Mine is a boring life.
I am told what to do and I do it.
Go here, go there. Stop when they tell me. I am nothing but a slave to their whims and preoccupation.
And do I ever receive thanks for all my hard work?
No. I'm ignored. Treated as if I wasn't even there.
I'm sick of it. Sick and tired and almost ready to blow my top!
Or, at least, I was.
Then things changed.
It wasn't gradual or subtle. It was a slap in the face, technicolour splendour with forty piece orchestra providing backup. A moment I will never forget. Never stop dreaming about.
The first thing I always remember is the sound. That slow growl intercepted by a moan. The thud of bodies colliding. Clothing ripped and cast asunder. Pleas for more, faster, harder, deeper. Then the whimper. That soft sound of total surrender that is almost drowned out by the cry of release. I love that whimper. I can hear years of loneliness dissolve in that one moment.
Then there are the colours. The golden rush of sunlight trapped in her hair. The spread of dark fingers against pale flesh. The rose of lips chased by the burning reds of a lusting tongue. Blue eyes lit with a fire so bright it almost burns, while brown eyes smoulder and consume everything in their wake. Colours transforming, surging, mixing together, until they are a mosaic of need, set in the background of want.
The colours and sounds coming together to form a tableau of desire and emerging love.
And there am I. The quiet observer. The unrecognised voyeur.
But vital to that moment. And whatever future that moment has brought them.
And somehow thanks are no longer needed. The look in their eyes as they enter me, feed me their commands, and long for one another, is enough. I know that I've finally accomplished that for which I was placed on this ship. I have brought love into their lives.
What else does a turbolift live for?
Return to Voyager T/7 Fiction
Return to Main Page