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Wherein a Caitian is Befuddled

Posted on Fri Apr 6th, 2012 @ 11:43pm by Captain M'ress'Kaan
Edited on on Fri Apr 6th, 2012 @ 11:47pm

Mission: Right On "Q"
Location: USS Challenger, Bridge
Timeline: Mission Day: Day 3 - Time: 0840
Tags: Maress'Kaan, Q, Sarah Harpe, Cassandra, Zaria

Maress had been navigating the web of hallways at Starbase 452, too thoroughly enthralled with the tablet in his hand to be giving much heed to anything else on the station. He could usually get away with such recklessness because he was such a person that others usually gave a wide birth, given his size and the sour disposition on his face, and he could echo-locate with his sensitive Caitian ears fairly well from his boots impacting the base's hard flooring.

He was working on a project, and it had hit a snag. He had been designing a set of body armor because he was less than satisfied with the standard Starfleet issue body armor. He believed that it felt less protective than what he wore moving cargo on Klingon freighters, and he was half-way correct, though it was more because it was safer to be a Starfleet marine than it was to be a Klingon's hired hand. Unfortunately, his better design had the unfortunate side effect of being much too heavy: a Gorn would have trouble lifting armor fitting a Ferengi. He had stayed up all night trying to make the armor more material-efficient, yet the best he could do was shave off about 10kg off of his design, and only after every painful cuts. He was forced to leave the comfort of his temporary quarters for some metallurgy research, or, if worse came to worst, he would have to talk to somebody.

It's a principle of sentient nature that the less someone talked, the more he thought, and Maress'Khan was no exception. He would think in a fairly chaotic fashion, darting between topics often, which sometimes resulted in associations which were sometimes genius, sometimes inane, and often both. Tough yet light, were his first thoughts as he left his quarters, Aluminum is always good for making things light, but isn't very tough. Mix it with, chromium is heavy. Where did they go, anyway? Had to be important if an Admiral was involved. Uranium is tougher, but radioactive...maybe mix with lead to absorb the radiation, but that would soften the metal again. Why did they decide to name the ship after an old Earth disaster? Bad omens. Wait, there was an old book on omens I wanted to find out about. I should try to find out more from the ship's library when I get ba--oh, wait, its still gone. That was a bright flash. Who is taking pictures in this place? Go take pictures in the arboretum. Tourists. Maybe I should just start with a random mixture and learn from there. Where to start? I think I'll start with bronze--

Maress ran face-first into a bronze plate.

The Caitian was more embarrassed than hurt, though he was far from unhurt. He dropped the tablet and leaned against the wall that had so rudely greeted him, his oversized Caitian paw squeezing his smushed Caitian snout which was hissing a string of colorful Caitian phrases. When he could think coherently again, he realized he was standing on a floor that was much softer than what he had been walking on, and when he pulled his paw away from his eyes and looked at the plate he had collided with, it was first looked like a blur, then it looked like "UUS Cleengere," then "US Juggler," and when he finally blinked the tears out of his eyes, it looked like what it was: the plaque for the USS Challenger.

Maress stared at the plaque hard, as if he was trying to punish it for being in a place that all the laws of physics said it shouldn't be. Slowly, he realized that where he was severely lacking in noise. He heard some voices, very different voices from each other, but they were far fewer than before, and they were no talking about him, which he would have expected from a crowd that just witnessed him headbutt a physical impossibility. He looked around, and instead of seeing the off-white interior of a Starfleet base, he saw a elegantly-designed cream-colored room, and in that room was a small human female in a Starfleet support uniform adulating a man in ostentatiously-bedecked banded mail armor, who seems both baffled that someone was being friendly to him and oblivious to another much more ill-kept human growling in his ear, wearing clothes that had not existed for centuries. The two remaining occupants of the room, both wearing Starfleet uniforms on their bodies and features of amorphous racial heritage on their heads, were staring at him wide-eyed as if he had just appeared out of nowhere.

Given this fantastically wild jumble of spectacles, Maress felt he had only one reasonable conclusion to make: he was laying unconscious on the floor of a hallway in Starbase 452, and that this hallucination would soon melt way to a doctor leaning over him, giving the details of his obviously massive concussion and the stupidity required to not watch where one was going, and Maress would be forced to agree with the diagnosis.

But he wouldn't say so.


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Comments (1)

By on Sat Apr 7th, 2012 @ 3:48am

very entertaining! I enjoyed this post alot as well! great job!