rolled his eyes. "Lotty, I am very, very sorry for losing your napkin." He turned to me. "Megan, this is Lotty Emmanuel. You can ignore her."
Lotty pretended to be angry, but I could tell that she was actually quite amused. "Oh really, Mr. Ensign," she scoffed. "And my name is really Itzpapalotl, which Harry omitted because he can't pronounce it."
"Its-pap-a-lot-al?" I ventured, knowing I was completely wrong.
"Eets-pahpah-loh-tahl," Lotty corrected. "It's Aztec. Which is pretty strange since I'm Italian, Russian, and a little bit Vietnamese. My parents were feeling adventurous, I guess. It means "obsidian butterfly"."
"It's unique," I said, not knowing what else to say. Thank God she had a nickname.
I was introduced to everyone else at the table: Jim Blain, Wendy Jenkins, Clement Ashmore, Isaac Thompson, and the Delaney twins (Megan Delaney being very excited to meet me because of our mutual, supposedly "rare", first name.) After chatting for a few minutes I ventured to try the oatmeal: it was slightly spicy, but actually not too terrible. Everyone was very friendly. Although I knew they probably regarded me as a child, they didn't belittle me, even when trying to explain exactly how a phaser works (knowledge that they took for granted).
In the middle of a long and complicated joke involving two Bolians, a Vulcan, and thirty dishtowels soaked in prune juice, Seven of Nine approached me. I would be lying if I said she didn't scare me, just a little. Not because she was a Borg: while Next Generation Borgs had frightened me (they were weirder, more mysterious, deadlier, and besides, I was seven), I must admit the Voyager incarnation of the Evil Beings were much less scary, not to mention more predictable. It wasn't her Borg implants, but her stiff, almost mechanical nature that intimidated me. I could tell there was a person in there somewhere, but Seven wasn't going to let her out if she had her way about it. Something about her manner reminded me of my friend Kate's English grandmother: prim, uncompromising, and no-nonsense. Gram Alice watched Murder She Wrote *every* day at 5:30, had an "a place for everything and everything in its place" philosophy, and color-coded her socks.
"Am I correct in assuming that you are Megan Quincy?" Seven asked in a voice that had barely enough emotion to discern it from a computer.
"Yes. And you're Seven of Nine," I replied, evilly hoping to startle her.
She didn't even flinch. "Welcome to Voyager," she intoned. A hint of... warmth? actually colored that statement. She handed me a gray PADD. "This contains your schedule and other information that you will find pertinent to your stay. There is a minor change in it today; the captain wishes to see you in her ready room at fifteen hundred hours."
I mentally converted the time in my head, coming out with 3:00 PM. "Thank you," I replied, taking the PADD and scanning the first few lines. At "800 hours"—8 AM in my time—I was to report to Cargo Bay Two: aka Home Sweet Home to Seven and Icheb and Little Red Schoolhouse of Voyager.
"You're welcome," Seven replied. "I will see you at eight-hundred hours." She was about to leave, then added, "I hope that you will find Voyager... satisfactory."
"Thanks, it's been great so far," I replied.
"I am glad," and she returned to her solitary seat across the room, where a PADD and a bowl of bluish oatmeal were waiting for her.
There was a funny little silence after she left. We all wanted to say something but everyone was too polite to say it.
Everyone but Lotty, that is. "I can't figure her out," she quipped. "I guess she's scared of being a normal, average person. The Borg are mighty and powerful and perfect. We're stupid and confused and small and imperfect. Being Borg is all she knows. It's all she has. Strangely enough, it's what makes her really unique. We all have this compulsion to be special and wonderful, so that we'll feel better about ourselves. Seven is scared and alone, and being Borg is what's keeping her together and giving her a sense of identity."
We all gaped at this amazing show of pop psychology. "Since when did you become ship's councilor?" Thompson asked incredulously.
Lotty shrugged and took a long sip of her coffee. Finally she replied, "Sometimes I feel that way myself."
And at that moment, I saw myself, wearing bellbottoms and a blue sweater, alone, in a great big milky hurricane of stars. Eating orange oatmeal. Longing for the place where I belonged. Remembering the Saturdays spent drinking tea with Veronica. Wondering if I could possibly fit in.
And for a split second, I felt that way myself.
***
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