Abyss - [New Enterprise, Riviera]
I realized clearly that something extraordinary was happening. I was holding him close in my arms as if he were a little child; and yet it seemed to me that he was rushing headlong toward an abyss from which I could do nothing to restrain him... His look was very serious, like some one lost far away.
-Antoine de Saint-Exupéry, The Little Prince
He could not bring himself to attend the party, so Scotty did what he was apt to do as both an apology and a gesture of gratitude, and sent food. He wasn't sure why he couldn't make himself attend, except that it seemed harder and harder to be here at all with each passing day. He was not unaware of his reasons for coming aboard this ship, when he would have stayed on Risa and lived under a pier or roamed the planet finding odd jobs. He was also keenly aware that those reasons had not truly mattered, in the end.
It matters, he had written on the bottom of Perera's theory, in ink, on paper.
Scotty now dwelled in a world where it seemed few things did. It was not that he didn't care about the people here; there were a number of them he liked and wanted to do well by. Captain Kirk -- both versions, even -- Commander Spock, Doctor McCoy. Len Nimoy, who owned the Riviera he had taken refuge in since leaving Risa. Harold Lee, who reminded him of the sand, and the suns, and his spot under the pier. He still carried his shell in his pocket with him, a hidden talisman. The people mattered, and he cared, but it didn't seem to be enough to overcome the oppression that had dogged him since leaving Risa, and had only lifted in dreams of the road.
He felt trapped. Like the car, like something boxed into a cage. It didn't matter if the cage sailed the stars -- he had no room to run, no places to hide and become invisible; no pier to take shelter under, no warm sand. He had a beautiful car to visit, but she wasn't his either; her owner obviously loved her dearly, and Scotty quietly relinquished the building possessiveness of the Riviera he'd been gathering so long as he thought she was as lost as he was.
Regardless, he still went back to her; spent the rest of his day off on general maintenance and then cleaning. Scraping cruddy build-up off of her engine mounts with a wire brush, oiling door hinges. Then, he cleaned his own hands in the nearest public restroom and came back to wipe down her dash and interior, polish her up with a clean rag. He would likely not stay another night with her; he told her this. A quiet confession to a dash -- he loved her, and was grateful, but she was never his and her Len still needed and wanted her. But he would check on her and care for her while he could.
He stayed one more night, though. One more night smelling the miles and the road dust and the leather; smelling the years and distances. Some place for a dream.
He set his PADD to wake him up before the morning watch, then curled up in the back seat to go to sleep.
-Antoine de Saint-Exupéry, The Little Prince
He could not bring himself to attend the party, so Scotty did what he was apt to do as both an apology and a gesture of gratitude, and sent food. He wasn't sure why he couldn't make himself attend, except that it seemed harder and harder to be here at all with each passing day. He was not unaware of his reasons for coming aboard this ship, when he would have stayed on Risa and lived under a pier or roamed the planet finding odd jobs. He was also keenly aware that those reasons had not truly mattered, in the end.
It matters, he had written on the bottom of Perera's theory, in ink, on paper.
Scotty now dwelled in a world where it seemed few things did. It was not that he didn't care about the people here; there were a number of them he liked and wanted to do well by. Captain Kirk -- both versions, even -- Commander Spock, Doctor McCoy. Len Nimoy, who owned the Riviera he had taken refuge in since leaving Risa. Harold Lee, who reminded him of the sand, and the suns, and his spot under the pier. He still carried his shell in his pocket with him, a hidden talisman. The people mattered, and he cared, but it didn't seem to be enough to overcome the oppression that had dogged him since leaving Risa, and had only lifted in dreams of the road.
He felt trapped. Like the car, like something boxed into a cage. It didn't matter if the cage sailed the stars -- he had no room to run, no places to hide and become invisible; no pier to take shelter under, no warm sand. He had a beautiful car to visit, but she wasn't his either; her owner obviously loved her dearly, and Scotty quietly relinquished the building possessiveness of the Riviera he'd been gathering so long as he thought she was as lost as he was.
Regardless, he still went back to her; spent the rest of his day off on general maintenance and then cleaning. Scraping cruddy build-up off of her engine mounts with a wire brush, oiling door hinges. Then, he cleaned his own hands in the nearest public restroom and came back to wipe down her dash and interior, polish her up with a clean rag. He would likely not stay another night with her; he told her this. A quiet confession to a dash -- he loved her, and was grateful, but she was never his and her Len still needed and wanted her. But he would check on her and care for her while he could.
He stayed one more night, though. One more night smelling the miles and the road dust and the leather; smelling the years and distances. Some place for a dream.
He set his PADD to wake him up before the morning watch, then curled up in the back seat to go to sleep.