Miga
The Caitian woman was feeding ducks in the park. Specifically, she was feeding them rice from a dispenser the park provided, which she reasoned was why the animals ignored her efforts to befriend them. “You are so bored with rice, m’yes?” she purred. “Or maybe I look too much like your earthbound feline friends? But I will not eat you,” she tried to assure them.
Unfortunately, ducks are ducks and no amount of Starfleet Diplomacy training will convince them that a cat is a friend or the same stale rice is worth getting excited about. They quacked and wagged their tails and dove underwater as they played little duck games. As to why Miga was feeding ducks as opposed to anything else that the technological wonderland of San Francisco might provide was simple: it was Saturday and this is what she liked to do.
Miga would rise early, go to the park, feed ducks, and people-watch. As her old anthropology professor once said, “to be the alien in their land is to understand a people like no other.” She took that lesson to heart and tried to watch, listen, and learn. She found quickly that those quiet, domestic moments so rarely visited in great dramas were particularly interesting; sometimes the same from iteration to iteration, but always just a little different each time to remain exciting. Humans, though, were of particular interest to her: ever adaptable, never totally predictable, and delightfully whimsical.
A little ways away, the same elderly men played chess as they did every weekend. Inevitably, the darker-skinned of the two would win while his companion made a big show of accepting defeat as he made oblique references to how the game, “used to be played!” She enjoyed them most of all because she was quite certain they were in love, though she never observed a typically romantic action between them. But that was part of the fun: she created little stories in her mind about the people she observed. The more she watched them, the more intricate the stories became.
Jogging up the lane towards her was Felicia, a fiercely strong woman who Miga always saw in motion. “Make any new feathered friends?” she called out as she approached.
“Just as last week,” Miga replied, a toothy smile on her face. “I think this is a lost cause. Perhaps I will have better luck with squirrels?”
“Cats eat them, too,” Felicia said. She was now next to Miga, jogging in place. “Fred win, yet?” she asked, tossing a glance at the chess players.
“No, not yet, but they arrived late—apparently, their normal restaurant was closed for a wedding; isn’t that lovely?”
Felicia shrugged as she began doing lunges. “Miga, I’ve been married five times and divorced six. I would rather skin a ca—skunk than do that again.”
The Caitian laughed, her sharp teeth only cemented the ducks’ collective belief that Miga was there to eat them. They protested loudly as they swam to the other side of the pond where a pair of geese held domain. The resulting commotion drew onlookers until a brave park ranger interceded.
As Miga watched the escalating avian encounter, her combadge chirped.
“Sounds like you gotta call and I gotta finish my laps,” Felicia said as she checked her watch. “I want to make the Boston Marathon this year, but they won’t take me if my gums are the only thing that can go a mile a minute! Good luck!” she called as she jogged away.
“Hey Miga,” a familiar voice came over the line. “It’s Amanda.”
“Oh!” she leapt up, spilling her rice. Miga’s failed attempt to court Amanda lingered with her; an embarrassment she tried to shrug off. She accepted Amanda’s rebuke—Miga was adult enough to respect her wishes, even if she didn’t like them. But rejection always hurts, no matter how good-natured it’s delivered. “What can I do for you, Amanda?” Miga asked, trying to keep her voice cool. She was an adult, yes, but crushes come in all shapes, sizes, and ages. The Caitian was no exception.
“You want to get drinks—as friends?” Amanda added tersely like the entire question was delivered through gritted teeth.
Miga paused. The park promised blue skies, idle pastimes, and familiar humors. Amanda’s tone loomed like a storm cloud. “Is something wrong?” she dared ask. No sense walking blind into the lion’s den, she thought to herself.
“Yes, Miga! Lots of things!” A beat. “All the things! Now, I’m going to Salutations! in Boston to drink myself into a coma. Are you in?”
In the distance, a familiar cantankerous banter told Miga that Fred had won his chess match. Felicia was probably half way to Sacramento by now. The ducks had not returned. What the hell. “I’m in!”
