Ensign Tzim-Shah - Some days, I hate my job.

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Mar 14, 2022, 5:19:46 PMMar 14
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((Some minutes ago, Deck 8, USS Gorkon))

Red light bathed every nook and cranny of the corridors but, mercifully, the alarm horn no longer blared, thundering like a Tellaritian mudwhale that had been beached for two hours in Tellar Prime's worst fishing harbour. Of course, Shah knew exactly what that sounded like, having been there with his uncle, his father, and his three aunts as they all tried to use a poorly designed crane to return the stupid animal to its rightful place. That day, he had decided that he would never, ever work, not even if his right hand, his favourite fang (or some part of his anatomy that he loved to mention stressing each and every syllable of the name if he wanted to ruffle some feathers) were at the stake, that he would never, ever be an engineer. And if possible, he would never work around engineers either. What the hell, he wouldn't get within an arm's length of one if he has the chance. But that same day, when the giant, obese, mud-slinging critter had died partway through its terminal lack of common sense and partway through the inbred inability to come to agreements of engineers, Shah had also discovered something else.  That if there was one thing that got on his nerves more than engineers, it was scientists.

Of course, absolutely, because fate hated him and the bosswoman was out, and he'd got the short straw in the task breakdown of that particular crisis, he'd had to deal with exactly them today.

And here he was, trotting inelegantly through the corridors of deck eight, going from one lab to another just to check that none of those eggheads were too deep in whatever it was they were doing, something stupid like, who knows, counting stars or polishing crystals or looking very thoroughly and very scowlingly at a handful of dirt, to remind them that if what they were doing wasn't vital they should get their pimply backsides off that deck and head for their quarters like the good little lambs they were.

By her grandmother's beard, how many times had he had had to repeat the same thing? How had they got their heads so far up their own backsides that they hadn't heard they were in the middle of a frigging energy crisis?

His booted hooves stopped in front of one of the labs, though the security ensign didn't stop to glance over to see just which one it was. Surely something ending in -gy, or -my, or, no doubt, -y, something super important and super complicated that would surely make his brain itch. Panting profusely, he pulled the padd out of his pocket and checked the manifest. Two brainiacs had been scheduled to use the lab for the last three hours, with prospects of using it for another couple of hours more. Swinish eyes flicked across the screen to check the status of the project they were involved in. 


Great, go in, check they weren't there, repeat the general orders, kick them out of the room if they didn't listen to the explanations by the third time and next lab. That would leave him with only two laboratories to wipe, one of them with the Asst. Chief Science Officer, which was going to be a different kind of battle for the Tellarite. Not because he disliked the woman, after all she was one of the few who was up to the task of debating with him in a way that made him proud, but quite by the opposite. In any case, two more, and he would be all done. Sah could go back to the security centre either to sit for a while and have a drink or, more likely, to be sent to another end of the ship to do something tremendously important that was going to make him sweat a lot more.

Some days, he just hated his job.

The stocky Tellarite pressed the door buzzer and waited a moment before he insisted again. That second time, a voice on the other side rang out. He let out a frustrated grunt, yeah yeah they were working in a very important stuff, something about not to contaminate the sample, yadda yadda yadda. He knew the drill. Likewise, he had listened to enough permutations of the same words to have them drilled in his brain.

So, he proceeded to do the same as always, override the opening of the doors, put on his serious face, the one that made most of those who knew him just maginally know that that day, at that moment, he was not there to debate and he was, of course, there to shout very, very loudly and in that language that was so much his own, which consisted 90% of swear words.

The door opened and, before his dark eyes even fell on the scientists .... Tzim-Shah was flying away.

It was a strange sensation, as if his body was not his own, and, on top of that, in slow motion. 

What a cheap way to introduce drama, isn't it? 

But it gave time to see the pieces of shrapnel flying past him in a spectacular dance of glitter and shimmering sparks and black stuff and plasma smoke and something that was almost certainly scorched Tellarite hair and bits of a gold uniform.

Slowly, in that sort of tremendously coruscating and coregraphiated ballet of a deliberate shockwave, Shah's body spun in the air, only to see a HUGE chunk of the deck break off and begin to whiz off the core or the ship, just to scatter into smaller and smaller bits into the space. Then, of course, he realized he was going the same damn way.

Oh no, hell no.

Oh, how he hated his job.

He tried to stretch out a hand, but it didn't respond, because of course, there's nothing like being left-handed to have a sudden explosion decide that that's the hand that's going to screw you. Oh well, he' d use that useless right hand instead.

Naturally, the slowed down time proved that it had just been gathering momentum and that this was the perfect time to speed up and start going at full throttle.

Just perfect to recover the time lost, of course, and to ruin any chances the Tellarite might have of not venting himself out of the ship and meeting a mercifully quick death in that hopeless hole in space so that no one would ever find him, a Tellarite-shaped block of space ice spinning forever in the darkness among the stars.

By his grandmother's beard, he really HATED HIS JOB that day.

Then there was a flicker of lights, the blue-green force field sprang up to cover the gap in space, the artificial gravity returned in full force and Tzim-Shah found himself in freefall under a pile of floating debris in a race to kiss the floorplates.

The good thing was that he was the winner.

The bad thing was that all the debris fell on top of him.

Worst of all, a piece of twisted duranium pierced a part of his anatomy that he didn't want to be pierced, not because he was particularly fond of it, but because it lodged a few bunch of vital organs. Organs that he was fond of and want to kept working, thankyouverymuch.

Then came the pain. Luckily it didn't last too long because another piece of twisted metal hit him in the head, sending him to the painless realm of unconsciousness.

He really hated his job that day.

Ensign Tzim-Shah

Security Officer

USS Gorkon NCC-82293


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