A Scar

Joy examined herself in the mirror. Wet from the rain, dusty from the failing building. Her blouse was torn along her right arm, exposing a welt where skin and cloth were stained from the toxic contents of the Tholian atmosphere from Ambassador Vriss' chamber.

Cyanide and Chlorine? Did she remember the Tholian atmosphere mix correctly? Her blouse was quite ruined. Even her skin was somewhat discolored and stiff from where she pressed it against the crack to keep the two atmospheres from interacting.

Priority Six. She was not supposed to allow herself to become damaged. Normally, allowing her skin to become flawed like this would trigger pain into her emotion chip, associating negative feedback with the decisions which resulted in damage, providing motivation for not repeating such an action again.

Priority Two. Through inaction, do not allow death or injury to sentient beings. She had not allowed deadly cyanide and deadly oxygen to interact. Some warrior races took pride in their scars. Joy understood this now. This wound was a good wound. This scar felt good.

And across the void, at a place called Damaroon, there were others who would not die. Joy looked at herself, a walking disaster, a parody of the elegance that Nine and Fred so often shared. A mess, she was. Shadow of a disaster.

She smiled.