Miga raced from the transport hub neatest to the bar. Boston was new to her and the buildings were so much older than the ones in San Francisco. Where the Bay Area had leaned hard into modern design, Boston—at least the part she found herself in—was carefully preserved and renovated. She saw horse drawn carriages alongside an ancient automobile aficionados club, their steel and chrome vehicles sat in an open exhibit in the park.
With the help of a PADD and a few locals, Miga hurried down the stairs into the basement bar where Amanda was already busy imbibing her third drink at an alarming rate. Some of the patrons looked on with concern. They had come for the aesthetic—the novelty—of the place. They were not expecting to witness an actual aspiring alcoholic at work.
“Amanda?” Miga asked, poorly hidden worry mixed with confusion in her voice.
“Sit, order a drink. Maybe the handsome bartender well tell you about his baseball career.” Amanda looked at the Caitian who couldn’t tell if her eyes were bloodshot or if she’d been crying. “Why do things have to be so weird?”
Miga sat next to Amanda at the bar. Her tail wafted back and forth uncertainly. When the bartender, a handsome middle aged man with tall, meticulously groomed hair and bronze skin approached. He was pleasant and friendly and smiled warmly as he quickly took Miga’s order. “This seems like a nice place,” she said, trying to strike a conversation. Amanda didn’t reply and the two sat in tense silence.
“Why are we here?” Miga asked after the bartender set her drink in front of her.
Amanda looked into her glass. “Because I’m pissed off and don’t want to be on the same coast as my roommate or my brother,” she spat. “And the cardinal rule of getting shitfaced is to never do it alone.”
Miga was surprised by this: she had never known Amanda to fight with Zaliel. She had overheard conversations about her brother, who was a student of some kind. Part of the reason the office thought Zaliel and Amanda were together was that they always seemed to have some kind of coded language unique to them—in jokes and references and laughter. Miga was jealous of this relationship; not that it was with Amanda per se, just to be so close and share such a deep connection with someone.
The Caitian also knew that Amanda wanted to talk about why she was upset. There was no other reason to invite Miga out to Boston while Amanda was in such a miserable state. She decided to ask what was wrong. What followed was a deluge of information. Amanda told her all about her original plan to set Zaliel and Ben up, detailed Zaliel’s unusual behavior—and the pranks! How bazaar!—Amanda’s miserable trip, her feelings of isolation, and finally the surprise of discovering Zaliel and Ben had found each other after all.
When Amanda’s story was over, Miga sat a long moment as she processed the information. She had interjected little as the story unfolded and now relied on her drink to stall for a response. “You are upset because the people closest to you were not there in your time of need?”
“Yes! Thank you!” she said a little too loudly. The couple at the nearby table shifted to a booth farther away. “They ditched me,” Amanda added to Miga’s thought. “When I’ve always been there for them.”
“But you wanted them to meet before? Their coming together after all—isn’t that something to celebrate?”
“I was wrong before,” Amanda insisted.
Miga tapped on her drink absently as she thought aloud, “but did you know that before? Maybe you believed, without consciously knowing, that they would consume each other’s time like you came to experience.”
“What the hell does that mean?” Amanda asked angrily. The alcohol was moving through her. If she had any sound judgement, she would realize that her caloric intake of the last twenty hours had been almost exclusively real booze. But, she was increasing intoxicated and her brain not up for a challenge—especially if her righteousness was the thing being thrown into question.
“At a high level you saw them as getting along, but subconsciously you’re your brother and your best friend’s protector. You know they need you, but you did not know how badly you needed them before it was too late—the rug was ripped out from beneath you, but this isn’t your fault or theirs. Love always finds a way.” She laughed suddenly.
“What’s so funny?” Amanda slurred.
“You and I are a perfect example: I pursued you and you declined—which you are entirely within your right to do,” she added quickly. “But, I can no more control that than you have the ability to tell them what to do.”
“What if they hurt each other?” she demanded.
“Maybe, but you cannot know that. Every relationship is an exercise in trust and vulnerability. Every ‘hello’ is rejoined with ‘goodbye.’ Sometimes it is, ‘goodbye forever,’—sometimes we do not know it is forever.” Miga finished her drink quickly and became distant. She eyed a plump man in an old suit as he energetically debated with a mustached man in a blue jacket.
