Strawberry Fields Forever
Posted on Wed May 6th, 2026 @ 2:29pm by Lieutenant JG Jade Petracca
942 words; about a 5 minute read
Mission:
Friends and Traitors
Location: USS Thunderbird, Morgue
Timeline: Mission Day 1, 1915 Hours
They always looked so young after they were gone.
Chris Jolley. Ensign. Twenty-two. Six months service on the Thunderbird. He had a sister who he adored. They all had a story.
Jade had never met him, and yet here she was, standing over his body like a sentry. The morgue's refrigeration units hummed low, putting a chill in the air. She drew her blue labcoat closed, wrapping it around herself as if it were a blanket. She noticed his youthful skin, the carefully styled hair, the tattoo of an eagle. This was a life interrupted.
It had ended in chaos. And yet here they both were now. No more monitors, no more alarms.
Silence.
Jade pursed her lips and pulled the sheet from his collarbone to cover his face. Guiding the slab back into the mortuary drawer, she waited for the thunk of the vacuum seal. A quiet signum crucis, then she stepped away. Hands in pockets, shoulders up, she returned to the sickbay. Sylar's reassuring words about a satisfactory performance rang in her head as she passed the intensive care ward where Orfil Dara clung to life. Still, her mind wouldn't let it go.
The smell of burnt flesh. The seeping crimson from broken skin. The wheeze of damaged airways.
She took a deep breath. Tried to stuff it all down. Yet the images bubbled to the surface. Leaning against the bulkhead, she closed her eyes and pinched her nose.
"Gah, come on, Petracca," she muttered to herself. She straightened as a medical tech walked by. They shared a cordial smile as she slipped into the Chief Medical Officer's office. She'd not seen Sylar since he'd left her in the morgue to visit their new commanding officer. He had his own grim duty. And in a moment like this, she wished she had that steely Vulcan composure.
She took a seat at his desk and activated his desktop terminal. He'd told her to rest, and to that she had no argument. Jade scrolled through the ship's berthings and found the location of her room- Deck 5. Not too far away.
She collected her belongings and took a turbolift to the deck below. She strolled through the corridors, sharing forced grins with people who looked happy to see a new face. And there she was. Her new home. She looked forward to a plush sofa, or a soft warm bed, and perhaps a hot chocolate. The idea of it almost made her smile. For real.
She tapped the lock on the door. Nothing.
Again. Not a thing.
"Computer, open door, authorisation, uh," she checked her PADD, "Petracca-Alpha-2."
Access denied.
A hushed, brittle laugh escaped her. Dropping her bags, she leaned into the sealed door of her quarters. She closed her eyes and let her shoulders fall. She simply stood there, forehead against the door, with nowhere to go.
"Ma'am?"
Jade lifted her head from the door. A young crewman had stopped a few paces away with a concerned look.
"Are you all right?"
"Yes, fine." She managed a smile. "I... just... can't access my quarters."
"Ah," he nodded. "Would you like me to call Operations?"
"No, no, thank you, Crewman. I just haven't had my intake meeting with the CMO yet."
"Oh, of course," he said gently. "Hey, look, it happens all the time. If it helps, the officers' mess is just up the corridor on your left, if you need somewhere to wait."
"That sounds perfect," she replied behind a thin smile. "Thank you, Crewman."
"Anytime, ma'am. Good evening." The Crewman nodded.
Perfect? Not even close.
The doors of the mess hall opened. It bustled with activity. Officers carried trays to their tables, guffawed, joked and wolfed down their meals like the day had never happened. She stepped in like the threshold had been mined, almost tiptoeing as she scanned for an empty table. She thought she found one until she noticed a table with only one occupant; young, male, blonde, gold operations uniform.
She took half a step toward him, one hand lifting before she caught herself. The young officer turned around.
No, it was not Chris Jolley.
Her mistake earned her a quizzical look as the young man's colleagues surrounded him and filled the table, all of them digging into their meals. It was like she wasn't even there.
She retreated to the side of the room. She dropped onto a sofa and closed her eyes, a sigh escaping her breath. She folded forward into a hunch, her coat pulling tightly around her body. She looked down at her fingers, her pulse lurched when she noticed dry blood under her fingernails.
She pushed at her fingertip, trying to dig beneath the nail to dislodge it. She reached for a napkin, rubbing it against her fingers.
She was there again.
Boys coming in on stretchers. Her hands covered in blood. Doctor Fitzgerald's stern face. Forks clinked. Plates clattered. People laughed. He's dead, move on to the next patient!
Her breath left her like a boot to the stomach.
She looked down at her finger again.
The blood was gone. Her fingertip was raw, pain searing at the cuticle from the friction.
She hoisted herself up. Pulse quickened. Breathing shallow. She marched from the mess hall.
Screaming. Hemorrhaging. Gasping. The shocked eyes of the man responsible.
Doctor Sylar. Doctor Fitzgerald. They told her she did all she could.
Ben Grange. Dead. Katajavuori. Dead. Chris Jolley. Dead!
No! You should've done more, Doctor Petracca!
And that was it.
In a dark corner, far from anyone, Doctor Jade Petracca crumpled to the floor.
Lieutenant JG Jade Petracca
Assistant Chief Medical Officer
USS Thunderbird
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