“What do you think?”, Vivienne asked Hera, offering a quick glance towards the feline before once more impatiently checking the chronometer. Then, after she stole a quick glance at her reflection in the mirror, she returned her gaze to Hera. If cats could roll their eyes, the blue-furred bundle of joy and judgement would certainly be doing that right about now. Vivienne had repeated this stupid little game several times in the past few minutes, and unsurprisingly neither the time, nor her appearance had changed significantly. Hera uttered a non-committal meow, and with a somewhat frustrated sigh, Vivienne tucked a stubborn strand of chestnut-coloured hair beyond her ear. “You’re right, this looks stupid.”, she replied eventually, and deactivated the mirror. She turned, surveying her room for something else she could wear. Her room, not her closet, as Vivienne had spent the last few hours trying on every single piece of clothing she owned, only to find herself dissatisfied with the look and feel of it, and had tossed it away to find something better. 

She had, evidently, not found something better. She once more returned her gaze to the timepiece, as if she needed to confirm that it had moved precisely the right amount, or as if it needed her supervision to do so. 

Which wasn’t as far fetched as it might seem. Time seemed to behave oddly today, a temporal anomaly that only affected Vivienne and her perception of it. Seconds stretched on for what felt like an eternity, and then, in a sudden rush, hours slipped by in a matter of minutes. But it didn’t ever stand still, and that meant that today’s dreaded appointment was moving closer and closer, regardless of whether Vivienne felt ready for it or not. 

“Where is the-… are you sitting on it?”, Vivienne asked Hera, who had gotten comfortable on the dark blue jacket destined to save Vivienne’s outfit. Hera stared at her challengingly, as if to say “I am. What are you going to do about it?” 

Once more, with another sigh, Vivienne turned her attention back to her reflection. Nevermind the jacket. The invitation Cheyenne had forwarded to her had explicitly stated that “civilian clothing” was perfectly acceptable, but something in the way it was phrased had made Vivienne think the “perfectly acceptable” in this case rather meant “tolerated”. In any other situation, “tolerated” would be fair enough, but Vivienne didn’t want to be tolerated. She wanted to fit in. Or at least not stick out. And so, she had taken great care to make her attire as uniform-like as possible without being an actual uniform. 

It was, she mused, almost as if she was not just figuratively, but quite literally, trying on the role of a Starfleet Officer to see if it suited her. And, thus far, she was undecided as to whether it did or not. There were hopes and dreams, fears and expectations connected to that mental image of herself, and it was something Vivienne tried not to think too hard about. Unsuccessfully so. A wave of emotion washed over her, and she was unsure as to whether it was excitement or anxiety, where exactly the difference was, and which of both was the appropriate feeling to have.  

After another jolt of too quickly passing moments, it was time to leave. Vivienne had meticulously planned her route and ensured she would arrive well on time—neither far too early, to avoid appearing overly eager, nor a second too late.  

It was an oddly calculated balance to keep, and one Vivienne wasn’t particularly good at.  She had faced the entry exam to Starfleet Academy twice before, and failed both times. Sure, she could keep trying, but Vivienne couldn’t shake the feeling that this was her last chance. There were a fair number of Starfleet Officers who had succeeded only after the third try and then begun promising careers regardless, but Vivienne had never once heard of someone attempting to join four or five times.  

As Vivienne left her quarters and made it down the corridor toward the nearest transporter room, she wondered (not for the first time) what exactly was wrong with her that she needed a third attempt in the first place. Starfleet was supposed to run in her blood. Her mother held the rank of Captain, commanding her own starship, while her father served as Counselor and First Officer at her side. Vivienne often wondered how healthy such a dynamic could possibly be, but her mother had convinced everyone it worked, and she wasn’t going to try and tell them it was not. Her sister and brother were also thriving in their Starfleet careers – Cheyenne as Chief Science Officer, and Jonathan as Helm Officer. She was also pretty sure that both of them were sleeping with their commanding officers, but maybe that was her spite talking. She didn’t actually have any reason to think that.  

