Hi all, know I havent been around her much lately, but upon seeing this months challenge I just got the urge to enter. I hope this fits the citeria! There are Vesta spoilers included, so if you haven't read up to Greenhouse Blues don't say I didn't warn you 
I also hope this won't be too confusing for non Vesta fans!
* * *
You look down at your own body lying there, and feel a curious sense of euphoria. There’s just something so liberating about knowing you’re dead. Besides, precious few people ever get to see themselves from this angle. It’s different than looking in a mirror. This isn’t a reflection, and so things look out of kilter; scars and moles are in the wrong place, and even the extra long eyelash you’ve always had- the one that always grew back no matter how many times you plucked it out- now seems to be attached above the wrong eye.
Maybe these discrepancies help; maybe on a certain level you’re telling yourself that this isn’t you, that the cold sallow cheeks aren’t the ones you’d been shaving since the age of fifteen, that those hands aren’t the ones that used to undress your wife, the ones that have so very much blood on them.
You look smaller than you remember as well, and you wonder how this frail old man used to do the things you did. This isn’t you, and yet it is.
You try and distract yourself now, focus on the cause of death rather than the identity of the corpse. A single blackened patch of skin over the heart, roughly the size of a fist, seems the obvious cause, although the cuts and bruises marring the body suggest that the victim took quite a beating first.
You can still smell it, the scent of burnt flesh in the air. This happened recently.
Part of you wants to reach out and touch the wound, the warmth will give further indication of time of death, but of course you don’t, can’t do that.
You look down at your feet, the murder weapon is there. You don’t know for sure of course, but a Cardassian phaser lying on the floor by a dead body that’s been shot? Come on, seems fairly obvious doesn’t it? You pick it up by the barrel. It’s still warm to the touch. You aren’t surprised.
Instinct makes you keep hold of the weapon, whoever killed you might still be close by after all, still you are relaxed, the gun hanging limply by your side as you return your gaze to your own dead body.
You’d been shot before, numerous times, so you understand how it must have felt. Fortunately the shock and sheer speed of energy weapons usually means you don’t feel the pain for several seconds after being hit, and likely your body was dead before the pain receptors had a chance to kick in.
A painless death then. This doesn’t make you feel any better.
'Are you alright?’
Instinct kicks in; you turn fast on the balls of your feet, the murder weapon in your hand jerking upwards to track the owner of the voice, for an instant it feels like the gun is moving your arm rather than the reverse.
If she is at all perturbed by having a gun pointed at her, the Vulcan woman does not show it. An eyebrow raises a fraction, but she makes no attempt to go for the gun at her hip. Cool, calm, collected. So very Vulcan, and so very beautiful with it.
A vague memory returns. You’ve met her before. Fought alongside her, made love with her. No, not love. Sex, animal lust, nothing more profound than that.
You know that her beauty, her perfection, is mirrored across her body. You also recall now that she is no Vulcan.
‘Are you alright?’ she asks again, and there is concern in her voice.
You lower the gun, knowing that, if it comes to it, you could still kill her before her gun clears the holster.
‘I don’t know,’ you say, and for a moment you think someone else is in the room, because that isn’t your voice. Then you realise that now it is.
‘Someone killed me,’ you say, sounding like a foolish child as you utter the words.
She sighs. ‘This is why we didn’t want you to do it.’
You frown. ‘Do what?’
She sighs again. ‘Willard, don’t you remember? Look at the gun, then look…look at your body.’
You feel confused, scared and, for some reason you can’t fathom, guilty. Still you do as she suggests, staring at the gun in your palm.
The memory hits you like a jolt of electricity. You’re holding the gun, but it isn’t now, it’s then. You’re pointing the gun at someone, but they’re faceless, a shadow, nothing more. Then you fire, the gun becoming pleasantly warm in your hand.
You don’t want to, but you look away from the gun, look over at your body. Another jolt. The same memory replayed, only this time you aren’t shooting a shadow, you’re shooting yourself, you’re shooting your unconscious body where it lies on the bunk.
And now the mental block your subconscious built around your actions crumbles, and you remember. You remember the proposal that Garak and T’Lenn made, that it was too dangerous to leave you alive, that you had to die. You remember the trip to Camus II, and the curious alien device. You remember seeing your new body for the first time, and that last vestige of hesitation before you placed yourself against the wall and let the machine transfer your consciousness across.
You remember the disorientation, the confusion the first time you saw your new reflection- then the surgery to give you your old body’s eyes.
Finally you remember the argument, and Garak and T’Lenn’s grudging agreement that you could be the one to finish it.
Few men get to murder themselves.
