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Some days were worse than others. Today was one of the worst. Gusts of wind blew fine red sand into every crack and crevice. The rough grains scratched and scrapped every time he stepped out of the ship.
On days like this, his daily routine seemed pointless. Why was he bothering with power? With food? The ship would never go anywhere again, with or without him there to prevent it. Every day he struggled to survive was another day he was forced to live in this miserable wasteland.
And what was the point of it all? The ship would never come in contact with the Federation, and neither would he. He would already be spending the rest of his life stranded here. Why was he trying so hard to prolong it?
Chakotay trudged through the shifting sand, ignoring the sting against his face and arms. He reached the ship, his boots clanking on the metal ramp. He heard the quiet zing of Janeway activating behind him, but she didn't say anything. He was glad of that. He didn't think he could even bare to look at her today.
He heard her deactivate as he trudged into the wreck of his quarters and dumped his basket of fruit on the sand-covered floor. His eyes fell on the carved figures standing proud—himself and Janeway tall in the middle.
A burst of anger sent the basket flying at the collection, sending fruit and figures flying in every direction. He regretted it instantly, scrambling to pick them up, carefully checking each one for damage. None of them had broken, but a small crack had appeared in Janeway's feet.
Chakotay cradled the figure in his hands, tears forming in his eyes for the first time in years. He slumped against the bulkhead and buried his face in her hands, letting himself cry.
Once he had cried himself out, he gently set the figure beside his own, studying it sadly. Some days, having the hologram of Janeway was a great comfort, but others …
With a heavy sigh, he closed his fingers around the gold band hanging on a leather cord around his neck.
Some days, the hologram's presence felt like hell. As much as she may look and sound like his wife, she was a pale copy—a pale, young copy—literally as insubstantial as light itself. He had jury-rigged a basic tactile interface, but she was still nothing more than photons and force-fields. They had captured her personality, but they couldn't capture her soul.
Spying a discarded length of wood, he picked it up and retrieved his knife. He began carefully—reverently—scraping tiny curls of wood off the stick. He took his time, focusing on details he'd ignored for every other figure.
Sinking into a meditative state, he felt his spirit lift ever so slightly as his wife's figure gradually took shape beneath his hands.