[posted 6/29/99]

"Mine Eyes Have Seen"  Part I
By:  Carol Gravley "Epsilon"


DISCLAIMER:  I did not create any of the characters that have been on any Star Trek series, blah blah
blah.  They belong to Paramount, not to me.  All other characters are mine, this idea is mine, and by
golly, the computer I'm writing it on is mine!  Muwahahahaha!  

IMPORTANT:  This takes place in a different universe far far far far far far far far far far far away.
Don't get confused:)


~~The dim, dank, musty room is completely silent, shadows lying ominously in the corners, like dark,
translucent beasts ready to pounce upon their new-coming prey.  A light breaks through a crack in the
door, causing the beasts to retreat beneath the bunk and sanitary facilities, which now shine in a
metallic silver.  A man in tattered garments is shoved in by two guards who look incredibly large and
well fed compared to the tawny and wiry figure of their prisoner, whose single blue eye burns with
experience, determination, and most of all hatred for the guards and the rest of their people.  His
light brown hair is long, dirty, and unkempt, framing his face with greasy tendrils that do nothing
but make the man look even more fierce and wild, like a tiger tossed unwillingly into captivity.

"Any requests, 40367?" huffs the taller of the guards.

"Paper and pencil."  The man's words are raspy, his tenor voice holding low.

The guard who didn't ask the question tosses a notepad on to the man's bunk, shortly followed by a
yellow pencil.

"So kind of you," says the prisoner in a cynical tone as the guards leave in silence.  When the door
shuts, he exhales-he had been almost holding his breath since he was captured and brought to the
detention facility.  He wastes no time and lies down stiffly onto the bunk, pulling the thin blanket
up around him, and falls quickly asleep and into troubled dreams that star a certain member of his
past that he will rarely talk about. 

He awakes almost twelve hours later, yawning and hungry.  He spots a cheap looking tray of cold prison
rations and a jug of water sitting upon a table at the foot of his bunk.  Sitting up to eat, he picks
up the pad of paper in his left hand, the pencil in his right, and places the pad next to the tray.
Grabbing a hunk of…something…off of the tray, he pushes the tip of the pencil against the paper and a
letter begins to take shape…then a word…and another…and another…a paragraph, a page, and more……..~~



War is not to be glorified, trust me on this one.  It is not a sure way to become a hero, and you
rarely meet life-long friends because quite frankly, the lot of them die, and die horribly.  I've been
through it all.  You see this patch, here?  I lost my right eye in hand-to-hand combat with an Emp who
sported a knife, and I just barely escaped with the rest of my body.  I kept my life and took his, but
I don't feel guilty.  When you've killed as much as I have, you never feel guilty anymore.  One good
shot or stroke, a lot of bleeding, and in the end the death rattle, when you can practically hear the
soul cease its corporeal existence.  The Empire is in the midst of  the rapids of a civil war, and I
have been swept away in the current, yearning for calm waters.

I once had a name, but people rarely call me by it anymore.  At the present moment, I'm a number, but
I don't care.  The Emps can call me whatever they want to, but when it comes to my own regime, I'm
Hawk; I can fly well, and fight even better.  The best friend a man could ever have… originally gave
me that name God rest Harry's soul.  So, really, who am I?  Good question, but I was born Tom Paris.

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Questions?  Comments?  Contact Eps annasach@ireland.com   :)