Fic Post: Seep
Title: Seep
Author: vegwriters
Fandom: Star Trek: Picard
Series: The Secret Knowledge of Water
Rating: General
Pairing: None (for now)
Timeframe: Between the events of The Last Best Hope and the beginning of season 1 of Picard.
A/N: This directly references events and characters in The Last Best Hope by Una McCormack, but I hope you can understand what’s up. Also, Raffi is a queen.
Disclaimer: The title and epigraph come from The Secret Knowledge of Water by Craig Childs. Think you know about the desert? Think again. Also, Picard belongs to, you know, the powers that be. But, many of the powers that be got their start in fic. Think about that ...
Summary: The rain felt good. Needed. Necessary. The rain reminded her to take a damn bath but she didn’t need to now that the sky had dumped all over her. She breathed in, taking another swig from the bottle, and felt her brain starting to clear.
There are two easy ways to die in the desert: thirst and drowning. - Craig Childs
Santa Fe, Earth
2390 - 9 years before Picard, 5 years after the attack on Mars
The first downpour of the season always came as a barrage like bullets against the roof of the ever more-rundown house. Startled from bed by the crash of water coupled with the vibration of thunder, Raffi leapt out of bed and reached for her gun before realizing what was happening. No, Romulans were not coming to drag her off, the Federation council hadn’t caught up to her, Jae was still gone, and Jocan would never forgive her. As for JL. Well. Quite frankly, she’d never forgive him.
Tossing the rifle rather carelessly back onto her bed, Raffi gave up on sleep and, scrubbing a hand through her tangled curls, shuffled from the sheets to the kitchen, stopping along the way for the half-finished bottle of whiskey she’d left on a kitchen chair before stumbling toward sleep. Around her, the rain pulsed, pounded, and wind threatened the barely functional windows. She had to get those fixed. Once, she’d loved the sound of the rain here. She’d stretched out on the futon with Gabe on her chest, watching Jae work endlessly on his designs, listening to the sudden downpours that came and left in the span of only a few moments. People thought there was no water in the desert, but in truth, water came up from the ground at night, bringing rivers to sand before vanishing again as the sun rose.
Now though, there was only silence to greet the rushing water and, not caring about getting wet, she stepped out onto the deck, indulging in the natural shower. Around her, blue sky threatened the black clouds above. It would all be over soon.
The skunk of hangover dripped away and in the sudden chill, Raffi shivered and closed her eyes. Jocan stood there before her, dressed in a pair of leggings and a very not-regulation tank-top, with a woven Bajoran duster brushing against her knees. Boots not quite laced to the top. Laughing. Just as she had before the end. Before it all shattered apart. Before the massacre on Nimbus. Before Councilor Quest’s campaign had worked. Before the attack on Mars and JL’s resignation and the goddamned Romulan assassins and spies that she knew were everywhere. Before Kirsten Fucking Clancy had demanded her pips before security had escorted her out of the building.
“Fuck,” Raffi murmured. “Fucking fuck.”
The rain felt good. Needed. Necessary. The rain reminded her to take a damn bath but she didn’t need to now that the sky had dumped all over her. She breathed in, taking another swig from the bottle, and felt her brain starting to clear.
Morning. Another day. Another goddamned day.
The rain was slowed, giving way to the blue skies and the promise of the desert heat. Drenched, Raffi dropped into a chair on the porch, needing only her bottle for breakfast. It wasn’t like she had anywhere to be. Anyone to impress. There was a song Gabe had liked when he was just a baby, some ancient movie they’d found dredged in the archives when she was telling him fairytales. Stumbling into Rapunzel, she’d watched her child go down a wormhole, wondering about life sequestered so far away from people, of being trapped only with family. She’d seen the terror, the wonder if he would suffer the same fate, and so they’d explored all of the versions of the stories together, coming across some saccharine retelling from the time with the nation states were barely rebuilding after the eugenics wars and starting to crumble under the weight of their economic systems. For weeks, he’d danced around the house in a pink dress singing “And then I’ll read a book, maybe two or three …” Raffi couldn’t remember any part of the song but that one and right now, it repeated on an endless loop in her brain.
“You could start over,” a friend said one night. Sitting in a bar not far from her home, watching some halfassed rock band give it their all on the stage. “Hit up a private carrier. They’re always looking for former Starfleet officers to run things. Say what you want about the fleet, but they know how to train sailors and ships out there, they want people who can keep things clean and fly a ship.”
“They want people discharged honorably.”
“You know, you didn’t have to walk away.”
Tirah was right. She had been offered a chance to slide back into the nothingness of the administrative side of the fleet. No more intelligence. No more ships. Nothing that would give her any kind of notoriety. Nothing that would attract the attention of the council.