Amanda watched Miga quietly, her inebriated brain slowly churning the conversation over. “You lost somebody?” she finally asked.
“Yes,” she initially answered stiffly; devoid of her usual warmth. “The last time I saw my father alive, he had given me his—it is like one of your guitars. He was a talented musician, though never very popular, and he filled my childhood with his compositions.” She turned to face Amanda and smiled—was she embarrassed? She couldn’t gauge the expression. Amanda realized suddenly that, as a consequence of avoiding Miga, she had no idea how to read the Caitian’s face. “I tried to learn off and on for years, never really advancing past the few techniques he taught me. When I moved away, I planned to study music more to surprise him the next time we met but,” she stopped there. “It isn’t fair to talk of this; I came to help you.”
Amanda placed a hand on the Caitian’s arm. “No, tell me,” she said. She was feeling unusually sentimental—thank you alcohol!—but aside from that, it was the most personal conversation she had had with Miga since they started working together nearly three years ago. She realized that Miga wasn’t just some piece of background to her story, but a person with emotion and feelings in her own right.
Emboldened by her touch or assurance, Miga nodded once and continued: “where was I? Oh, yes, so I practiced when I could, but frustration plus studies—later work—took priority. Mostly, his instrument was simply a beautiful decoration that I dusted on those odd days I wanted to practice.”
“And then?”
“My mother sent me a message and casually mentioned he was unwell. I thought little of it—he was older and had had a difficult life and often complained of ailments with little apparent cause.” Miga picked at a claw idly as she spoke. “In the last few years he couldn’t play at all and I resolved to make it a priority but—I never did; not like I should have. Then he died and the opportunity was gone.”
Feeling a little more aware, Amanda was ready with a few napkins. She handed them just as Miga started to tear. “And now when I play—still poorly,” she continued, “too poorly to reproduce the songs he sang me when I was little. They are gone save for my memory and dull, sluggish fingers that want nothing more than to play exactly has he played, to feel the vibrations in my ears, or his reassuring whiskers on my cheeks as he held me before bed.”
Tears fell from Amanda’s cheeks. Big, heavy affairs flowed from her eyes as mucus threatened to overwhelm her sinuses. A young bartender from the midwest dropped a new set of napkins on the bar before fleeing as he said, “I gotta call my dad.”
“Miga, I’m sorry, that’s—.”
“It is ‘goodbye,’ Amanda,” she said, the warmth of her voice returning, her tears seemed to withdraw almost immediately. “I could not feel his loss if it meant nothing. While I learned too late to share in his passion for making music, he nevertheless instilled in me a love of music. My deepest regret is that we never played together.” Miga ran a hand through her short, brown hair. “My fondest memory is sitting beside him, very still, as he sang me lullabies.” After a deep sigh she said, “Zaliel and Ben may destroy each other, but in destruction may find themselves. You cannot know, so all you should do is support them—or risk a day when, in anger, you say your last goodbye.”
“I’m still mad,” she insisted. “They ditched me—ignored me when I needed them!”
Miga nodded sympathetically, though in truth she was becoming weary. This was all more than she was expecting and had hoped her story would sooth Amanda’s ire—and it seemed to extinguish most of it—the Caitian wanted to move onto something fun: like what were all these people doing in this strange bar and what was playing on the archaic display screen that captivated them? She was, in effect, becoming bored. “Yes,” Miga said patiently. “They were wrong and hurt you. But only you can control your reaction to it, hrm? Traveling to Boston and drowning yourself in,” she sniffed aristocratically, “uninspired alcohol is beneath you, Amanda. You’re better than this.”
Amanda’s face drew tight. She stood, determined. “You’re right. I shouldn’t have run away. I should have kicked their asses!” The woman downed the rest of her drink and slammed the glass on the countertop. She gave Miga a quick “thanks!” and was out the door and half way up the steps before Miga realized Amandas was gone.
The handsome bartender leaned over and said, “you’d better catch your friend before you have to bail her out.”
