Reunited

Posted on 10 Jun 2025 @ 3:04pm by Commodore Harvey Geisler & Lieutenant Commander Joey Geisler

1,120 words; about a 6 minute read

Mission: Imposters Among Us
Location: In Captivity
Timeline: July 7, 2390 || 0900 hours

Joey sat slumped against the cold bulkhead on the floor, the dim emergency lighting casting flickering shadows across the cell's grimy walls. The stench of rusted metal and stale air clung to the confined space, mingling with the faint acrid scent of burnt circuitry. The forcefield flickered erratically, its unstable hum the only sound breaking the silence. A single cot, its fabric torn and matted with unidentifiable stains, sagged under its own weight in the corner. The rations left for her were long expired—unrecognizable slabs of protein paste hardened into brittle husks.

The air recyclers barely functioned, leaving the room thick with humidity, beads of condensation clinging to exposed pipes overhead. Water dripped at irregular intervals from a leaky conduit, pooling in the cracks of the warped floor panels. Joey ran a hand through her tangled hair, her fingers catching on knots formed from days—maybe weeks—without proper care. The dull ache in her limbs reminded her of the bruises earned when she was taken from her cell to undergo memory downloads, the only kind of freedom she'd been able to experience. She had no idea how long she'd been here. The chronometers embedded in the walls had long since malfunctioned, leaving her trapped in an endless cycle of stagnant time.

Somewhere in the distance, muffled voices echoed through the corridors—indistinct, indifferent. No one spoke to her directly. No one told her how much longer she would be kept alive. The only certainty was the creaking of the structure around her, its decaying state a cruel reflection of her own dwindling hope.

The doors to the dark dungeon opened with a great metallic scraping sound, suggesting the mechanisms had given up all hope of being lubricated. Two Karemma guards entered the room, each one supporting part of a slumped figure. Between the Karemma, the male figure was barely awake thanks to the drugs circulating in his bloodstream. There was a patch of dried blood above his right eyelid. Blood and dirt and grease had accumulated on other parts of the prisoner, not just on flesh, but also on the black slacks and the gray t-shirt he wore.

He was too occupied with his pain and grogginess to notice that the Karemma came to a stop, or that one of them reached forward to adjust a set of controls to drop a forcefield. What he did notice was that his feet were suddenly expected to support his body. A complete lack of muscle control caused him to fall forward into the cell, landing on his right shoulder solely by pure chance. The forcefield was restored, and the Karemma departed.

Joey stirred, the ache in her body reminding her of the burns that marred her skin. Her face and arm still bore the painful traces of her only attempt at escape, raw at the edges but beginning to scab over, the healing slow and incomplete without proper treatment. She shifted slightly, her basic scrub-like attire hanging more loosely than before—a grim sign of the weight she'd lost in captivity. Hunger gnawed at her stomach, but she ignored it, forcing her focus onto something new.

A presence.

The hairs at the back of her neck prickled as she sensed it—subtle at first, a shift in the stale air, a faint rustle of movement just beyond her line of sight. Her breathing steadied, her senses sharpening despite the fog of exhaustion clouding her mind. She wasn’t alone. Slowly, carefully, she turned her head, her gaze sweeping the dim cell, searching the shadows where the flickering light didn’t reach. A figure was slumped on the floor on her side of the forcefield, half-shrouded in darkness. She swallowed, willing strength she had to move her forward.

Joey inhaled slowly, steeling herself against the aching stiffness in her limbs as she shifted toward the motionless figure sprawled across the floor. Her fingers brushed against the cold metal beneath her as she crawled closer, her breaths shallow against the stale air. The dim light did little to reveal his features, but she could see enough—the rise and fall of their chest, uneven but present. A flicker of relief settled in her gut, but it was fleeting. Her hands trembled as she reached out, pressing her fingers against his neck, searching for a pulse. Faint, but there. The burns across her own skin pulled tight as she moved, but she ignored the pain, focusing instead on the weight of the moment—the quiet uncertainty of who this was and what it meant. "Hey," she whispered, voice hoarse. "Can you hear me?"

Two responses were given to Joey. The first was an incoherent series of mumbles. If only one syllable managed to achieve coherence, it was the word "...stop..." And the second was an involuntary flinch at the moment her fingers began to search for a pulse.

Joey frowned. What had they done to this poor soul? She knew he was alive now, so she withdrew her fingers and very carefully rolled him onto his back to get a better look at him. Despite the dim lighting in the cell, she immediately recognized who her new cell mate was, and that had all color draining from her face. "Harvey..."

Harvey's head flopped a bit, unable to steady itself as his body adjusted to its new position on the cold metal floor. The drugs in his system made it difficult for him to focus or stir more than he already had in his limited state. But something in his mind registered the voice. In a soft voice, he whispered a very soft, "Jo... ey..."

Joey gritted her teeth as she slid an arm under Harvey's shoulders, his unconscious form heavier than she'd anticipated. Every muscle protested, the burns across her skin pulling tight, but she refused to stop. The cot—if it could even be called that—was barely sturdy, its frame rusted and fabric torn, but it was better than the cold floor. With a sharp inhale, she shifted her weight, using what little strength she had left to lift him enough to drag him over. She did everything she could to keep his head stable. "It's going to be okay," she muttered, hoping it to be true.

Finally, with one last strained effort, she eased him onto the cot, her own legs giving out as she sank down to the floor beside him. Her shaky hands hovered over his body, unsure where to start to look for injuries. She swallowed hard, forcing back exhaustion—he needed her to hold it together. For now, at least, he was off the floor. That was something. But they had a long way to go.

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