Lieutenant JG Amelia Semara - T-N-T, I'm Dynamite!

[Max]

(( Pag’JaQ’s Pew Pew Palace, Indulgence of Chocolate-Coated Jama'haron ))

With the phaser drill almost done already, it was no time to relax.  Already one of the 'borg' cubes was bearing down on her position behind a slightly too-small rock.  She needed to move.

Semara: Cover!

Morda: I gotcha, El-Tee; haul ass, and let’s go.

Getting out of cover without exposing her dainty derriere to the cube required an awkward, flexible, crawling maneuver to one side of the rock before she could get her legs fully under her (another reason she opted to risk her own skin in this position, being uncertain how easy it would be for the taller man).  Then she was bounding full-speed across the back half of the field.

At last she was beside him, cheeks thoroughly flushed pink with a stupid smile that was threatening to split her whole skull open.

Semara: You give good advice, you know that? :: Beat :: Grenade time?

Morda: Yes. ::Pausing:: Yes to the second part. Thank you, to the first part. Computer, freeze program.

You know what?  Flustering fresh Ensigns might have just become her new hobby.

Morda: Sorry: easier to teach when we aren’t under fire. I’ll describe it in words, then I’m going to do it, and then I want you to follow suit. ::Looking down at his phaser, pointing as he spoke:: First: tap the diagnostic toggle rear of the emitter twice to disconnect the emitter array. ::Rotating the phaser back up.:: Phaser level intensity is inversely proportional to fuse time: at level 16, you’ll go up in ashes and won’t even know it. Level 1 gives you about a five-minute fuse -- good for sabotage. Level 12 gives you five seconds, which is grenade territory. So set the phaser to 12. Then, and this is where you go two-handed: hold down that diagnostic toggle again while squeezing the trigger three times. That keeps the emitter disconnected, but the triple press tells the phaser to fire repeatedly. What happens now is, the phaser’s going to start dumping energy into the pre-emitter capacitor -- but, with nowhere to go, the capacitor’s going to fail and blow up. Ready to watch? I’m going to do it at mission speed.

Nominally, it was all information she was aware of in the abstract.  In the specifics, though, there were a couple more steps and things to remember than she might have imagined.  Best be sure she had it right.

Semara: Diagnostic toggle twice, level 12 to get five seconds, hold diagnostic toggle while squeezin' the trigger three times, then be careful not to lose your arm.  :: Lips squishing up, then a nod. :: You got my enraptured attention, Ensign. 

Morda: ::Nodding:: Computer: give us a reinforced transparent aluminum edifice right here, two meters by two meters. Down range 10 meters, a Borg heavy tactical drone.

It wasn't the first time she'd seen a simulacrum of one of the Federation's greatest enemies.  She'd experienced first-hand the stepped-up Anti-borg training they gave all officers in the field in the months following Frontier day, even though she'd been nowhere near Earth at the time.  She also knew officers who'd been less lucky.

Morda: Eyes here, Lieutenant.

The musings evaporated as her eyes shifted down, adjusting to the bit of shade they stood under.  Leaning in at a diplomatically curious tilt, her thoughts leaked out her lips in a little weird muttered sing-along of the actions Morda performed as he demonstrated.

Morda: Fire in the hole!

He made the toss look almost annoyingly easy, sending the phaser into a ballistic trajectory physics textbooks could only dream about, clattering with exactly one bounce bringing it to the mock-drone's feet.  Amelia tightened behind the cover at the sound of the uncomfortable whine, then - BOOM!.  Actually, it wasn't as loud as she imagined it would be, with more energy converting into photons and other exotic, quick-decay radiation than into shockwave-producing heat.  The simulated target was mostly just gone.

Semara: Nice throw... :: A little smile. ::

Morda: Well, I’m lucky it didn’t smack into one of those branches overhead. If you’re ready to give it a shot, let’s do it. Though, one more I warning. ::Pointing at the frozen miniature targets from before, plus a few golden friendlies among them.:: Once out of your hand, this weapon discriminates only on distance. It doesn’t know friend from foe. As a hunter, I imagine the indiscriminateness might rub you the wrong way -- and it should. Keep that level head, Lieutenant. ::Smiling:: And if you want the computer to give you a target to aim at, go ahead and set it up first.

