[STV: J/P Fic] Definition of a Man
Definition...
Sydney Alexis
You spend enough time in prison, and you'll pick up a few things...like how to jimmy a lock in under thirty seconds. You'll also learn a whole new set of definitions to words you thought that you knew--like cleanliness, privacy, and rights. As a new fish, you catch on pretty quick:
You've got no rights.
Yeah. It's horribly cliché. It sounds like it's ripped right out of a bad holonovel, but it's true. Especially when you're assigned to one of those cellblocks filled with lifers--all of which heard about what I did. My first night at New Zealand, the guards turned a blind eye while three men on my tier beat the hell out of me. You'd think that one of the guards would have at least seen if I was all right or take me for a medical exam, but no. A fish like me had no rights to basic safety or medical care. The COs left me on the cold dirt all night. In the morning, two beefy guards had to help me to the infirmary; I had two bruised ribs, a fractured ulna, a broken nose, and a concussion. The guards told the doc that I'd fallen down a ladder. The doc told me I was lucky it wasn't worse.
You've got no privacy
I bunked down on a tier with twenty guys and no walls. Everything was regulated by a strict schedule--we slept at the same time, ate at the same time, worked at the same time, and, yup, you guessed it, showered at the same time. There was no peace to be had except within your own thoughts and even then those bastards would force us to see this Betazoid shrink so not even my own thoughts went unexamined.
You'll never be clean again.
From sun up to sun down--nearly twelve solid hours--we'd work. Me and my tier chiseled away at the quarry in the blazing hot heat with instruments one step above a pick ax.
At first, all I was aware of was the sun burning my skin and the feel of my muscles pulled taunt and aching from the workload. Worst of all, however, was the weight of the locator cuff on my leg.
As the days passed, body fat burned away to toned arms. The ache of work lessened, and the electronic tether on my ankle became less noticeable. The only think that didn't go away was the lack of cleanliness.
We'd work up a sweat in the quarry. Dirt and soot clung to our skin the same way the scratchy prison issue uniforms did. The dirt got everywhere too--hair, fingernail beds, shoes, even our bunks. Grit and grime that I swore a dozen sonic showers would never rid me of.
My first week as a fish, I was convinced I'd never make it. I sent letters to my family and friends...even dear ol' dad begging to be transferred. It all fell on deaf ears.
Weeks turned to months and finally years. The grind of the schedule became second nature as did the rules. Infrequent beatings from the guards, COs, and tier-mates insured I stayed in line. One message was clear though--I was not a man; I was number 4240912.
...of a Man
When I was in the penal colony I was always aware of the electronic leash on my ankle. It was so large and so clunky it impaired mobility. More than anything else, however, it was a reminder of my physical state and how I came to be there. If you check my Starfleet 'jacket' I'm sure it's filled with euphemisms like pilot error and tragic loss of life. Read beneath the lines, and you'll see the words 'murderer' etched in the presiding judge's neat scrawl.
I'd been in trouble with the law before. Minor things like being drunk and disorderly, theft, and driving a shuttle without a license. Each time I wore a locator cuff, but, that last time 'round, it weighed more.
I finger the two golden pips on my collar one last time before stepping onto the bridge.
Captain Janeway gave this chance to me. I have a room of my own. I'm safe, and doing what I love--flying a starship. For the first time since 'the incident,' I feel like a man, and I'm determined not to screw it up.
Sydney Alexis
You spend enough time in prison, and you'll pick up a few things...like how to jimmy a lock in under thirty seconds. You'll also learn a whole new set of definitions to words you thought that you knew--like cleanliness, privacy, and rights. As a new fish, you catch on pretty quick:
You've got no rights.
Yeah. It's horribly cliché. It sounds like it's ripped right out of a bad holonovel, but it's true. Especially when you're assigned to one of those cellblocks filled with lifers--all of which heard about what I did. My first night at New Zealand, the guards turned a blind eye while three men on my tier beat the hell out of me. You'd think that one of the guards would have at least seen if I was all right or take me for a medical exam, but no. A fish like me had no rights to basic safety or medical care. The COs left me on the cold dirt all night. In the morning, two beefy guards had to help me to the infirmary; I had two bruised ribs, a fractured ulna, a broken nose, and a concussion. The guards told the doc that I'd fallen down a ladder. The doc told me I was lucky it wasn't worse.
You've got no privacy
I bunked down on a tier with twenty guys and no walls. Everything was regulated by a strict schedule--we slept at the same time, ate at the same time, worked at the same time, and, yup, you guessed it, showered at the same time. There was no peace to be had except within your own thoughts and even then those bastards would force us to see this Betazoid shrink so not even my own thoughts went unexamined.
You'll never be clean again.
From sun up to sun down--nearly twelve solid hours--we'd work. Me and my tier chiseled away at the quarry in the blazing hot heat with instruments one step above a pick ax.
At first, all I was aware of was the sun burning my skin and the feel of my muscles pulled taunt and aching from the workload. Worst of all, however, was the weight of the locator cuff on my leg.
As the days passed, body fat burned away to toned arms. The ache of work lessened, and the electronic tether on my ankle became less noticeable. The only think that didn't go away was the lack of cleanliness.
We'd work up a sweat in the quarry. Dirt and soot clung to our skin the same way the scratchy prison issue uniforms did. The dirt got everywhere too--hair, fingernail beds, shoes, even our bunks. Grit and grime that I swore a dozen sonic showers would never rid me of.
My first week as a fish, I was convinced I'd never make it. I sent letters to my family and friends...even dear ol' dad begging to be transferred. It all fell on deaf ears.
Weeks turned to months and finally years. The grind of the schedule became second nature as did the rules. Infrequent beatings from the guards, COs, and tier-mates insured I stayed in line. One message was clear though--I was not a man; I was number 4240912.
...of a Man
When I was in the penal colony I was always aware of the electronic leash on my ankle. It was so large and so clunky it impaired mobility. More than anything else, however, it was a reminder of my physical state and how I came to be there. If you check my Starfleet 'jacket' I'm sure it's filled with euphemisms like pilot error and tragic loss of life. Read beneath the lines, and you'll see the words 'murderer' etched in the presiding judge's neat scrawl.
I'd been in trouble with the law before. Minor things like being drunk and disorderly, theft, and driving a shuttle without a license. Each time I wore a locator cuff, but, that last time 'round, it weighed more.
I finger the two golden pips on my collar one last time before stepping onto the bridge.
Captain Janeway gave this chance to me. I have a room of my own. I'm safe, and doing what I love--flying a starship. For the first time since 'the incident,' I feel like a man, and I'm determined not to screw it up.