But regardless of her family’s tendency to questionable relationships with their commanding officers, they certainly were well connected. And that meant that Vivienne could avail of their experience, tutors, connections and support – and somehow still failed. Which was probably an achievement in and of itself. Vivienne sighed in annoyance of her idiot brain still seeking that elusive family approval, and turned her attention towards the door leading to the transporter room of her choosing. She approached, expecting the door to open. Which it did not. Which Vivienne didn’t notice until her face made contact with it. 

“Ouch!”, she exclaimed, staggering backwards and into one of the crewmen who was innocently wandering the hallway.  

It took a moment for her to regain balance and composure. “It’s closed.”, said the man with a sagely, but unempathetic nod. Thank you for this unnecessary and entirely obvious observation, Vivienne thought. What she replied was a much less impolite “I noticed.” She paused, and when the man did not volunteer any information, she continued “… Why is it closed?”“Maintenance”“You are kidding me….”Maintenance guy was most definitely not kidding and gave a somewhat disinterested shrug, either not understanding or not caring that Vivienne was starting to panic ever so slightly. Her carefully curated plan had not accounted for maintenance, which retrospectively was a failure on her part, not on that of the transporter room, or the maintenance guy. So what now?

“Just use one of the other rooms.”, Maintenance Guy offered as if he had read her thoughts – which wasn’t entirely impossible, but unlikely considering the man’s green skin and indication of Orion heritage. “Deck fourteen, section nine.” The SS Belladonna had an excellent infrastructure with several transporter hubs. Deck fourteen, section nine, was probably less than eight minutes away, five if Vivienne hurried. 

“Thanks.”, she called out, already dashing past the man and towards the nearest turbolift.  

She made it to her new destination within three minutes and thirty-seven seconds, hurrying through the doors to the transporter room once they hissed open – which was where her face, for the second time in mere minutes, made contact with a foreign object. 

This time, however, the object was not a door but the broad back of a Klingon in a suit who happened to be last in line. Vivienne would have found that outfit amusing if she currently had the mental capacity to think past the fact that there …. was a line. It shouldn’t have surprised her that she wasn’t the only one being redirected to one of the other transporter rooms, and that she wasn’t the only one who wanted to get off the Belladonna and onto Starbase Bravo. The Starbase wasn’t only a major travel hub, but in contrast to other Starbases, was like a city in space – so even the people who didn’t have to leave the Belladonna here were eager for a few hours of “shore leave”.  

“I’m sorry-”, Vivienne said, less to the Klingon than the room as a whole, and less to apologise than to preface what came next. “I have an appointment…”There was barely anyone who took notice of her. Most travellers were too occupied with their personal PADDs or travel companions, or they simply opted to pretend not to have heard her. 

“I really need to-”, she continued, but didn’t get very far. 

“No.”, a woman with an angular haircut cut her off. “You didn’t even let me finish!’, Vivienne said, somewhat upset. 

“Oh sorry.”, the woman replied sarcastically. “So you weren’t asking to skip the line?”Vivienne said nothing, which the woman counted as a victory. Instead, she just stood there and let the different emotions within her collided as she tried to figure out whether to cry, be angry, or feel satisfied. The latter, in particular, made absolutely no sense to her. 

“Look…”, Vivienne sighed. “I know you have no reason to let me through. I’m sure you have important things to do, and I am not even saying mine are more important than yours. But this is really important to me, and if I am late, that’s my chance gone. I’m sure you had your fair share of missed chances and situations in which you have wished that someone would bother to pass.” She looked at the woman pleadingly after delivering her speech. It had been a pretty good speech, and perhaps it stirred some ounce of humanity in-…

“I said NO.”Or not. Vivienne chewed on her lower lip before eventually turning around, with hanging head walking back to the end of the line. “I’m not in a hurry.”, said the well-suited Klingon with a soft voice that didn’t at all match his wild hair, and, well, the sharpened teeth. He inclined his head and took a step back, allowing Vivienne to cut in before him.

“Thank you…”, Viv sighed. She appreciated the sentiment, and if she looked ahead, it wouldn’t be a long wait either way. But it was a delay, and one Vivienne hadn’t calculated with.