‘I need a drink,’ you mutter now, your voice dry as a desert. Without waiting for a response you head for the door.
You don’t look back.
I also hope this won't be too confusing for non Vesta fans!* * *
You look down at your own body lying there, and feel a curious sense of euphoria. There’s just something so liberating about knowing you’re dead. Besides, precious few people ever get to see themselves from this angle. It’s different than looking in a mirror. This isn’t a reflection, and so things look out of kilter; scars and moles are in the wrong place, and even the extra long eyelash you’ve always had- the one that always grew back no matter how many times you plucked it out- now seems to be attached above the wrong eye.
Maybe these discrepancies help; maybe on a certain level you’re telling yourself that this isn’t you, that the cold sallow cheeks aren’t the ones you’d been shaving since the age of fifteen, that those hands aren’t the ones that used to undress your wife, the ones that have so very much blood on them.
You look smaller than you remember as well, and you wonder how this frail old man used to do the things you did. This isn’t you, and yet it is.
You try and distract yourself now, focus on the cause of death rather than the identity of the corpse. A single blackened patch of skin over the heart, roughly the size of a fist, seems the obvious cause, although the cuts and bruises marring the body suggest that the victim took quite a beating first.
You can still smell it, the scent of burnt flesh in the air. This happened recently.
Part of you wants to reach out and touch the wound, the warmth will give further indication of time of death, but of course you don’t, can’t do that.
You look down at your feet, the murder weapon is there. You don’t know for sure of course, but a Cardassian phaser lying on the floor by a dead body that’s been shot? Come on, seems fairly obvious doesn’t it? You pick it up by the barrel. It’s still warm to the touch. You aren’t surprised.
Instinct makes you keep hold of the weapon, whoever killed you might still be close by after all, still you are relaxed, the gun hanging limply by your side as you return your gaze to your own dead body.
You’d been shot before, numerous times, so you understand how it must have felt. Fortunately the shock and sheer speed of energy weapons usually means you don’t feel the pain for several seconds after being hit, and likely your body was dead before the pain receptors had a chance to kick in.
A painless death then. This doesn’t make you feel any better.
'Are you alright?’
Instinct kicks in; you turn fast on the balls of your feet, the murder weapon in your hand jerking upwards to track the owner of the voice, for an instant it feels like the gun is moving your arm rather than the reverse.
If she is at all perturbed by having a gun pointed at her, the Vulcan woman does not show it. An eyebrow raises a fraction, but she makes no attempt to go for the gun at her hip. Cool, calm, collected. So very Vulcan, and so very beautiful with it.
A vague memory returns. You’ve met her before. Fought alongside her, made love with her. No, not love. Sex, animal lust, nothing more profound than that.
You know that her beauty, her perfection, is mirrored across her body. You also recall now that she is no Vulcan.
‘Are you alright?’ she asks again, and there is concern in her voice.
You lower the gun, knowing that, if it comes to it, you could still kill her before her gun clears the holster.
‘I don’t know,’ you say, and for a moment you think someone else is in the room, because that isn’t your voice. Then you realise that now it is.
‘Someone killed me,’ you say, sounding like a foolish child as you utter the words.
She sighs. ‘This is why we didn’t want you to do it.’
You frown. ‘Do what?’
She sighs again. ‘Willard, don’t you remember? Look at the gun, then look…look at your body.’
You feel confused, scared and, for some reason you can’t fathom, guilty. Still you do as she suggests, staring at the gun in your palm.
The memory hits you like a jolt of electricity. You’re holding the gun, but it isn’t now, it’s then. You’re pointing the gun at someone, but they’re faceless, a shadow, nothing more. Then you fire, the gun becoming pleasantly warm in your hand.
You don’t want to, but you look away from the gun, look over at your body. Another jolt. The same memory replayed, only this time you aren’t shooting a shadow, you’re shooting yourself, you’re shooting your unconscious body where it lies on the bunk.
And now the mental block your subconscious built around your actions crumbles, and you remember. You remember the proposal that Garak and T’Lenn made, that it was too dangerous to leave you alive, that you had to die. You remember the trip to Camus II, and the curious alien device. You remember seeing your new body for the first time, and that last vestige of hesitation before you placed yourself against the wall and let the machine transfer your consciousness across.
You remember the disorientation, the confusion the first time you saw your new reflection- then the surgery to give you your old body’s eyes.
Finally you remember the argument, and Garak and T’Lenn’s grudging agreement that you could be the one to finish it.
Few men get to murder themselves.
‘I need a drink,’ you mutter now, your voice dry as a desert. Without waiting for a response you head for the door.
You don’t look back.
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Still loved the story no matter what kind of personality disorders the author might have!
