DL | CIO, SO | LCDR Stacker, LT Satan | "IDIC"

Posted on Mon Mar 12th, 2018 @ 5:33pm by Commander James Stacker & Lieutenant Satan
Edited on on Mon Mar 12th, 2018 @ 8:45pm

Mission: Lacuna
Location: Crew Mess | Cold Station Theta
Timeline: SD 241803.12

The tray clicked as he set it down on the table, but it was only when he himself was sitting down that he broke from his concentration and looked around. Cold Station Theta was unique in having a functional crew mess on the station's upper levels, against the outer hull and with the resultant over-sized windows affording a look out towards the nebula. A quick glance confirmed this to be far busier location than the Star Lounge, though; while both had comparable views, the noise and bustle of humanity assaulted his ears here. Ugh. She'll hate this place. It was a quick thought, but accurate. The chair creaked as he sat down in it and picked up the cutlery, eyeing the Belgian waffles on his plate.

The mess hall was quite full at this hour, though. Most seats were taken, there was just one table which had only one occupant. A Lieutenant Commander whose name he'd also come across when he familiarised himself with the station's senior staff: the head of the Intelligence department. Since those were the only free seats still available, Satan wove his way through the crowd.

Possibly there was a logical reason why these other seats were unoccupied. Maybe this was the place where the Commander held informal morning briefings with his staff. Not very secure, with the crowds and the noise level, but a privacy field would take care of eavesdroppers, and no doubt there could be other measures in place. However, this was mere speculation. One always needed to check. "Are these places reserved?"

A quick glance up showed the speaker to be a Vulcan. His eyes picked over the newcomer, taking in countless little details like only a well-trained mind could. Science division blue. Lieutenant's pips. Tall and lean, and tanned skin. Possibly direct from Vulcan or another desert planet by way of Starfleet Academy. Age indistinguishable: probably on the younger side. Not a department head, and either a loner or new arrival to the station. Probably the latter. There were more than a few Vulcans aboard. James gave a slight shake-of-the-head and gestured to the opposite chair, throat working as he swallowed. "As we humans say, 'feel free to have a seat.'"

Even after years in Starfleet, it still took Satan half a heartbeat to realise the man didn't actually wanted him to take the seat with him, merely indicated the seats were not reserved after all. Which, once again, proved the need to check a hyphotesis before making assumtions. "Thank you," he said after another half-heartbeat. ("Most other races have this need for a social lubricant called politeness. They need to be thanked and apologised to in many situations where Vulcans would deem this unnecessary, illogical or both." Wise words.) Satan placed his tray on the table, pulled out a chair and settled down.

The knife clinked against the fork as he put the two of them down, fingers releasing them and settling on a piece of bacon. Dark-colored, crispy, almost burned: just the way he liked it. Just as he was lifting it, a thought occurred and he had to restrain an urge for a slight wince that was uncharacteristic of him. But then again, this wasn't turning out to be the average morning for him, either. The grey collar usually dissuaded visitors when he ate up here. "Apologies in advance, lieutenant," he said, gesturing slightly with the piece of meat and recovering from his momentary faux pas. "I hope it won't be an issue."

Knowing that the bacon wasn't actual meat processed from an animal grown and slaughtered for that purpose, but synthesized meat, did nothing to detract his instinctive revulsion. The oppressive, rich smell of fat, coupled with the already very present punge of other odours in the mess hall – the large numbers of people in one room, a blend of old coffee and breakfast smells, stale, lingering whiffs of last night's dinner – took a heavy toll on the Vulcan's self control. This, he told himself, is why I joined Starfleet, why I chose to serve on mixed ships and stations. The day I can enter such a room and be not bothered by the noise and smells at all will be the day I am ready to return.

Muscle by muscle, he forced himself to relax, and he nodded slightly at Stacker. Social lubricant. "Not at all."

"Good." White teeth flashed for a moment before they bit into it with a satisfying crunch. Flavor blossomed in his mouth - why hadn't he ordered bacon from the replicator recently? - and he focused on his food for another couple of bites. At least until a particularly boisterous assembly two tables over caught his attention, noise levels spiking as a newcomer to that table joined to an accompaniment of raucous calls and back-slapping. His eyes flicked to the ceiling, then down, as a droll tone entered his voice. "I see Starfleet Academy's finest are making their presence known. Again." In truth he had no idea of their date of graduation. What he did know was that they were as loud as they were now, the last time he was up here.

Satan raised an eyebrow. He had managed to filter out the noise by applying a very strict mental discipline, until the moment when Stacker called attention to it. "Is this a common occurrence?" he asked, then picked up his relen tea and took a sip. It wasn't badly replicated, but he would order some real tea to be delivered to his quarters once he'd properly settled in.

