Day 02 [1620 hrs.] Grindstone

Re: Day 02 [1620 hrs.] Grindstone

Reply #25 – March 30, 2018, 11:09:54 PM

[ Lt. Cmdr. Natalie Stark | Corridors | Deck 21 | Vector 03 | USS Theurgy ] Attn:
[Show/Hide]

As a general rule, by that point in the conversation, a subordinate would have been smart enough to either not answer at all, or retrain their responses to Yes Ma'am, no ma'am. In general. It was readily becoming apparent to Natalie that Nator 159 was not at all a 'general' sort of subordinate and sure enough she got an answer to the question. She supposed that she had no one to really blame save herself, as she after all was the one that asked the question to begin with. Why then, did she think they were all incompetent? Probably because every one of them had been pushed far beyond their limits. Perhaps Nator would have been fine with losing the ship they'd spent three years clawing their way back home on, but Natalie doubted many would.

"'You've been through hell for three years and its time to do it again, so do your duty and shut it' doesn't quite cut it, Lieutenant. Thats why we have a consoling division. That's why we have most of our staff working in teams, mixed between the crews. To integrate them. And thats why I am letting may of my officers work through their issues. In the mandated schedules that we provide. Their assigned shifts. Or shifts and a half as it might be, depending on my evaluation of them, and that of my Assistant Chief." it was pointless she thought to try and reason with an angry Hermat. But it was her job. And if s/he were going to call Natalie on it, well so be it.

With a small burst of effort and speed, Natalie brushed right past Nator and turned coming to a hault in hir path. Either s/he would have to stop, or risk barreling a superior officer down - as that would not be good, and as Nator's physical reactions seemed to be rather well adjusted to a stick in the skull, Natalie decided to trust in her subordinates reflexes and come to a stop without knocking the superior on her ass.

"You seem to be forgetting something, Mr. Nator. I don't have to put a damn thing in writing to make it an order. It was already an order. Your little bit of bravado? You can take it, ball it up and toss it out the nearest airlock along with your attitude. You want to know why I'm coming down hard on you like this? Because the Nator 159 I remember from before you went under the ice would never have let hir temper lead to an outburst like this with Commander Hendricks. Now may its just you dont respect me - fine, i can live with that. BUt maybe that pike through the head messed with you more than you realize. Or maybe you're just an ass when given an order you don't like. What do I know? I've just been holding this ship and this department together as good friends have died all around us and you took an ice nap.

"Now we're going to go in there and pretend to be the professional you claim to be. And you will act and carry on exactly as you seem to think anyone thats been through trauma should. Polite. Professional. Or I will put in writing a recommendation to bench you for the next week, and pass it up along to Commander Trent, who for some reason seems to have a bit of a better opinion in my skills to manage this department than you have. And despite the magnitude of the work we have to do, you will spend the next week confined to your quarters on medical observation, with plenty of time to contemplate the meaning of the universe. Are we clear?"

Re: Day 02 [1620 hrs.] Grindstone

Reply #26 – April 09, 2018, 08:48:31 PM

[ Lt JG Nator 159 | Deck 11 | Vector 02 | USS Theurgy ] Attn: @Brutus

Shifts-and-a-half. No doubles, even for the Vulcans who need barely any sleep? A waste of time. Or perhaps they contemplate the logic of inefficiently assigning humanoid resources in all their spare hours? At least the irony of breaking a standing order s/he hadn't realised existed because s/he had failed to check, wasn't lost on hir. That didn't quite mean s/he was ready to roll over for the incensed Chief just yet. Not just because of an implied 'be nice to me and my second and you can have what you want'. That wasn't how it worked.

The irony of expecting Stark to throw her authority around while simultaneously criticising her for it was lost on hir, though.

And there it was - Stark moved to cut hir off before reaching the infirmary. Rather than repeat hir manoeuvre with the blueshirt a moment ago and sidestep the obstacle (with some passive-aggressive quip about having a medical appointment to attend, sorely-tempted though s/he might have been), Nator came to a halt inside a single step, swaying forward slightly before taking a better balance. Hir green eyes regarded the human before hir, outwardly dispassionate.

The delicate features of the canid remained dispassionate as Stark tried to call upon hir injury, and told hir that s/he was different now. They remained dispassionate as she tried to get a sympathy vote by claiming she wasn't living up to her predecessor. They remained dispassionate as the Chief found a button to push that bit deep - stoking the guilt about hir incarceration in a stasis unit for most of the time that the ship had been on the run. Hir internal monologue stopped. There were no words. Words wouldn't have been safe.

S/he was dimly aware of a slowing set of footsteps approaching down the corridor behind hir. Nator couldn't see the man's black Betazoid eyes, focused as s/he was on Stark. Hir nose picked up recent sweat and leather; perhaps the aftermath of a gym session. S/he didn't know that he had only paused in his stride because he'd picked up the anger that had passed right through rage, blown straight past cold fury, and was sliding along somewhere on the far side of some paradoxically zen-like utter calm. The officer, whoever it was, decided that he had better things to do than attend to a quibbling sporting injury and turned on his heel, walking away again. He picked up his pace.

Stark was still speaking, heedless of the soaring extent of a righteous hatred of which Nator hadn't known hirself capable. Down at hir sides, hir claws were extending unbidden from hir fingertips, itching to disembowel something. To flense the skin from its fat. To rip and tear.

"Are we clear?"

The words sounded as if Nator were underwater. Hir face was immobile. Hir voice, when it came, was barely above a murmur.

"Crystal. Commander."

FIN