School, Star Trek and Other Stuff :)
Right now I am so bogged down with school projects and essays and exams and dress rehersals and performances... I just want to fall over. Thank god next week is spring break. Too bad I have two projects and an essay due i(n just one class!!) before it comes and I'm going to keel over from the workload.
I've had no time to write. I mean, other than all the papers I've been doing for my english class--two a week. *groans* Writing just isn't fun when you have to do it over the most dry, circular text book ever written. I did manage to write one small ficlet. A Star Trek one, based around the character McCoy. I have some ideas for more stories, but they'll have to wait. Maybe during spring break I can write them, as well as get started again on my Heroes fic and my Tin Man fic... *sigh* I can't wait for this semester to be over.
Title: Do Not Weep.
Character: McCoy
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: I do not own Star Trek, the characters used in this fic, or the poem, which belong's to Stephen Crane.
Summary: McCoy drinks alone.
Author's Note: This story is the first part in what will hopefully be a collection of drabbles and ficlets based on Stephen Crane's "War is Kind and Other Lines."
The liquid made a soft swishing noise against the glass as McCoy poured the brandy. It was familiar: the shape of the snifter in his hand, the harsh lights of sickbay reflecting and softening in its amber depths. The small tinkling sound made as glass met glass reminded him of evenings spent drinking the hours away with Jim, discussing and laughing over experiences on the ship or planets they visited, sometimes teasing Spock when the Vulcan decided to join them. But tonight wasn't one of those nights.
Tonight he drank alone.
Do not weep, maiden, for war is kind.
Three days ago the enterprise arrived at Propus III, a small M class planet, very similar to a primitive Earth. For years the planet had been ravaged by war, the inhabitants separated into feuding clans, killing each other off until the race had all but died off the planet. The Enterprise had been sent to attempt to form a truce between the clans before this happened.
Little souls who thirst for fight, these men were born to drill and die. The unexplained glory flies above them
They were too late. The landing party transported directly onto a battlefield. What had once been a bean field of some sort was turned into a graveyard: crops destroyed, ground littered with bodies and soaked with blood.
Great is the battle-god, great, and his kingdom--a field where a thousand corpses lie.
Instead of supervising peace talks between the people of Propus III the crew spent their time on the planet burying bodies and caring for the wounded, many of whom had been transported to the ship and brought to sick bay for emergency surgeries.
Do not weep. War is kind.
McCoy sat down slowly at his desk, and brought the glass to his lips. His sighed as the familiar burn went through him, and his muscles, sore and tense from days of constant strain and no sleep, finally started to relax. Two days. It took two days to form an antidote for the poison that had coated the knives and arrows one clan had used in the battle. Their weapons were primitive, and the wounds should have been a simple matter to heal, but the poison had kept them swollen and infected, and the resulting fever spiked too high to be controlled. The victims suffered severe bouts of delirium before finally slipping into unconsciousness an hour or so before they died.
Do not weep, babe, for war is kind.
Out of all the wounded people collected and brought to the Enterprise, they were able to save two. Two. A young woman who had a minor cut from a dagger on her arm, and a boy--not even fourteen years old, who had been shot in the back with an arrow. The arrow pierced his spine, but had it not been for the infection, McCoy would have been able to repair the damage done. Instead the boy would be paralyzed for the rest of his life. And he was one of the lucky ones.
McCoy took another gulp from the glass. “Waste,” he muttered into it. “Shear waste.”
Because your father tumbled in the yellow trenches, raged at his breast, gulped and died.
He couldn’t help but admit that it was getting to him, this mission. World after world of war, oppression and slavery. It was hard to keep up the positive outlook that Jim seemed to hold so easily. He’d had too many close calls, too many times death was held off just by luck alone. Today they had gotten the antidote just in time to stop the infection Jim developed from a scratch from one of those poisoned blades. If he had gotten just a few hours earlier...
The Enterprise would have been without its captain.
These men were born to drill and die. Point for them the virtue of the slaughter.
McCoy shuddered and put the glass down. It would take something more than brandy to burn this experience from his thoughts.
Do not weep.
With another sigh he stoppered the bottle and stood up. He had thought to drink away the past few days and hopefully pass out on the cot he kept in his office, but that didn’t seem like a good idea any more. He walked through the quiet halls to the main room in sickbay. He would relieve the nurse on duty and keep watch over the patients himself.
