What do you think of when you hear my name? Charles Tucker III. I betcha anything you thing of some snooty rich guy to blind to see anything but money and power. Please, don’t think that. That’s how my dad was, and his dad before that, and on and on. I’ve tried my entire life to overcome this stereotype. Please, that’s not me. I’m not very adventurous, like Captain John. I haven’t lived my life in space, like Travis. I’m not a genius, medical or other, like Dr. Phlox. I just want to be average. How many years of my childhood did I spend at stuffy banquets and parties when I wanted to be out playing baseball with my friends? Too many.

Charles Tucker III. Good God, I hate that name! I’ve hated my dad all my for giving me that name. Actually, I’ve hated my dad all my life for a lot of reasons.

I know, I know. ‘Poor little rich boy’. That’s right. Poor me.

So please, don’t think of me as Charles Tucker II’s son. I’m Trip. And I hate the three at the end of my name. And I hate my father. Please, I’m Trip.

"Computer, end log."

"I hate you, Dad," Trip whispered into the pitch-blackness that was his quarters, tears streaming down his face. He grabbed the closest thing to him- a baseball- and hurled it at a picture across the room. It hit the frame, shattering the glass and knocking the photo to the floor.

That just made him cry harder.

"Why’d you go?" He sobbed.

The picture on the deck showed a young boy, barely fifteen, and a man who looked very much like him. They were both in tuxedos, however, the man looked much more comfortable in it than the boy.

Next to the picture on the floor, was a transmission PADD from Mrs. Charles Tucker II, addressed to Mr. Charles Tucker III, her son. It read: Hello, my dear. How are you? I am fine. However, I write this to inform you that, unfortunately, your father is not. He passed away a few hours ago. A heart attack. The funeral is this Tuesday. My regrets you will be unable to attend. My wishes, son.

How could she sound so heart-less? Trip hated her too.

Yet… how many times had he wished his father dead? Now that he was, he missed him. Was that normal? He didn’t know. Everything felt wrong.

"Daddy," Trip whispered, even though he had always called his father ‘father’. "Why’d you die?"

Stupid question. But he asked it.

He flung himself onto his bunk and cried himself to sleep.