Mikali sh'Shar - Clean and White, Part I
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David Adams
Sep 18, 2020, 12:08:55 AM9/18/20
to Gorkon
(( OOC: Theme for this sim trio: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iwxfmYR7ItM ))
(( Spaceport, Yarista, Palanon, Tyrellian system ))
Disembarkation was remarkably painless, and despite being awoken from her nap -- something that made her grumpy at the best of times -- Mikali was actually feeling something almost akin to happy. It helped that she had a goal and a realistic path toward achieving that goal.
Striding through the Tyrellian spaceport, past an information desk staffed by a smiling Tyrellian, she savoured the chance to stretch her cramped legs, smiling as well. Actually smiling. The cramped feeling, that vague tingling of numbness and constricted limbs was familiar and it summoned forth memories of her days flying FA-150's. Of waking up in the wee hours of the very early morning, only to be crammed in a tiny cockpit for hours on end, with nothing more than an inch of air and an inch of transparent aluminium separating her head from the vacuum, her antenna getting constantly scraped on the roof.
Being a fighter pilot was uncomfortable, dangerous, thankless and comprised of long stretches of boredom mixed in with brief moments of sheer terror.
Oh, how she missed it.
But where to next? Her shuttle to the Gorkon would be leaving from one of these myriad docking ports. Knowing her luck, Rael would be aboard too, but that didn't frustrate her as much as it might. It would present new and wonderous opportunities to torment her Klingon caregiver, which was a source of constant joy in an otherwise mirthless existence. Like her rehab counsellor had said: "Find joy in the small things."
Mikali squinted, trying to look at the glowing screens dangling down from the roof of the spaceport and figure out where she was supposed to go next, and as she did so, trying to understand why everything was suddenly so fuzzy, the view out of her left eye fuzzed, went static-y and broken, then winked out. A sharp stab of pain followed, like a tiny spark inside her head.
Dammit! The prosthetic was on the fritz again. Mikali thumped the side of her head, trying to reactivate the connection, rapping her knuckles against the side of her head like a lunatic.
The percussive maintenance routine worked. The connection came back. Grainy and green-tinged at first, but stabilising after a second or two. The pain faded down to a dull ache.
Her prosthetic...
Her heart rose up to her throat, becoming an alarming surge of concern. Why did this the stupid hunk of junk have to break now? It wasn't unheard of; her prosthetic sometimes malfunctioned and had to be regularly tuned, but she had it looked at only weeks ago. It should have been good for a whole year or more, based on past trends.
So an early malfunction was bad. She knew, in her blue and twisted heart, that she was supposed to get the malfunction checked out, but there was nowhere near time before her flight to the Gorkon departed, so she would have to do it aboard the ship... something she desperately wanted to avoid. A trip to the medical bay so early might look bad. It would make her look weak. Dependant.
So Mikali sh'Shar did exactly what Mikali sh'Shar always did when presented with a problem: ignored it.
So much for the brief, fleeting moment of happiness. That departed as quickly and mysteriously as it arrived.
Time to play another Mikali sh'Shar card: distraction. She had two hours to kill before her flight, and while the prospect of yelling at Rael and Vaala some more was tempting, she was aware -- somewhere, in that lump of proto-muscle medical science called her brain -- that her 'best behaviour' routine had best start now. Something else would have to serve to keep her mind off the throbbing pain in her left eye.
Rael and Vaala were going to the Gorkon. Word would spread. She was smart enough to see how that might affect her.
So, something else, then. Her shoulder was still covered in drool from her inconsiderate passenger. Mikali would have to clean it up. Something about that didn't seem right -- she knew she drooled in her sleep fairly regularly -- but it was substantially easier to just blame the stranger, so she did. Really, all of this was his fault, probably.
It wouldn't do to show up to the ship all slimy. Fortunately, the ladies bathroom wasn't too far away, and so with no more thought given to the task, sh'Shar steered herself toward the restroom, stepping through the threshold into the all-white room with sinks and cubicles.
Typical public facility; over-clean and shiny and bright. It actually irked her. Tyrellian system... everything in this system was so clean, so fresh, so spotless. Boring. She waved a blue hand under one of the taps. Water gushed out, splattering against her hand and splashing everywhere, soaking her sleeve.
sh'Shar: Blood of the Dsna'druth! Ugh. Why does everything bad happen to me for no reason?
Mikali went to dry off her hands, but the machine was broken. Cursing some more, she stomped over to one of the cubicles, looking for something to dry her sleeve. She selected one with the door half-ajar and booted it open.
An Andorian zhen sat slumped upon the lavatory. The seat was down, its fully clothed occupier leaning up against the wall of the cubicle, her eyes closed as though asleep.
Oops. Mikali averted her eyes, growling angrily.
sh'Shar: Hey! You should really lock the damn door, you know? That's what the lock is for! Idiot!
She fumbled for the handle, grabbing it and getting ready to close. Inconsiderate people, not locking the door before they go...
That's when she saw it.
A dark grey inhaler, laying on the ground in full view, a little white powder scattered around the mouthpiece. Dust as white as her hair.
Her chest tightened as though squeezed by a titan, the breath squeezed out of her. That white powder she would know anywhere. So white. Ketracel-White... the drug used by the Dominion to control their troops.
The Son'a, amongst others, manufactured vast quantities of the chemical for the Dominion. During the war the enigmatic empire had a vast need for the White, stockpiling emergency stockpiles in uncountable locations everywhere their boots had landed. With the war now long over, many of those supply caches were being unearthed, their contents appropriated to Ferengi smugglers who shipped it wherever there was a market. Or just straight-up shipped from the Son'a, or their allies, or anywhere. A job the various Ferengi freelancers took to with relish, given the huge profit margins involved.
She knew this because she used to live on one of those ships. Had grown up on one of those ships. Worked there. Participated.
The chem was typically injected by the Jhem'hadar, but since the war, other humanoids had discovered that, if powered, it could be inhaled to a similar effect.
The White was wonderful. In liquid form it was food, water and stimulant; one dose would give one almost boundless energy. Inhaled, it killed even chronic pain and elevated mood, with larger doses sometimes producing paradoxical bouts of lethargy. Even powdered, it could be rehydrated and consumed to get much of the benefit of the original liquid form, albeit slower.
In all forms it was highly addictive.
And it tasted like sweet apple cakes, sugary and rich and full of energy, mixed in with a hint of mint.
A half-full inhaler was right there. In front of her. At least six doses, probably eight if rationed, and it was so small. Cleverly concealed inside a standard inhaler. It would pass the sensors at the spaceport. It could be concealed, it would be her little secret. A little thing for emergencies.
Nobody would ever know.
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