It gets worse before it gets better, kids, but it's okay because nihilism has set it. Nothing matters was the mantra of the morning. I don't really want to stick with that, but we've definitely been feeling discouraged. In yesterday's update, I told you my First Officer and Chief Engineer had been called back. Later that night, we found out there was a metaphorical warp core breach that means most of us are being forced to use the escape pods. My Comms Officer, who I finally managed to catch up with last night, is staying behind because of how integrated he is in some away missions. The rest of us absolutely have to evacuate.
There's a level of comfort in it. The uncertainty has worn on all of us. My Opps Ensign has been gone a while, sent home early by an unrelated illness. Tomorrow, my First Officer and Chief Engineer are both leaving. The next day, my Chief of Security and I will be gone. Only a couple days after that, our Pilot will go home. I wish I could stay long enough to see her off myself, but I don't think the Admiralty will allow that without an exact departure date. I feel alright, either way, knowing that she's leaving and has a plan, and I'm close enough to drive back for her myself if it comes to that. My Comms Officer, while I'm still apt to worry about him, is one of the most capable people I have ever known in my life. I'm confident he'll be fine, even if I still don't really want to leave him.
The nihilism, at least, is cheerful. Sort of. I can't lie to you. We're kind of depressed. However, we've taken the feeling that nothing matters anymore as license to be silly. We spent the better part of the day ignoring our responsibilities and being utterly ridiculous.
At some point, though, we had to admit that things still kind of do matter, even if it doesn't feel like they do at the moment. All of us had to pack today. Even though I don't plan on leaving until Saturday, I have to be ready to leave at a moment's notice to leave if the situation changes, so I packed today. My First Officer and I at least are keeping our ringers on even at night until everyone is home safe, just in case the situation changes and there's anything we can do.
I spent the better part of the day fighting the battle to get access to my senior carrel so I can retrieve my Senior Project notes, along with some personal items I'd rather not leave without. After harassing at least five people, I finally got an email informing me that ten seniors at a time would be allowed in for half an hour to clean out carells. I'll be cleaning out mine and my Chief Science Officer's carell as well. She got out of here pretty much immediately. Maybe that should've been an omen. Either way, I managed to get a 12:30 slot tomorrow. After that, I'll truly be ready to leave at a moment's notice, physically if not mentally and emotionally.
Now our responsibilities are taken care of, we've settled in for one last night of merriment and camaraderie. In the face of this ongoing crisis, we do the only thing we can: we continue on. There's a special bitterness in my being a senior, but, as one of my favorite Robert Frost poems says, I have promises to keep. Just because we've been forced to take separate escape pods doesn't mean we're not a crew anymore. Just because I'm graduating doesn't mean we won't be reunited again.
There's a level of comfort in it. The uncertainty has worn on all of us. My Opps Ensign has been gone a while, sent home early by an unrelated illness. Tomorrow, my First Officer and Chief Engineer are both leaving. The next day, my Chief of Security and I will be gone. Only a couple days after that, our Pilot will go home. I wish I could stay long enough to see her off myself, but I don't think the Admiralty will allow that without an exact departure date. I feel alright, either way, knowing that she's leaving and has a plan, and I'm close enough to drive back for her myself if it comes to that. My Comms Officer, while I'm still apt to worry about him, is one of the most capable people I have ever known in my life. I'm confident he'll be fine, even if I still don't really want to leave him.
The nihilism, at least, is cheerful. Sort of. I can't lie to you. We're kind of depressed. However, we've taken the feeling that nothing matters anymore as license to be silly. We spent the better part of the day ignoring our responsibilities and being utterly ridiculous.
At some point, though, we had to admit that things still kind of do matter, even if it doesn't feel like they do at the moment. All of us had to pack today. Even though I don't plan on leaving until Saturday, I have to be ready to leave at a moment's notice to leave if the situation changes, so I packed today. My First Officer and I at least are keeping our ringers on even at night until everyone is home safe, just in case the situation changes and there's anything we can do.
I spent the better part of the day fighting the battle to get access to my senior carrel so I can retrieve my Senior Project notes, along with some personal items I'd rather not leave without. After harassing at least five people, I finally got an email informing me that ten seniors at a time would be allowed in for half an hour to clean out carells. I'll be cleaning out mine and my Chief Science Officer's carell as well. She got out of here pretty much immediately. Maybe that should've been an omen. Either way, I managed to get a 12:30 slot tomorrow. After that, I'll truly be ready to leave at a moment's notice, physically if not mentally and emotionally.
Now our responsibilities are taken care of, we've settled in for one last night of merriment and camaraderie. In the face of this ongoing crisis, we do the only thing we can: we continue on. There's a special bitterness in my being a senior, but, as one of my favorite Robert Frost poems says, I have promises to keep. Just because we've been forced to take separate escape pods doesn't mean we're not a crew anymore. Just because I'm graduating doesn't mean we won't be reunited again.
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