Do not weep. War is kind.
He would get no sleep tonight.
War is kind.
I've had no time to write. I mean, other than all the papers I've been doing for my english class--two a week. *groans* Writing just isn't fun when you have to do it over the most dry, circular text book ever written. I did manage to write one small ficlet. A Star Trek one, based around the character McCoy. I have some ideas for more stories, but they'll have to wait. Maybe during spring break I can write them, as well as get started again on my Heroes fic and my Tin Man fic... *sigh* I can't wait for this semester to be over.
Title: Do Not Weep.
Character: McCoy
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: I do not own Star Trek, the characters used in this fic, or the poem, which belong's to Stephen Crane.
Summary: McCoy drinks alone.
Author's Note: This story is the first part in what will hopefully be a collection of drabbles and ficlets based on Stephen Crane's "War is Kind and Other Lines."
The liquid made a soft swishing noise against the glass as McCoy poured the brandy. It was familiar: the shape of the snifter in his hand, the harsh lights of sickbay reflecting and softening in its amber depths. The small tinkling sound made as glass met glass reminded him of evenings spent drinking the hours away with Jim, discussing and laughing over experiences on the ship or planets they visited, sometimes teasing Spock when the Vulcan decided to join them. But tonight wasn't one of those nights.
Tonight he drank alone.
Do not weep, maiden, for war is kind.
Three days ago the enterprise arrived at Propus III, a small M class planet, very similar to a primitive Earth. For years the planet had been ravaged by war, the inhabitants separated into feuding clans, killing each other off until the race had all but died off the planet. The Enterprise had been sent to attempt to form a truce between the clans before this happened.
Little souls who thirst for fight, these men were born to drill and die. The unexplained glory flies above them
They were too late. The landing party transported directly onto a battlefield. What had once been a bean field of some sort was turned into a graveyard: crops destroyed, ground littered with bodies and soaked with blood.
Great is the battle-god, great, and his kingdom--a field where a thousand corpses lie.
Instead of supervising peace talks between the people of Propus III the crew spent their time on the planet burying bodies and caring for the wounded, many of whom had been transported to the ship and brought to sick bay for emergency surgeries.
Do not weep. War is kind.
McCoy sat down slowly at his desk, and brought the glass to his lips. His sighed as the familiar burn went through him, and his muscles, sore and tense from days of constant strain and no sleep, finally started to relax. Two days. It took two days to form an antidote for the poison that had coated the knives and arrows one clan had used in the battle. Their weapons were primitive, and the wounds should have been a simple matter to heal, but the poison had kept them swollen and infected, and the resulting fever spiked too high to be controlled. The victims suffered severe bouts of delirium before finally slipping into unconsciousness an hour or so before they died.
Do not weep, babe, for war is kind.
Out of all the wounded people collected and brought to the Enterprise, they were able to save two. Two. A young woman who had a minor cut from a dagger on her arm, and a boy--not even fourteen years old, who had been shot in the back with an arrow. The arrow pierced his spine, but had it not been for the infection, McCoy would have been able to repair the damage done. Instead the boy would be paralyzed for the rest of his life. And he was one of the lucky ones.
McCoy took another gulp from the glass. “Waste,” he muttered into it. “Shear waste.”
Because your father tumbled in the yellow trenches, raged at his breast, gulped and died.
He couldn’t help but admit that it was getting to him, this mission. World after world of war, oppression and slavery. It was hard to keep up the positive outlook that Jim seemed to hold so easily. He’d had too many close calls, too many times death was held off just by luck alone. Today they had gotten the antidote just in time to stop the infection Jim developed from a scratch from one of those poisoned blades. If he had gotten just a few hours earlier...
The Enterprise would have been without its captain.
These men were born to drill and die. Point for them the virtue of the slaughter.
McCoy shuddered and put the glass down. It would take something more than brandy to burn this experience from his thoughts.
Do not weep.
With another sigh he stoppered the bottle and stood up. He had thought to drink away the past few days and hopefully pass out on the cot he kept in his office, but that didn’t seem like a good idea any more. He walked through the quiet halls to the main room in sickbay. He would relieve the nurse on duty and keep watch over the patients himself.
Do not weep. War is kind.
He would get no sleep tonight.
War is kind.