“We understand what a sacrifice you have made for this mission,” Clancy had said, her tone so overtly patronizing that Raffi had almost thrown her pips at her right then and there. “You did good work. But you must understand …”
And that was when she’d realized that worst truth of all - that if JL hadn’t resigned in protest, they’d have asked for his commission. He was the face of the mission. Someone needed to take the blame for the deaths of ninety thousand Federation citizens and the failure to rescue billions of Romulans. She wouldn’t be demoted, but she’d never be promoted. She’d sit behind a desk at Starfleet headquarters, checking people in and out, pushing PADDs from place to place. Closing her eyes, she’d seen the fires on Mars, Zani smiling on Vashti, Jocan covered in blood while Nimbus crumbled around them. She’d seen Jae’s last communique, Gabe’s angry eyes when she’d told him why she’d left.
So she’d done what they wanted. She removed her pips, handed them to Clancy, and was escorted out of headquarters. Intelligence came to go through her belongings, taking PADDs and notes and all of the logs she’d made during the mission - personal and professional. Nothing was sacred. It was all right though, nothing mattered.
She’d given it all up to watch in horror as Romulan civilization crumbled to dust, as disputes among Federation worlds became more prominent. The nagging feeling in her gut, the one that told her that the synths didn’t rebel against their human masters, the one that told her something bigger and far more sinister was behind it all, it returned in full, haunting her day and night, and not even the whiskey or Bajoran Spring Wine she’d found a love for when working with Jocan could take it away.
Inebriation only made it worse, really.
But, she reflected as she stared up at the sky, inebriation also brought clarity. What was it some human writer had said once? Write drunk but edit sober? Her sober edits on all of her drunken theories only brought things more into perspective.
She’d reached out to Jocan once she was fired, begging for an audience, finding only anger.
“I warned you,” she said again. It was all she seemed to say. She’d been on Zavish, one of the worlds in the beta quadrant, outside of the Federation, that had taken refugees. Raffi had given herself a moment to wonder why Jocan hadn’t fled to Vashti, hadn’t sought refuge with the nuns, but in the same question came the answer. The nuns didn’t need her, the people on Zavish did.
Standing in the middle of what was left of a broken refugee camp, a starving child in her arms, Jocan had been icy. Angry, still. “You could stay, Raffi. Keep doing the work. Or, are you going to go hide, like Picard did? Work doesn’t end because resources pull out. In fact,” and Raffi knew in an instant that this was less about the Romulan crisis than her own experience, “that’s when the work begins in earnest.”
The better angels JL always referenced told her to stay. It wasn’t like she had a home to go back to. It wasn’t like Jae and Gabe were waiting. It wasn’t like she had a job or a future in Santa Fe. She could stay, help build housing, help resettle people. She could continue the work. The real work.
To this day, she couldn’t understand why she didn’t stay. But she hadn’t. She’d caught the next transport back to Earth and found herself in her hovel, listening to the anger of the desert downpours against the roof of the house that had once been filled with the memory of laughter.
The rain long since gone, Raffi sat now in barely damp clothing, the long day ahead of her. The deck needed to be sanded and she was low on supplies. It was a long walk back to town, but it might do her good. Instead, she rubbed her eyes, something clicking behind her mind, something that had been bugging her since the night before. Something she’d stumbled upon in her endless notes.
Starfleet hadn’t found the copies she’d made. She also knew that the officers expected her to have copies. That out of professional courtesy, they hadn’t ransacked her place. But it was something Tajuth had said one night, when they’d been drinking together. Something that made her wonder if she wasn’t right this whole time. Something that all of the evidence had pointed to, and not just because the scientists had screamed it from the rooftops.
The Romulan Supernova wasn’t a natural phenomenon.
But what the hell was it?
“There is a secret,” he’d said to her one night, when everything was coming to an end. After his promotion to commander, before the events on Vejuro. “Something that drives even the most skeptical of Romulans.”
“Oh?” She’d raised an eyebrow. “What? Mythology come to life?”
“Someday, Lieutenant Commander,” he’d said, emphasizing every part of her rank, “you will understand the deepest truth of all living beings.”
She’d taken another slug of Romulan Ale. “And what’s that?”
“That all we are is a living collection of our mythology. Anyone who says differently, is selling something.”
A drop of rain fell on her again. No. It was just water from the roof, running off. She jumped and took a breath and stood, stretching muscles that had been still for far too long. Last night, while reading things for the umpteenth time, finding patterns in her drunken desires, she’d seen that conversation, that question.
“What do you mean?” She’d asked.
“The promise has been prophesied since Romulans left our Vulcan cousins.”
“The promise?” she’d asked, every annoyed at his evasive Tal Shiar bullshit.