Miga ran.
And was too late. In her haste, Miga had gotten turned around in Boston and ran almost a kilometer before stumbling upon another transport hub. The entire way she was cursing in her head: what did I say? What did I do?
When Miga stepped off the elevator at Amanda’s apartment building, the fight was already in full swing. Amanda’s muffled voice was unmistakable as it strung an inventive collection of swears which could only be cultivated by a person who learns languages only to expand their profane lexicon.
A few neighbors were congregating in the hall looking uncertain about what to do. Some used PADDs; idly scrolling or typing away, the drama a background to an otherwise dull night of browsing. Miga tore past them and slipped through the open door. It was just Zaliel and Amanda—Ben was nowhere in sight—and neither looked how she recognized them.
Zaliel had always been this aloof, quiet coworker; the kind that made Miga feel awkward when they would be stuck in a room or elevator alone. But now she was red-faced and furious. “I said I was sorry! But it isn’t fair! You didn’t say what was going on!”
“How could I? You didn’t take my calls!” Amanda screamed, equally red. Alcohol seemed to embolden her and she stood only a few feet from Zaliel, pointing as she raged.
“I was busy!”
“Fucking isn’t busy, Zaliel! You couldn’t pull your head up long enough to take a call?”
“And you could have sent a text, you know? ‘Hey, my trip fucking sucks and I need a friend,’” Zaliel said in a dopey, mocking voice. “And what I do on my time is my business!”
“Not when you’re fucking my brother!”
“He’s his own person! He doesn’t answer to you and neither do I!”
Neither saw Miga right away. She waved off the crowd who rubbernecked in the hall. Not waiting for protests, she closed the door behind her as she entered. A part of her wanted to leave, but she couldn’t deny the spectacle of it; this intimate look into people she barely knew. In a way it felt voyeuristic. They didn’t ask for her help, after all. Or was that what Amanda needed and Miga totally fail her?
Amanda threw her hands in the air. “But your actions have consequences, like hurting me and—he had classes all this week, finals in two—did he blow off sch—don’t walk away from me!” Amanda shouted as she threw a PADD so hard it shattered into a hundred pieces when it hit the wall.
Zaliel had been heading for her bedroom but now looked at Amanda with disbelief. “What the flying fuck, Amanda?”
“All you’ve done is walk away from me all week and you can’t even pretend to care how it hurt me!” she cried, her tears fell hot and angry from her face. Her whole body shook with rage. “Some friend you are, Z. Have I ever been more to you than a roommate? A tour guide? A coworker? How many times did I stand up for you? Propped you up when you were down? I’m the reason you made it through organic chemistry and graduated on time!” Amanda took a deep breath, her her voice quavered. “I was always there for you and the one time I really needed you, you were too busy having fun to even answer the call. I thought you were my friend, Zaliel, but you’re just selfish, playing your dumb holo pranks—what was the point? To see if I would cry over your body? Because of course I would—would have—I’m done crying over you. I was your best friend and you toyed with me, took me for granted, and you can’t even admit you were wrong enough to really apologize.” Amanda ended softly, her voice defeated.
Zaliel looked stricken. “It was never like that,” the Trill replied earnestly. “Amanda, you are my best friend. I lov—.”
Amanda sneered at Zaliel. “Bullshit!” she snapped, her temper flaring again. “You don’t love me—or if you do it’s a selfish, fucked up kind of love. Just—, just pack your shit and get out.”
“Amanda, please let’s—,” but the Human was already crossing the threshold into her room. Zaliel slumped against her own door. To Miga, she looked as if her whole world had fallen apart. Maybe she should go—but Zaliel was so upset. How could she leave someone like that?
“Are you—,” Miga began, realizing how foolish the question would be. It was obvious Zaliel was grieving. How could she help? Should she help? Although she had no way of proving it, the Caitian was convinced she somehow played a hand in this outcome. So, while some of the angriest, guitar-destroying industrial Klingon metal thudded from Amanda’s side of the apartment, Miga sat next to Zaliel so that they both faced Amanda’s door with similarly grim expressions.