<<Taking place en route to the Stellar Nursery, shortly before pesky T'Pelar and her cohorts are found out >>
=/\= USS Charon, Deck Ten =/\=
The young Vulcan floated down the corridor, both rigid dignity and fluid grace, acknowledging greetings and pointedly ignoring the occasional stare. It was difficult not to notice the increased frequency of stares, covert and less so, the closer she got to the Marine barracks, but to her mild surprise there were even a few smiles and most oddly, a salute ripped off by a grinning PFC.
Her brow was still quirked in response to the latter when she strode through the doors and right into the middle of what to a Vulcan's ears was pandemonium, but registered to her less overwhelmed senses as a friendly arm wrestling match. Two young humans, loudly encouraged by friends, were engaged in this archaic test of strength, their arm muscles working fiercely under tight brown shirts. And apparently, bets were taken as well.
She had planned to slip quietly past the excitedly shouting group and disappear into Brent's office with drawing as little attention as possible, but she should have counted on the fact a fleet officer with PADD in hand would stand out in these surroundings like a red pony in a herd of warhorses.
No wonder the yeoman had looked so terribly relieved when she had told him she would deliver these department orders personally.
Before she could so much as protest, the little Vulcan was gently herded towards the table where the winning Marine seemed inclined to test his mettle against a woman less than two third his size. Oh dear.
"You are aware this is a most unwise course of action, yes?" looking up into the laughing eyes of another human who seemed fully capable of lifting one of the mentioned horses, Sakarra found herself nudged into a chair with polite insistence. She blinked at her would-be opponent, holding on to what was left of her dignity, and inquisitively tilted her head to the side "Very well. I should appreciate an explanation of the rules, however."
If there were any.
Brent had been waiting for the department orders for a little while. He had wanted to get through this last PADD and have it signed off and so had told the orderly or whomever it was to wait for a few minutes. Then those minutes were up and there was no orderly in his room. Brent was beginning to grow annoyed with the situation. No orders, no orderly. Maybe he could just tell his men to take the rest of the day off and go eat fatty foods. If he hadn't been dating a fleeter Brent would have had a few choice words to say about them and their discipline.
When Brent stepped into his barracks he found it the usual assortment of chaos at work here. Let no one ever say that the Marine's were a predictable lot. Most of the attention was drawn towards the far table in the back. They were arm wrestling again. Well at least it wasn't a massively violent way to get out their frustration. He shook his head and peered over at the two participants. One was as usual one of his PFC's. A large guy who had been fed a lot of food when he was young because the man stood as tall as Brent had but with more muscles. The opponent Brent couldn't get a good look at save to say that it might have been...
Brent's slight smirk turned into a scowl as he saw that they had herded none other than Commander Tyrax over to the table. Next to her was a PADD, probably his orders. So now they were challenging his girlfriend to arm wrestle and they were delaying his reception of orders. He idly wondered what would be the best punishment for the offenders. His thoughts however were interrupted when he saw that Sakarra had slammed the Marine's hand down against the table with little to no trouble. He smirked again before the ribbing cut in about how the Private had been beaten by a fleeter. A woman. A woman fleeter!
Sakarra had considered letting the young male win, or at least allow for a lengthy contest so his pride would not be unduly damaged. And for three point seven seconds, she had simply held against the force pushing her arm towards the table, thinking. But no, it would be rude, not to mention patronizing to act weaker than she was. Over some disbelieving shouts, the young Vulcan exhaled and put as swift and painless an end to the challenge as she dared. She did not want to hurt the Marine, Brent would be terribly annoyed with her.
Before she could blink and wonder how that thought had manifested itself, she could sense him close by. Ah, well, that explained that. Though her subconscious kicking in like this was becoming a bit of a nuisance. Nodding a polite acknowledgement to her opponent, Sakarra resisted the urge to flex her fingers – one could hardly fault the strength of the human's hands – and got out of the chair, reaching for her PADD. Unfortunately, the bulk of the assembled Marines seemed disinclined to let her pass. They were friendly enough, in their exuberant way, but the young Vulcan felt rather like a tiny feline besieged by a pack of large, playful Rottweilers. That was when a hand the size of a frying pan patted her back amicably and nearly sent her barreling into the next challenger, apparently the barracks' standing champion.
"Gentlemen, I am afraid I must decline."
Sakarra had regained her footing and whatever was left of her dignity, putting on the stern face of a Vulcan disinclined to indulge any further illogic. Unfortunately, to little avail.
For a split second, she considered simply shouldering her way through, or pick up the male in front of her to neatly place him out of the way, when her mildly exasperated gaze met one out of deep blue eyes. Her serene face remained perfectly composed; the elegant tilt of her head did not change by a micrometer. But for several Vulcan heartbeats, Sakarra stood perfectly still.
Brent smiled as he saw that she had caught his gaze. He could tell that his men and women would not give up that easily. "Let the lady pass," Brent said in his booming and crisp officer voice. The squad turned their head to the man who had given the order and snapped to attention. The few men that were still in Sakarra's way parted like the Red Sea after Moses had done his thing. "Carry on," he said after Sakarra had dislodged herself from the gaggle of Marines. "That last match didn't happen. Either that or I'll play her, beat her and then you all can break your hands when you try to beat me and annoy me to do matches," he said with finality in his voice. Brent stepped back to his door letting it open for her as he motioned that she should enter into his office.
The young woman managed a courteous tip of the head before striding through the rank of Marines like a tiny monarch inspecting her troops and the inherent humor of this mental picture manifested itself in an eloquently quirked brow. Still, she refrained from commenting, no matter how difficult that was under the circumstances because several dry replies were simply dying to make themselves heard, and floated through the door with the perfect mien of a fleet officer unperturbed by the rowdy Marines.
Silently and unseen, she was laughing.
It was not until the doors had closed on them and she was sure they no longer had an audience, that Sakarra tapped the PADD in her hand against Brent's chest, allowing the brow to climb by another full centimeter. "Beat me? You are quite certain of yourself, Brent Warren. And if this is the treatment my yeoman must endure every time he delivers reports, I am wondering why he ever bothers to come back. Truly, I would not have been surprised if your Marines had asked me to fight them one by one. What would have been next? Whiskey?"
All the sternness she fought so hard to put into her voice was utterly ruined by the fact the corners of her aristocratic mouth with the so surprisingly soft and full lips were invariably curving upward.
"Chances are that's exactly what they were going to do to you once you beat him," Brent said with a slight smile. "So yes you would have probably had to beat them all there." As she tapped his chest with the PADD he reached out and snapped it away from her. "Yes beat you," he said idly as he began to look over the PADD that he had gotten away from her. "There's no subtlety or room for anything in that game but brute strength."
"Those fools. No it wouldn't have been whiskey. They have decided to make a still and try to brew it themselves," he said with a frown on his face. "I figure I'll let it slide as a morale builder until one of them nearly kills themselves then I'll atomize it." Brent realizing that no one was going to follow them into the room to protest his removal of the challenger or ask him a question looked up from the PADD and offered her the two fingers that they had become accustomed to greeting one another with.
=/\= To be continued … =/\=
Brevet 1st Lieutenant Brent Warren
Marine Commander
Lt Cmdr Sakarra Tyrax
Chief Helm
USS Charon