“Of destruction.”
Author: vegwriters
Fandom: Star Trek: Picard
Series: The Secret Knowledge of Water
Rating: General
Pairing: None (for now)
Timeframe: Between the events of The Last Best Hope and the beginning of season 1 of Picard.
A/N: This directly references events and characters in The Last Best Hope by Una McCormack, but I hope you can understand what’s up. Also, Raffi is a queen.
Disclaimer: The title and epigraph come from The Secret Knowledge of Water by Craig Childs. Think you know about the desert? Think again. Also, Picard belongs to, you know, the powers that be. But, many of the powers that be got their start in fic. Think about that ...
Summary: The rain felt good. Needed. Necessary. The rain reminded her to take a damn bath but she didn’t need to now that the sky had dumped all over her. She breathed in, taking another swig from the bottle, and felt her brain starting to clear.
There are two easy ways to die in the desert: thirst and drowning. - Craig Childs
Santa Fe, Earth
2390 - 9 years before Picard, 5 years after the attack on Mars
The first downpour of the season always came as a barrage like bullets against the roof of the ever more-rundown house. Startled from bed by the crash of water coupled with the vibration of thunder, Raffi leapt out of bed and reached for her gun before realizing what was happening. No, Romulans were not coming to drag her off, the Federation council hadn’t caught up to her, Jae was still gone, and Jocan would never forgive her. As for JL. Well. Quite frankly, she’d never forgive him.
Tossing the rifle rather carelessly back onto her bed, Raffi gave up on sleep and, scrubbing a hand through her tangled curls, shuffled from the sheets to the kitchen, stopping along the way for the half-finished bottle of whiskey she’d left on a kitchen chair before stumbling toward sleep. Around her, the rain pulsed, pounded, and wind threatened the barely functional windows. She had to get those fixed. Once, she’d loved the sound of the rain here. She’d stretched out on the futon with Gabe on her chest, watching Jae work endlessly on his designs, listening to the sudden downpours that came and left in the span of only a few moments. People thought there was no water in the desert, but in truth, water came up from the ground at night, bringing rivers to sand before vanishing again as the sun rose.
Now though, there was only silence to greet the rushing water and, not caring about getting wet, she stepped out onto the deck, indulging in the natural shower. Around her, blue sky threatened the black clouds above. It would all be over soon.
The skunk of hangover dripped away and in the sudden chill, Raffi shivered and closed her eyes. Jocan stood there before her, dressed in a pair of leggings and a very not-regulation tank-top, with a woven Bajoran duster brushing against her knees. Boots not quite laced to the top. Laughing. Just as she had before the end. Before it all shattered apart. Before the massacre on Nimbus. Before Councilor Quest’s campaign had worked. Before the attack on Mars and JL’s resignation and the goddamned Romulan assassins and spies that she knew were everywhere. Before Kirsten Fucking Clancy had demanded her pips before security had escorted her out of the building.
“Fuck,” Raffi murmured. “Fucking fuck.”
The rain felt good. Needed. Necessary. The rain reminded her to take a damn bath but she didn’t need to now that the sky had dumped all over her. She breathed in, taking another swig from the bottle, and felt her brain starting to clear.
Morning. Another day. Another goddamned day.
The rain was slowed, giving way to the blue skies and the promise of the desert heat. Drenched, Raffi dropped into a chair on the porch, needing only her bottle for breakfast. It wasn’t like she had anywhere to be. Anyone to impress. There was a song Gabe had liked when he was just a baby, some ancient movie they’d found dredged in the archives when she was telling him fairytales. Stumbling into Rapunzel, she’d watched her child go down a wormhole, wondering about life sequestered so far away from people, of being trapped only with family. She’d seen the terror, the wonder if he would suffer the same fate, and so they’d explored all of the versions of the stories together, coming across some saccharine retelling from the time with the nation states were barely rebuilding after the eugenics wars and starting to crumble under the weight of their economic systems. For weeks, he’d danced around the house in a pink dress singing “And then I’ll read a book, maybe two or three …” Raffi couldn’t remember any part of the song but that one and right now, it repeated on an endless loop in her brain.
“You could start over,” a friend said one night. Sitting in a bar not far from her home, watching some halfassed rock band give it their all on the stage. “Hit up a private carrier. They’re always looking for former Starfleet officers to run things. Say what you want about the fleet, but they know how to train sailors and ships out there, they want people who can keep things clean and fly a ship.”
“They want people discharged honorably.”
“You know, you didn’t have to walk away.”
Tirah was right. She had been offered a chance to slide back into the nothingness of the administrative side of the fleet. No more intelligence. No more ships. Nothing that would give her any kind of notoriety. Nothing that would attract the attention of the council.
