Lieutenant JG Amelia Semara - A Change of Plans

[Max]

(( Personal Quarters, Room 149, Deck 14, USS Khitomer – docked at DS33 ))

It had turned out that Hobart's mandated 24-hour deadline to seek a therapist's advice was a little too tight to schedule anything on Ayemet's or even Pershan's packed calendars, and she was forced to find someone aboard DS33.  Perhaps that should have been a sign she needed to find time with one of them sooner, but she had to make do.  It was an awkward session when one third of the conversation was classified, and another third fell under patient confidentiality, but Amelia made do with the one-third she could talk about.  There would inevitably be a follow-up with one or the other of Khitomer's counselors, but for the moment she was cleared for duty with the stipulation that she wasn't supposed to return to the labs or spend any more time studying Sencha radiation until she'd found a more productive way to get her feelings out than all at once in a single supernova all over her superior officers and friends.

Whether it was or not, the thing that felt far more productive was cashing out some holodeck time she'd inadvertently been saving up (there were still a lot of hours left even after), tuning the environmental controls to drop the oxygen content to match higher elevation, and going for a long mountain trail run until her head was pounding and her lungs burned from the exertion.  It was simulated, certainly: the smells and sounds and the feeling of the light on her skin wasn't quite right, but a few kilometers in, her brain was too focused on her screaming muscles and heart to notice the details.  For a while, she could forget all about the test and let herself get lost in a pretend vast outdoors.

After a shower and enough time and food for thought to take shape on any other subject, she could feel the way she'd drifted from her normal self.  She'd spent the whole leave so far in her own company, or the company of one or two others.  Not a bad thing, but maybe it was time to organize something for everyone - to give back.  There was no way she was the only one feeling the way she was, and if she wanted the ship to feel like home, then she needed to do her part to bring her sense of home to the ship.  It was time for a party.  Maybe use all the rest of those holodeck hours she had banked on the big holodeck on the station...

But, to do that, her first order of business was to hunt down the more reclusive officers and, as her mama put it, "find the right incentive to lure them out of their own rear-mounted mobile burrow and have some fun."

First on the list?  One Lieutenant Charles Matthews.  Last sighted in the officer conference at the start of the mission.  Sure, he must have had at least one bridge duty shift by now, but maybe he'd slipped onto a different rotation than Amelia.  Or maybe it was Amelia that was the recluse, hiding in her labs.

The thought made her shudder.  She REALLY needed to get out.  That thought made her grin. This was a good idea.  No.  A great idea.

She thumbed the chime.  A sandpaper voice called back.

Charles: Enter.

Light spilled into the room, casting an Amelia-shaped shadow mid-curtsy into the darkened room.  The man's thoughts scattered away from her into the room's darkest crevices like roaches fleeing from an exterminator.  It was tough to say what was more rainy and grey: the color in his cheeks, his shirt, or the mood he exuded.  The whole room practically reeked like the body sweat of sadness to her empathic senses.

He pulled at his shirt (hey there, model officer - lookin' good!), and took a labored breath.

Oh no.  She was intruding on something.

Semara: :: One eye bugging out, one eye squinting :: Uuuuuuuuuhhhhhh...  :: Clearing her throat. :: Lieutenant?

Apparently he was as thrown by her appearance - a freshly-pressed lavender dress, smart white heels, a couple pieces of jewelry, and a stack of linen-paper invitations - as she was his.

Charles: Amelia? Ens--- Sorry, Lieutenant now, I guess.

Her eyes briefly flit to innards of the man's quarters.  The strewn things, the guitar haphazardly cast to the side.  Only more evidence to the man's emotional state.

Semara: :: A slow, slack-jawed nod in the affirmative, eyes still bigger than a starship saucer section. ::

Wait.  Was she supposed to say something?  It felt like she was supposed to say something.  What did humans say to each other when their whole vibe and appearance and, well, everything was so far past any possible dismissal of "oh, I'm okay" that all conversation was largely irrelevant?  Asking if he was okay was ridiculous to the extreme.  She was Betazoid.  He knew she was Betazoid.  She knew he knew she was Betazoid.  He knew she knew... Okay yeah.

Everyone kinda knew the situation, and there was just the question of: what now!???!?!!

Charles: I never got to congratulate you on that, by the way. Much deserved, I’m sure.

Charles, bless his soul (and his frustratingly handsome disheveled look), seemed intent on ignoring the very obvious problem as long as possible.  His smile rang empathically true, but then it kept ringing, and ringing, and ringing, like he was a bottomless pit with nothing in it to stop the echoes.

Semara: :: A weird, put-on, toothy grin and an overly jolly thumbs-up. ::

Oh, goddesses, she still wasn't talking.  Say something say something say something say something...

Semara: :: More a squeak than speech, with her lips barely moving. :: Thanks!

Heavens, that was worse!!  Help the man for the sake of everything holy!

Charles: Of course. Anyway, to what do I owe the pleasure?

Semara: :: Holding her bizarre, bug-eyed grin and the thumbs-up, her words tumbled over each other. :: Would you believe me if I said you won the Grand Ferenginar Grand Nagus Grand Sweepstakes and you're now expected to attend the VIP experience aboard His Opulence's Ship The Palace of Profit for a week of pampering and relaxation?

What the what?  How was that helping?  Where did that even come from?  Apparently, this is what happened when she lacked the option to default to her usual strategy - diving head first into a grieving friend's brain and giving them the telepathic (and physical) hug of a lifetime.  He was human, had no reason to consent to that, and, worse, she barely knew the man.

Charles: Response

Semara: Good!  Because I completely made that up right now and I ain't sure why!  :: A bark of laughter, followed by a genuine giggle as she flushed pink. ::

Charles: Response

Her hand finally dropped, and her posture finally evened back out to her usual poise and composure.  With the words out of her mouth - any words - it was now suddenly so much easier to talk again.  Her gaze drifted back to the guitar.

Semara: :: Nodding to the instrument. :: You play?

Charles: Response

A second, and much better idea took root hearing the answer.  One that might be good for both of them.  She straightened out, primly clasped her hands behind her back so her shoulders were pulled high and back, and looked back to Charles.

Semara: Perfect.  'Cuz I just had a change a' plans.  :: Beat. :: Here's what's gonna happen: I ain't gonna ask you 'bout any a' this.  :: An expression indicating "everything about the way you and your room look and empathically feel right now." :: In return for me bein' so nice and not pryin', you're gonna wash your face, change your shirt, and grab that guitar while I fetch my fiddle, and then you're gonna meet me at holodeck one, and then?  :: Leaning in until her whole face was shadowed except a narrow slice of light on her eyes. :: Then - we're gonna jam.

She straightened back out to pretend at checking her nails, and threw a look under her eyelashes with a mischievous grin she couldn't suppress, as if to suggest there was a more unpleasant alternative.

Charles: Response

Tag / TBC...

Lieutenant Junior Grade Amelia Magnolia Semara

Science Officer

USS Khitomer - NCC-62400

A239710MA0