Chapter Four
For the second time in the last twenty four hours, Malcolm stood in front of Hoshi's quarters. He could not help but marvel slightly at the difference 'official capacity' made--converting his actions right and justified. The pressure of titanium against his hand was comforting, and everything felt distinctively different from last night. He pondered the existential disparity. Was he the same person he was last night? Would he do it all over again as Lieutenant Malcolm Reed, armory officer?
Lieutenant Malcolm Reed of Starfleet would not be thinking these thoughts. He would be worried about his fellow bridge officer and friend, thinking of the worst possible scenario, thinking of silent deaths and broken bodies...thinking of everything Agent Malcolm Reed had seen. They were thoughts of one man and yet he felt righteous in his current role. He shouldn't, he owed Hoshi that much, the acceptance of what he had done as an agent. It should taint him in all his roles, he should endure the rage of the Lieutenant against the Agent, but the Agent would remind him again that the Lieutenant was a fraud, a secondary role played only for the necessity of the first.
His fingers pressed the keypad with familiarity as Malcolm valiantly ignored the chaotic ramblings of his mind. The physical motions would always remain the same. Concisely programmed in the spine, they were reflexive, like instinct.
The door opened under his instruction. The shadows within shivered, retreating from the corridor lights that framed his silhouette. Once the door closed, twilight returned, and the obfuscated figures were once more dancing in the dim of starlight. He faltered at the switch, intercepting the automatic motion of his hand. A deluge of emotion overtook him; he wanted to think it wasn't fear.
*Some things are better left in the dark.*
The thought was almost desperate.
'Don't be ridiculous,' he reprimanded himself. Yet there it was, the hesitance. He could not bring himself to do it, to cast into light what he had done. It was completely absurd. The deed was done, there was nothing he could do now to stop what was to come. Had his retirement from the agency degenerated him into an ineffectual fool?
*Do it. See what you have done. See what has been done. See what is left. See who you really are.*
What did it matter? Why did it matter? It never used to before--
Malcolm stopped himself. These feelings were there and they weren't going away; therefore, he had adapt. To ignore them would be detrimental to his mission--missions. Regret. He felt regret for his actions, however justified.
"Hoshi," he murmured, remembering her smile. Finally, he had a name for his sorrow.
The lights flickered on.
She lay on the bed, and a quick survey told him she was exactly as he'd left her. He padded quietly over and lowered himself until his weight rested on the balls of his feet, his heels scarcely touching the soft carpeted floor.
Her head had lolled over the edge of her bunk, veiled by a mourning black mass of hair.
Malcolm found himself inclining his head until there was nothing but the utility gray of the floor in his line of vision--not the prone body of his crewmate. This was new, but he went along, leaving the game behind him, setting his mind free, if only for a second.
"Hoshi, I'm sor--" He paused before continuing. Then he decided not to continue at all.
An apology would be vulgar. Nothing he could offer now would be of consequence. His self-imposed angst was irrelevant in the grand scheme of things. Hoshi wouldn't care that he was being discomforted by his newly-discovered guilt complex. He should really get on with things.
He must.
Brushing aside the rogue strands, he exposed her slender neck. It looked as delicate as the rest of her, the bones remarkably easy to break and the flesh susceptible to bruises--characteristics of easy prey. Disabling her had been almost effortless. He prepared himself to perform an even more simple task, to add a resolution to this turn of events. He touched the cooled skin under her curved jaw, perfunctorily pressing his hand to the vessels underneath.
When Malcolm moved his hand away, a pair of pitch-black eyes stared up at him.
For the second time in the last twenty four hours, Malcolm stood in front of Hoshi's quarters. He could not help but marvel slightly at the difference 'official capacity' made--converting his actions right and justified. The pressure of titanium against his hand was comforting, and everything felt distinctively different from last night. He pondered the existential disparity. Was he the same person he was last night? Would he do it all over again as Lieutenant Malcolm Reed, armory officer?
Lieutenant Malcolm Reed of Starfleet would not be thinking these thoughts. He would be worried about his fellow bridge officer and friend, thinking of the worst possible scenario, thinking of silent deaths and broken bodies...thinking of everything Agent Malcolm Reed had seen. They were thoughts of one man and yet he felt righteous in his current role. He shouldn't, he owed Hoshi that much, the acceptance of what he had done as an agent. It should taint him in all his roles, he should endure the rage of the Lieutenant against the Agent, but the Agent would remind him again that the Lieutenant was a fraud, a secondary role played only for the necessity of the first.
His fingers pressed the keypad with familiarity as Malcolm valiantly ignored the chaotic ramblings of his mind. The physical motions would always remain the same. Concisely programmed in the spine, they were reflexive, like instinct.
The door opened under his instruction. The shadows within shivered, retreating from the corridor lights that framed his silhouette. Once the door closed, twilight returned, and the obfuscated figures were once more dancing in the dim of starlight. He faltered at the switch, intercepting the automatic motion of his hand. A deluge of emotion overtook him; he wanted to think it wasn't fear.
*Some things are better left in the dark.*
The thought was almost desperate.
'Don't be ridiculous,' he reprimanded himself. Yet there it was, the hesitance. He could not bring himself to do it, to cast into light what he had done. It was completely absurd. The deed was done, there was nothing he could do now to stop what was to come. Had his retirement from the agency degenerated him into an ineffectual fool?
*Do it. See what you have done. See what has been done. See what is left. See who you really are.*
What did it matter? Why did it matter? It never used to before--
Malcolm stopped himself. These feelings were there and they weren't going away; therefore, he had adapt. To ignore them would be detrimental to his mission--missions. Regret. He felt regret for his actions, however justified.
"Hoshi," he murmured, remembering her smile. Finally, he had a name for his sorrow.
The lights flickered on.
She lay on the bed, and a quick survey told him she was exactly as he'd left her. He padded quietly over and lowered himself until his weight rested on the balls of his feet, his heels scarcely touching the soft carpeted floor.
Her head had lolled over the edge of her bunk, veiled by a mourning black mass of hair.
Malcolm found himself inclining his head until there was nothing but the utility gray of the floor in his line of vision--not the prone body of his crewmate. This was new, but he went along, leaving the game behind him, setting his mind free, if only for a second.
"Hoshi, I'm sor--" He paused before continuing. Then he decided not to continue at all.
An apology would be vulgar. Nothing he could offer now would be of consequence. His self-imposed angst was irrelevant in the grand scheme of things. Hoshi wouldn't care that he was being discomforted by his newly-discovered guilt complex. He should really get on with things.
He must.
Brushing aside the rogue strands, he exposed her slender neck. It looked as delicate as the rest of her, the bones remarkably easy to break and the flesh susceptible to bruises--characteristics of easy prey. Disabling her had been almost effortless. He prepared himself to perform an even more simple task, to add a resolution to this turn of events. He touched the cooled skin under her curved jaw, perfunctorily pressing his hand to the vessels underneath.
When Malcolm moved his hand away, a pair of pitch-black eyes stared up at him.