“We understand what a sacrifice you have made for this mission,” Clancy had said, her tone so overtly patronizing that Raffi had almost thrown her pips at her right then and there. “You did good work. But you must understand …”
And that was when she’d realized that worst truth of all - that if JL hadn’t resigned in protest, they’d have asked for his commission. He was the face of the mission. Someone needed to take the blame for the deaths of ninety thousand Federation citizens and the failure to rescue billions of Romulans. She wouldn’t be demoted, but she’d never be promoted. She’d sit behind a desk at Starfleet headquarters, checking people in and out, pushing PADDs from place to place. Closing her eyes, she’d seen the fires on Mars, Zani smiling on Vashti, Jocan covered in blood while Nimbus crumbled around them. She’d seen Jae’s last communique, Gabe’s angry eyes when she’d told him why she’d left.
So she’d done what they wanted. She removed her pips, handed them to Clancy, and was escorted out of headquarters. Intelligence came to go through her belongings, taking PADDs and notes and all of the logs she’d made during the mission - personal and professional. Nothing was sacred. It was all right though, nothing mattered.
She’d given it all up to watch in horror as Romulan civilization crumbled to dust, as disputes among Federation worlds became more prominent. The nagging feeling in her gut, the one that told her that the synths didn’t rebel against their human masters, the one that told her something bigger and far more sinister was behind it all, it returned in full, haunting her day and night, and not even the whiskey or Bajoran Spring Wine she’d found a love for when working with Jocan could take it away.
Inebriation only made it worse, really.
But, she reflected as she stared up at the sky, inebriation also brought clarity. What was it some human writer had said once? Write drunk but edit sober? Her sober edits on all of her drunken theories only brought things more into perspective.
She’d reached out to Jocan once she was fired, begging for an audience, finding only anger.
“I warned you,” she said again. It was all she seemed to say. She’d been on Zavish, one of the worlds in the beta quadrant, outside of the Federation, that had taken refugees. Raffi had given herself a moment to wonder why Jocan hadn’t fled to Vashti, hadn’t sought refuge with the nuns, but in the same question came the answer. The nuns didn’t need her, the people on Zavish did.
Standing in the middle of what was left of a broken refugee camp, a starving child in her arms, Jocan had been icy. Angry, still. “You could stay, Raffi. Keep doing the work. Or, are you going to go hide, like Picard did? Work doesn’t end because resources pull out. In fact,” and Raffi knew in an instant that this was less about the Romulan crisis than her own experience, “that’s when the work begins in earnest.”
The better angels JL always referenced told her to stay. It wasn’t like she had a home to go back to. It wasn’t like Jae and Gabe were waiting. It wasn’t like she had a job or a future in Santa Fe. She could stay, help build housing, help resettle people. She could continue the work. The real work.
To this day, she couldn’t understand why she didn’t stay. But she hadn’t. She’d caught the next transport back to Earth and found herself in her hovel, listening to the anger of the desert downpours against the roof of the house that had once been filled with the memory of laughter.
The rain long since gone, Raffi sat now in barely damp clothing, the long day ahead of her. The deck needed to be sanded and she was low on supplies. It was a long walk back to town, but it might do her good. Instead, she rubbed her eyes, something clicking behind her mind, something that had been bugging her since the night before. Something she’d stumbled upon in her endless notes.
Starfleet hadn’t found the copies she’d made. She also knew that the officers expected her to have copies. That out of professional courtesy, they hadn’t ransacked her place. But it was something Tajuth had said one night, when they’d been drinking together. Something that made her wonder if she wasn’t right this whole time. Something that all of the evidence had pointed to, and not just because the scientists had screamed it from the rooftops.
The Romulan Supernova wasn’t a natural phenomenon.
But what the hell was it?
“There is a secret,” he’d said to her one night, when everything was coming to an end. After his promotion to commander, before the events on Vejuro. “Something that drives even the most skeptical of Romulans.”
“Oh?” She’d raised an eyebrow. “What? Mythology come to life?”
“Someday, Lieutenant Commander,” he’d said, emphasizing every part of her rank, “you will understand the deepest truth of all living beings.”
She’d taken another slug of Romulan Ale. “And what’s that?”
“That all we are is a living collection of our mythology. Anyone who says differently, is selling something.”
A drop of rain fell on her again. No. It was just water from the roof, running off. She jumped and took a breath and stood, stretching muscles that had been still for far too long. Last night, while reading things for the umpteenth time, finding patterns in her drunken desires, she’d seen that conversation, that question.
“What do you mean?” She’d asked.
“The promise has been prophesied since Romulans left our Vulcan cousins.”
“The promise?” she’d asked, every annoyed at his evasive Tal Shiar bullshit.
“Of destruction.”