"Rub the wrong way" was putting it mildly.  Earlier, she'd been half-wishing she could simply telepathically feel out where her targets were.  Now she was glad again she couldn't.  She knew what it felt like when someone died.  Each specific circumstance differed, but she always had the sense that there was a void where once something vibrant and unique moved.  Even with an animal, taking life was deeply uncomfortable - even knowing it meant keeping an ecosystem in balance.  It was a part of the hunt rarely discussed even with others who partook, and it was shrouded in nearly mystical, reflective rites only shared with companions.

The heavens had smiled on her.  She'd never been in a position where she had to take the life of something even more aware.  She suspected even a Borg drone would feel something uniquely terrible.  Not just death, but a severing from the collective in the moments right before, at the exact moment when companionship - even an enslaver's - might offer some comfort and meaning in the face of the end.

Amelia's eyebrows briefly shifted.  A short puff of air exited her nose as if she were jettisoning the wandering wayward train of thoughts for the unhelpful refuse it was.  None of it would help her here, or in reality.  Friends may very well depend on her skills.

Semara: You imagine right... :: Eyes shifting momentarily back to Morda, a mild glint in her eyes returning. :: Alright.  Let's see if their computer's got anything a little closer to home. :: Beat :: Computer, Tholian shock trooper, eight meters down range.

A large, multi-legged, heavily suited foe materialized onto the range, frozen in position.  With a radical difference in environmental needs, the front-line units nearly appeared like miniature insectoid tanks.  They may have lacked the adaptability and sinister reputation the Borg had, but they made up for it in thick, mechanized armor.

Morda: Response

Semara: :: Casting a sideways glance :: Been briefed on Lattice Alliance units and tactics yet?

Even if he had, she suspected data sheets and doctrinal summaries lacked the same impression as seeing the shape of the enemy even in photonic form.

Morda: Response

Semara: I ain't gonna steal Lieutenant Zerva's thunder, but this who you don't wanna see.  :: Beat, then pointing. :: Only weak points are where the legs meet the thorax.  If you manage to hit that, they spray lethal superheated steam everywhere.  The marines say grenades worked best on DS33.

Reading all the intelligence reports and analysis was finally paying off, and she figured it made sense to put the skill into practice on something she might actually see in the field.  Perhaps she could repay the ensign in pie and knowledge.

Morda: Response

Semara: :: A shrug :: On the bright side, I suppose seein' one a' these means you've escaped the Sencha Radiation.  :: Beat :: Which reminds me - don't forget to get a butt implant from Doctor Ohnari!  You ain't got a paracortex to worry 'bout, but I'd still hate for our coolest new security officer to come down with time cancer...

A little smirk tugged at her lips.  Playing with the ensign really was becoming dangerously amusing.  If only she could see his face when he found out she was perfectly serious.

Morda: Response

Semara: :: A fiendish grin :: Right!  Phaser-nade.  Let's see... :: Turning the phaser over, then humming the instructions in sing-song. :: Diagnostic toggle...  level twelve... :: A series of rhythmic beeps. :: Hoooold the toggle aaannd... :: Using other hand, then singing in time. :: Tri-ple-tap!

She flashed a half-grin, then judged her throw.

Semara: Fire in the hole! :: Under her breath :: One-utta-berry...

The phaser was away with an almost under-hand sling, sending it on a speedy depressed trajectory that skated in the last couple meters on the ground under the carapace armor.  She tucked tight behind the cover until the crescendoing whine ended in a flash of light and noise she shielded her eyes away from.  Then she looked at the wreckage.

Semara: Huh.  Guess the marines know a thing or two.

Instead of poking a hole in the armor, the trooper and his mobile pressure tank was simply half-vaporised.

Morda: Response

Tag / TBC...

---------- ○● ----------

Lieutenant Junior Grade Amelia Magnolia Semara

Science Officer - Special Projects

USS Khitomer - NCC-62400

A239710MA0