Shooting the Messenger
She sat behind her desk, sipping her ever-present coffee.
She read the reports, skimming through them with a practiced, tired eye.
The chime on the door rang, she called for the person to enter.
A dark man walked in, eyes somber, steps slow.
She looked up from the reports.
"May I help you, Tuvok?" she asked.
He slowly shook his head, an uncommon gesture. He sat slowly.
He held out a PADD. She took it.
And read the words.
"Tuvok?" she asked, voice rasping against new constraints.
He caught her as she fell.
He struggled with words.
"I am . . . sorry."
*END*