Lt Alex Storm - Storm Chaser
Karen Morris
((Storm's Quarters, Deck 4, USS Artemis-A))
Alex strode into her mostly empty quarters, through the living area and into the bedroom where she turned around and with her arms open wide, the Betazoid fell backwards on the bed with a loud groan. oO Whoever had said that shoreleave was relaxing obviously has never transferred ships. Oo She lay there for at least five minutes before one arm flopped across her body to meet the other, putting her on her side. With another grunt, she managed.
Storm: Computer. Mid 21th century Earth Jazz.
A saxophone started a single impassioned melody. Most of the notes were low in its register. This continued on for at least thirty to forty-five seconds. After which, there was a quick jump to a higher set of notes which seemed to present a counterpoint melody to the first lower one. Happiness and sadness danced around each other. Joy and sorrow in tandem. Eventually, Alex wiped at a stray trickle from her eye. It was like the music was an overflow from her soul. Somehow in the past couple of days aboard the Artemis, she had found just the tiniest thread of hope. She was so afraid that it was going to slip through her fingers and leave her with only the mournful aspects of the tune.
Finally, plying herself up off her mattress, the tactical officer sat at the edge of her bed where she removed her boots one at a time and reached over to place them neatly beside her nightstand, but the Betazoid refused to move and sat with her elbows on her knees and her head in her hands for a space of time.
Storm: Come on Alex. Get your butt in gear. It’s been over a week. Maybe something turned up.
Placing her hands on her knees, she pushed herself into a standing position and walked silently back into the living area of her quarters to find her bag. Before she had left the Scimitar, Storm had copied all known, relevant, and even suspected data on Kona and Cassie into a new file. Pulling back the zipper on her bag, the Betazoid rummaged through her duffel, she found her lone datachip, and palming it, she walked over to the terminal where the officer deftly inserted it.
Then, turning on her heels and walking back over to her couch, she sat down sideways. One of her feet was on the floor, and the other she set on the couch and pulled it close to her so she could wrap her arms around her leg and lay her chin on her knee. Once situated, she started her usual inquiry.
Storm: Computer. Using the personal data on the datachip, search all known Federation worlds for the individuals in question. Include anecdotal information, possible sightings, and any confirmed passage aboard any catalogued vessels: passenger, Starfleet, shuttles, and even freighters. Time reference - the last seven days.
Computer: Query will take approximately forty-eight hours to sift through the data and compile the requested information.
Alex had expected that. She also expected it would take her nearly a week to wade through the data the search would provide her with.
Storm: Fine. Run the query. ::She twists her neck so that it cracks three times in quick succession:: I think I’m going to go climbing.
Computer: Acknowledged. Search initiated.
Alex stood up, and before she headed for the replicator to get a new set of clothes, she remembered what the doctor had said about not overdoing it. She put her hands on her hips and looked between the replicator and her bedroom at least three times. Her jaw cocked to the side, as it often did when she was deep in thought.
Storm: Yeah. Not a chance.
Five minutes later, a barefoot, off-duty Lieutenant in black knee length biker shorts and a fuscia, loose-fitting tank top which hit her at her hips walked out of her quarters.
Storm: Okay, Alex. It’s time to sweat.
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~*~
Lt Alex Storm
Tactical Officer
USS Artemis
O240103SK2