Ensign Jace Ryen - A growling stomach
alongtheway
Jace watched the Vulcan's face that stood across from him and noticed their stare. It was as if they were trying to solve some puzzle. oO Probably wondering why I am so unlike them. Full of so many emotions. Oo The thought amused him.
Taj'el: What prompted that response? ::They inquired aloud, their tone measured and precise::
Jace blinked once, realizing he had let the reaction slip out more visibly than intended. His posture straightened slightly on the biobed, and he made a conservative effort not to let too many other emotions slip out so easily.
Shortrith: Have you had any previous medical difficulties?
Ryen: Nothing major, Doctor. Standard childhood illnesses, a few training injuries at the Academy. Nothing that required extended care. I've always healed quickly.
He paused for a moment as he considered the possibilities.
Ryen: Though I imagine Starfleet service may test that record.
Taj'el: It may be attributable to my Vulcan heritage.
Jace glanced toward them, considering that.
Beck: Response
Shortrith: Mind if I run some diagnostic scans?
Ryen: Not at all.
Beck: Response
Shortrith: One moment, I'll get your results in a second.
Ryen: If you don't mind me asking. Those missions you mentioned earlier, what made them harrowing? Was it the environment, the enemy, or something else?
His gaze shifted between them.
Ryen: I'd like to understand what this crew has already faced. It seems like there's a lot I can learn from all of you, both in the field and here.
Taj'el: I find myself similarly curious. The report I received was… imprecise at best.
Beck/Shortrith: Response
Ryen: That is good to know. I will need to ensure I am prepared for anything on upcoming missions. I am always open to advice.
Taj'el: I am not familiar with these Alpha Isles; however, I am aware that conditions vary. Not every mission is… as chaotic
Jace let out a small breath, tension easing slightly.
Beck/Shortrith: Response
Ryen: I appreciate you all helping to bring me up to speed, truly. It helps to know what I might be walking into.
A soft, brief laugh escaped him, though this time it carried a more subdued weight.
Ryen: Even if it is a bit sobering.
Beck/Shortrith: Response
Taj'el: Int… ::They stopped themselves, electing not to complete the thought::
Ryen: Actually, I was wondering if any of you happen to have some free time later. Would anyone be willing to show me around the ship? I've only seen a small portion of the Ronin so far.
He glanced between them, a bit more tentative now. A hopeful smile formed, only to be immediately undercut by a very audible growl from his stomach.
Ryen: My apologies. It seems I may have missed a meal during the transfer process.
Taj'el: I am no less new than you are. I am therefore unable to provide a definitive answer.
Beck/Shortrith: Response
Taj’el: Whatever you senior officers think is best.
Jace slid off the biobed, adjusting his uniform as he did.
For a moment, he looked between them all. The Vulance precision, the Klingon pragmatism, the easy confidence of experience. This was his crew now. Still unfamiliar. Still a little intimidating. But, not unwelcoming.
Ryen: Thank you. All of you. Now, what do you recommend for lunch?
A small pause, then he gestured lightly toward the exit.
Beck/Shortrith/Taj'el: Response
(Deck 14, Brew Continuum, USS Ronin))
The doors parted with a soft hiss, and Jace stepped through into a space that immediately felt alive.
The scent hit him first. Rich, warm, unmistakable coffee.
It lingered in the air alongside the low murmur of conversation, the soft clink of cups, and the steady rhythm of a place that served as more than just a stop for food. It was a place where the crew could set aside duty for a while and relax.
Jace paused just inside the entrance, taking it in.
Ryen: That's impressive.
Any: Response
There was a faint hint of amusement in his voice as his eyes drifted toward the source of the aroma. He had had coffee before, of course.
His gaze shifted toward the menu display, scanning through the options on the replicator. He stepped closer, considering carefully.
Ryen: Computer, one plomeek soup. Moderate temperature and a glass of water, chilled.
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