Lt. JG David Flint: Flight
Robin Hopper
((Federation History Museum, Grand Mezzanine – Amity Outpost))
867 souls. David stood, looking at the plaque – one of several copies scattered about the galaxy at various museums and memorial sites. The flat, utterly inconsequential, final testament to 867 people lost… not dead, lost. Taken. A sovereign class ship, filled nearly to the brim with fresh-faced Ensigns and seasoned Commanders, suddenly just eaten up – all shreds of their individuality wiped away and synthetically composted into shuffling mindless husks…
It wasn’t the first time he had come ‘round… There were only so many things to do, only so many places to go, and when you were someone who preferred to spend your time alone… Well, the museum was frequently empty. And the memorial hall even moreso. Yet he’d been back enough times to lose count, at that plaque. He knew it was morbid to stand there, staring at it, but it irked him. It should read 866.
Richards: =/\= Lieutenant Richards to Lieutenant Flint. =/\=
The silent sterile environment of the mausoleum of memories had been breached. David let out a sigh, then tapped his own combadge.
Flint: =/\= Yes? =/\=
If his perpetually-sour mood had been conveyed in his tone, Richards seemed immune to it.
Richards: =/\= I was wondering if you had a couple free hours? I need to take the Targhee out for a test flight and she needs to be certified for service. =/\=
The Targhee… oO Right. Richards’ pet project. Oo He’d seen it on his docket – a special assignment from Commander Carter’s office labeled “indefinite”. oO I suppose it was bound to come up at some point. Oo
He took a few steps, turning away from the plaque.
Flint: =/\= And this needs to happen immediately, does it? =/\=
Richards: =/\= Come on, grumpy gus. Indulge me. =/\=
oO Grumpy gus? Oo Flint’s lips pursed of their own accord. oO That’s getting awfully personable, Mr. Richards… Oo
He shook his head. There he was. Doing it again. Someone had sought him out – him, specifically. Even if it was just for a shuttle certification… And he was pushing them away. He’d been sociable once. Long ago. But after ten years of constant exposure to the minds of countless millions… the solitude was comforting.
Flint: =/\= Very… Well… =/\=
He began walking towards the exit, avoiding looking back in the dark and dismal hole he’d chosen to waste away his precious hours. The bright lights of the Mezzanine shone from the exit up ahead.
Flint: =/\= I shall be there in about ten minutes… =/\=
Richards: =/\= That’s the spirit! See you soon! =/\=
Flint: =/\= Right… Flint out. =/\=
((Eight Minutes Later, Science & Research Center – Level 1))
As he stepped out of the SRC’s turbolift into the dark ‘foyer’ of Level 1, from whence the lift down to the Ancillary Support Section was accessible, Flint immediately felt a deep and disconcerting cold grip him. He eyed the doors beyond – sealed tight – with suspicious paranoia. Housed within were the last relics of Amity’s origins… Copernicus, a research facility dedicated to dissecting and understanding the Borg…
He rushed quickly across the foyer to the other lift and pressed the button as quickly as he could, slapping at it frantically. oO Bloody hell, open… Oo A bead of sweat rolled down his brow. His chest tightened. He could practically feel the lingering presence on the other side of the door… waiting to be unleashed. Waiting to consume them all.
The lift door opened and he practically leapt inside, pressing himself against the far wall, as the door whooshed gently shut once more. He slouched, catching his breath for a moment, before he spoke the command.
Flint: ::Short of breath:: Shuttlebay… 4…
((One Minute Later, Shuttlebay 4, “The Cellar”))
In the thirty seconds or so it had taken for the lift to actually travel down to the next level, David had done his best to pull himself together – or at least look it. Richards was a boisterous man, from what he’d seen aboard the Jemison, and he was sure his patience would be tested. The last thing he wanted to do was make an enemy of someone who was having beers with Commander Ukinix and… doing whatever it is he did with the doe-eyed Chief of Science.
As the door opened, he straightened up his posture and stepped out of the lift, doing his damnedest to maintain a stiff upper lip and a confident stride.
Flint: Mr. Richards… ::Glancing at the shuttle:: Is this your craft? The, erm, “Targhee,” did you say?
Richards: Response
He gave it a quick once over.
Flint: Anything I ought to know before the certification flight?
Richards: Response
Flint: Anything about the shuttle, Mr. Richards. Her onboard systems, any potential exemptions from normal testing parameters, unregulated modifications… that sort of thing?
Richards: Response
TBC