For just a moment, the noise from the table diminished, and with it came hopes of - nope, no, definitely not. Fucking hell, he thought to himself as there was a fresh explosion of laughter and the volume increased again. What they were talking about was anyone's guess: the general buzz of conversation at nearby tables - to say nothing of angry looks and rolling eyes - made the words inarticulate to his ears. "The last time I was up here was two months ago. And that group," James said, gesturing pointedly them with the stub of bacon clenched between index and middle fingers, "was far and away the rowdiest in here. I thought they'd have moved on by now, but clearly not."

"As for the rest of the station," he added, putting the bacon down and wiping his fingers on a napkin, "I can't speak for them. We don't have loudmouths in intelligence, though. For which I am profoundly grateful. Especially right now."

Satan turned his head and observed the group. No Science blue amongst them. He noted the momentary relief he felt and allowed it to flow away from his perception. It would have been taxing indeed to endure that noise level all day long. He turned back and gave a slight nod in acknowledgement. "I… fully understand and concur."

The response was a slight turn of the head and flick of his eyebrows, as the orange juice touched his lips and flowed into the man's mouth. Only when he lowered the glass and set it back at its traditional place on his tray, however, did he say anything. It came as his silverware clinked when he picked it up, apparently intending to wage war once again on the powdered waffles. "I'm guessing you're new to the station? Fresh off the boat?"

"That is correct," Satan replied. "I arrived last night. With the new extensions to the station, there was more room for the Science department, so I applied for a transfer." He picked up a gespar roll and popped it into his mouth.

"Well then, welcome to the edge of civilization," came the reply, in turn, before further attempts at words were interrupted by a bite of waffle. He took the opportunity to look at the eternal table of rowdiness, which remain in full stride despite some particularly irritated looks being shot their way by at least several distant species. Would words be said? Doubtful. It would be interesting if it happened, though, he conceded to himself as he finished chewing and swallowed. "You'll certainly be busy. Everything beyond this point is the unknown." Damn. Since when had he gotten so melodramatic? He restrained the urge to roll his eyes.

"Precisely." For a moment, the Vulcan's eyes became alive. "There is so much out there which is fascinating. A nearly unexplored nebula. A major power in this section with which the Federation is just now beginning to make diplomatic ouvertures. It is a very dynamic environment…" He very nearly winced at another shout from the nearby table, followed by the sound of shattered glass. "…which seems to have its effect on some," he added.

James' eyes had darted to the offending table when the sound came, momentarily losing track of his own discussion with the Vulcan. Conversation had dropped remarkably: he suspected what was coming next, and put his elbows up to either side of his tray and watched. And watched. And - his eyes went to over the Vulcan's shoulder, eyeballing another officer in the doorway. This man was scanning the crowd. When his eyes met the lieutenant commander's, there was a slight head-tilt. Yes, came the silent reply from the grey collar, with an inclined head and meaningful jerk of the eyes towards the table. The man started threading his way between the tables as James' attention went back to their private discussion.

"'Dynamic' is certainly one way of putting it," he said as his arms came back down and re-grasped the silverware. "I do like a professional challenge. Breakfast and a show is also good." The last was said with a trace of humor. He was in rare form this morning.

"Personally, I prefer to have my breakfast with no such interruptions," the Vulcan replied with a small sigh. It would appear that whomever the other man had signalled to (something noted, recorded and further ignored) would put an end to the disturbances this morning. But from the stoic way most other breakfasters here had failed to react to the noisy group, this was not an uncommon situation. "Where does one commonly eat breakfast without this… show?"

"Your quarters. Couple of different lounges around the station. I think there's a pub on the promenade that does breakfast." There was a lull as he chewed some more waffle, a slight trace of a thoughtful look on his face beneath furrowed brows. Where indeed? One thing was certain - he wasn't going to be eating up here again for a long, long while. His throat worked as he swallowed. "This is the largest common area aboard, but I suspect far more of the personnel aboard eat elsewhere. Not everyone likes this much population at once." He certainly didn't, he almost added.

"Quite," the Vulcan murmured. He resisted the urge to rub his temples. Normally he had no objections to mingle with a diverse population, but there were limits to his tolerance. "I will explore various options in the near future," he said, before finishing the last of his kreyla. He picked up his empty tray and gave a polite nod to his breakfast companion. "Thank you."

There came a nod and a small gesture with the glass of orange juice. "My pleasure. Welcome to 'Theta, lieutenant."

Lieutenant Commander James Stacker
Chief Intelligence Officer
COLD STATION THETA, SB-1170

&

Lieutenant Satan
Science Officer
COLD STATION THETA, SB-1170