Everybody's Got A Story
So you can see my bra underneath my shirt
Watch the wind underneath my skirt
But that ain't the picture, it's just a part
Everybody's got a story that could break your heart.
The sunlight is warm against my back and I feel a million miles away from the cold, black space that is really outside. People mill around in the dusty town square, going about whatever business they're programmed to do. The sun has warmed the saddle, I fit into the soft, supple brown leather comfortably and slither down, swinging my feet out of the stirrups, stroking the horse's velvety nose as it nuzzles my hand. Its hot breath huffs against my neck, tickling the exposed skin. I feel nothing except the heat of the noonday sun and the ground beneath my boots. I walk comfortably in them, flats, no heels. I can run in these if I need to, and I create programs where I have to do just that, where I can run around unconstrained by flowing, floaty, pretty skirts. The material of my jodhpurs brushes against my legs as I move. It feels strangely sensual, not the clinging pressure of the clothes I wear on duty. My breasts are outlined only when the wind blows the cotton of my blouse closer to my skin. Even then, no-one looks. In this world of form without substance, where all is a trick of the light, I wouldn't notice if they did. My hair is straightened for the occasion, pulled back into a ponytail where it lies long and sleek and glossy over my back. Smooth, controlled, no wild cascade of impractical curls that tickle my cheek whenever I move my head. Dressed like this, I am ready for action I rarely get to see anywhere else. In this make-believe world, I hold the cool steel of a gun in my hands. I have taken life unblinkingly as spatters of ruby red stain my face and my clothes.
I like to think this program is more realistic than the one Worf adapted. He frowned and wondered aloud as we walked back to our quarters later how the women of the time could function in such restrictive clothing. I smiled wryly and tried to ignore the way my boots rubbed and blistered my throbbing feet. Of course, I routinely dismiss the holodeck as anything other than escapism for stressed officers. Costumes, fantasy, a holiday from reality. I pretend that the way I dress on duty doesn't fuel fantasies of another sort altogether, I pretend these gauzy, filmy dresses with their pinching bodices aren't just a costume for a character I somehow stumbled into playing. I get so tired. My feet hurt, crippled by heels I have to wear to be at least a little closer to the height of the men around me. I have a permanent red mark where the corset of my dress presses against my skin. If I wear my once-loved figure-hugging jumpsuits too often I just get a yeast infection. Will not-so-subtly looks for the line of my underwear in vain. Once I made the mistake of walking to the holodeck in costume, stetson jammed down over my eyes. No-one recognised me. I felt invisible, not like myself. A couple of curious glances but nothing like the overt attention I get every day, the sly, sidelong glances that they shoot raking me up and down. They think I don't notice. Will's gaze upon me is a hand, stroking me all over. I can tell when his thoughts take a more intimate turn, my body starts tingling in the most inappropriate places. Sometimes it feels like a lover's caress, more often it feels like assault.
This morning I looked in the mirror again. Loose white nightgown, no sparkles or ruffles. My face is pale without the blusher and powder, tiny lines are starting to show at the corner of my eyes. My nose is too big. My hair too frizzy, no matter what I do it takes at least an hour to do it every day. The time I've wasted fixing up my appearance, I could have made Captain by now. As it is, first thing in the morning I'm a cold shower for the leering ensigns (and lieutenants, and commanders...). Truth is, I don't think I look so bad. I've actually like grown to like those stolen glimpses of myself before I put on my uniform. I'm becoming a morning person. Here, all I have against my skin is the wind and the sun. I stride into the bar just because I can, just because the length of my step isn't limited by my dress or my shoes. In these clothes I move differently, with a confidence I haven't felt in years. Once my duty clothes gave me that, and I proudly asserted my status as a sexual being, as an attractive woman, a swan after years of being an ugly duckling. Tight jumpsuits because the last of my puppy fat had melted off and I wanted to show the world my new slim stomach, breasts that were full without being too heavy. I haven't dressed like this, in trousers and chaps, fitted shirt and a cowboy hat, since I was a little girl. After Daddy died, Mother dressed me like a doll and I've been a toy, a plaything, from then on. I'm rarely the only woman on the Bridge, but I am the only girl. Feminine and charming, easy on the eye. Easy full stop. I know the rumours. That I flit from bed to bed, a butterfly. I sense eyes on me as I cross the room and politely pretend not to notice, the same way I pretend not to know what they say about me, late at night, over their poker games and drinking sessions. I wonder if the oh-so-gentlemanly Commander Riker allows this, or if he joins in with anecdotes or a smug, knowing grin...A drunk ensign in Ten Forward once called me a whore.
I crouch in the dust, trying not to cough. The muscles of my calves are rock hard, thanks to endless martial arts training. I turn up to every session, more than most, hoping someone will notice and take the hint. My soft curves have turned into rippling muscles and I nearly knocked out the burly Ensign from stellar cartography the other week. I didn't apologise, just left him on the floor gasping, surprised, and tried to block out the echoes of his pain. The shock he felt at my unnoticed strength cut me to the bone. To them, I am the sweet, empathic counselor who reassures everyone by stating the obvious at opportune moments, when everyone else gets on with the real work. They mock my abilities when they think I'm not listening. Most patients I've had don't think they need counselling, it's hard not to take personally, but par for the course. Sooner or later, they always come running to my office, asking Counselor Troi to listen to their petty problems, to make it all better. I've had more than my share of patients requesting a different sort of therapy altogether. They don't ask a second time. I want to do more than just decorate the Bridge, I want to be more to Will than a pretty woman to hang on his arm at official functions. On Betazed, I'm listened to, respected despite my half-breed blood. It's my aristocratic heritage, the one that Will feels so threatened by and I've rejected time and time again. That damn Chalice of Riix. Mother. It all adds up. First a degree, nearly enough qualifications to give me as many letters behind my name as Beverly, then following in my father's footsteps into Starfleet. It's an achievement they recognise down there. Up here, floating around in the sky in this stupid tin spaceship that's home, that I love and would never leave, I'm just the pouting, pretty woman who sits on the Bridge and says nothing of consequence, the one they run to when they need their broken hearts mending.
The stetson casts a shadow over the plains of my face, and I like the anonymity it gives me. I change the setting slightly every time I use this program, and every time I'm a stranger. No baggage, no reputation to proceed me. I reinvent myself every time I step through the holodeck doors. The mysterious stranger. I can do and say whatever I want and to hell with the consequences. I have nobody's expectations to live up to, nobody to disappoint when I step out of the character they've allotted me. By now, I aim the gun like a pro. As far as anyone here is concerned, I am. I gaze down the long, steel barrel and lament the fact that phaser technology doesn't allow for this. People look different when they're on the opposite end of a fierce concotion of metal and gunpowder. My hat cocked at the right angle, the sun blazing behind me, throwing my dark shadow across the ground, and I can take on the world. It's not quite power, but the pretense of power. I look the part and appearance are all that matters, all it takes to send shivers down my spine. I lean against the bar and drag on a cigarette. I blow one perfect smoke ring through another as the neat roll-up twirls between my fingers. Point it at the barmaid like a weapon and smile. A pretty holographic woman in a hoop skirt and bustle. She moves around in her elaborate costume as easily as I do on the Bridge. I have a name here, but only a few know it. I am known mainly by reputation, a reputation earned for fast movement and sharp shooting.
The saloon is dark and smoky, sunlight slanting in through the swing doors and unwashed windows. A million descriptions of one stock scene from a million different stories jostle in my head. My father's words, whispered into my ear as I sat on his knee. I know this place, this bar, like the back of my hand. My fingers curl around an icy tankard of some rugged, manly drink, the grasped glass cool in my hand. They cramp from the way I was holding the reins, the pattern of the leather imprinted onto my smooth, white palm. Counselors' hands don't see much physical labour. Stroking someone's shoulder, someone's hair, handing over a mug of hot sweet tea. Will's fingertips are hardened from gripping his phaser tightly on countless away missions. I feel the rough skin traverse my flesh on the odd lonely, nostalgic night. Beverly's strong surgeons hands can save life or take it at a moments notice, and all it would take to bring Jean-Luc Picard running to her side would be the snap of those long, slim fingers that never comes. Mine are just there to comfort, to soothe. I run the tip of my forefinger across the holster that sheaths my gun, reminding myself that there is someone else underneath that soft, nurturing mask. I down the last dregs of my beer and head out the door, pistol hanging heavy in my hand. My finger is poised on the trigger and I don't bat an eyelid as I swing the gun up, aiming the barrel at the felon's head, and draw back my crooked digit. The faint smell of gunpowder clings to me, and I know I won't wash it off all day. The scent sends an illicit thrill through me. Pathetic, I know, but there is a dearth of adventures onboard the flagship of the Federation, at least for pretty Counselors who want to be taken seriously. The sun beats down on our little crowd as we stand out here, warming the dull grey metal of my shotgun and glinting off my silver spurs.