Star Trek: Theurgy

PRO: S [Day 1 | 1235 hrs] Tell Me I'm the Fairest of the Fair

July 30, 2024, 12:56:45 AM

[ Ensign Sylvain Llewellyn-Kth | Outside the turbolift | D.8 | V.2 | USS Theurgy] @joshs1000

Lifting his face from his PADD at the sound of soft bootsteps, Sylvain smiled awkwardly at the Crewman exiting the turbolift in front of him, extending what he hoped to be a friendly expression, the corner of his mouth twisting somewhat reluctantly as he limply gestured his hand as if to say hello. Truthfully, common courtesy felt a little beyond his reach right now…. The turmoil of the last few months, alongside his meeting with Commander Cross, had drained most of his mental energy, and the little that was left was being diverted to his stalwart attempt to not give-in to how thoroughly overwhelmed he felt. Since the Crewman extended a polite nod in return, Sylvain considered it a success, breathing out a shaky sigh as he heard the footsteps draw past him, returning to his PADD as he slowly stepped forwards into the turbolift...

Surely there had to be some sort of Starfleet regulation to protect officers from having their life, wellbeing, and entire perception of reality, bastardised so many times in such a short space of time?

It was barely two months ago that he’d received the communication from Admiral Anderson, the first snowflake upon the avalanche that had cascaded down upon his life. And truth be told, he’d almost disregarded it. Sylvain had half-convinced himself that the message had been some sort of elaborate hoax, some sort of ploy by Starfleet Command, designed to probe for defectors amongst the crews set to join task force Archeron. The other half of his brain had decreed that the message was the manifesto of a madman, some sort of anti-Federation fanatic attempting to lure others into the arms of defection, far too unhinged a sentiment for someone who believed in Starfleet as much as Sylvain did; he knew first-hand how crucial their mission was, how much they were depended on by the countless individuals who weren’t so lucky as to be born in the centres of Federation space.

And that very knowledge was what had caused him to pause.

The Talarian border conflict wasn’t some great war that people would remember for centuries, not some ferocious and devastating battle that saw the survivors laden with commendations and medals of valour. No. The border conflict was, at large, an inconsequential series of skirmishes; raiders looting for food, dilithium, medical supplies, nothing that would ever be written about at any length. To most, it would be nothing more than a footnote in history, eternally overshadowed by the Dominion War. Yet, Sylvain had been to those colonies, seen the relief in the eyes of governors when a Starfleet vessel had contacted them from orbit, watched the smiles of solace blossom upon their faces when Captain Yume introduced herself, truly believing with all of their heart, that Starfleet would save them…

He knew that those people were real, that they mattered.

And yet, Starfleet had just ordered the crew of the Bowman to abandon those colonies, hours before he’d received the message from Admiral Anderson. He remembered just how angry he had been at the USS Theurgy and its crew, how furious he’d been that defectors could cause so much damage, that their actions had caused resources to be diverted away from saving innocent lives. In hindsight, that probably was of the intention of Starfleet Command's instruction, to blame the Theurgy’s destructive actions as the reason for their recall, to enrage the crew of the Bowmanso much, that they wouldn’t think to question how strange it was; they weren’t a dreadnought or a heavy cruiser after all, they had few reasons to be involved in the hunt for the Theurgy…

And Admiral Anderson’s message had been a domino that pushed those questions to the forefront of his mind.

If it had been a stranger contacting him, Sylvain would likely have reported it, Admiral Anderson however, was not a stranger to him. He was the man who had gotten Sylvain and his mother out of the purgatory of Deep-Space 16, pulled the strings that afforded Sylvain the opportunity to attend the El’nar Institute of Psionics, a placement that had improved the quality of his life beyond measure, and was probably the sole reason that Sylvain had been fit to apply to Starfleet in the first place, let alone become competent enough to graduate with as high honours as he had…. In short, Sylvain owed his commission, his life, to Admiral Anderson, and whilst the Ensign wasn’t one to break protocol, if anything could cause him to disregard the rules, it was the man who had rescued him from the hell that he'd lived as a child. 

So despite his reservations, Sylvain had elected to ignore the protocol for suspicious transmissions...

A week later he’d departed the Bowman, his emergency leave of absence approved, and began his long, arduous transfer to the USS Theurgy, a grim concept that was only worsened by the reality of the journey. It was a sordid affair; weeks of cloak and dagger shuttle transfers throughout Federation space, seasoned by lies that left a bitter taste in his mouth, misleading every person he interacted with as he travelled. Every minute of the journey had been agony for him, his head wracked in a terrifying turmoil, convincing himself that the only thing awaiting him in the future would be a court-martial, being tried as a Starfleet defector as Admiral Anderson shook his head in disappointment. Of course, such thoughts quickly spiralled into the realm of precognitive possibility, and he’d spent the entire duration of the transits so wracked with guilt and anticipation, that neither singing, exercise, nor even his beloved holo-novel, had afforded him any relief.

Eventually however, despite the culmination of his weeks of sleep deprivation, anxiety so great that he’d had to force down every meal, and a fairly general concern that he was going to get murdered or arrested at any given moment, Sylvain had endured long enough to reach the final leg of the journey. For most, a relief. Of course, the universe was rarely kind to Sylvain’s delicate sensibilities, and instead of some relief at the knowledge that his time spent feeling like some sort of illicit package would be over, he gained only the gut-wrenching nausea at the realisation that he’d be spending the last couple of weeks of his journey, aboard a Klingon vessel.

Whilst he’d never voice his opinions aloud, he hadn’t been particularly fond of Klingons before his time aboard the Vask’at, and the reality certainly hadn’t changed those feelings. His psionic capabilities certainly didn’t pair nicely with Klingon customs, and their general lifestyle wasn’t particularly agreeable to his own… Essentially, it was miserable. His sleep deprivation had been bolstered by a nightly performance of drunken Klingon singing and a fairly universal lack of any courtesy from his bunk-mate. His appetite had been lessened further by the ever-present aroma of targ urine and the fact that he’d been served live gagh on more than one occasion. And his fear for his life had only been reinforced by the sheer volume of bladed weapons that were kept aboard a Klingon vessel. Yet somehow, he endured.

And what was his reward for enduring such a thing?

He’d been nonchalantly handed the role of Chief CONN Officer aboard the most advanced vessel in Starfleet, and was suddenly going from serving aboard a Starship that was patrolling colonies on the borders of Federation space, to being a member of the senior staff on the most wanted vessel in the galaxy.... Then he’d been given a mission to join an away team aboard the ship of an alien race that he’d never previously heard of, who apparently conducted genetic atrocities as a form of recreation, the goal of which was to prevent a star being sent supernova by parasite infested aliens,, that would result in the deaths of billions. And to round it all out, he’d been told that in all likelihood, he’d probably die.

Sylvain wagered that it was fair to be a little frazzled.

“Deck eleven.” He instructed with a somewhat shaky tone to his voice, glancing down at his PADD once again for confirmation that he had the correct deck as he did so, keenly aware that he did not have the luxury of time, and that getting lost would be fairly devastating to his already strained sense of composure. His quarters were on deck ten, where it was likely that an absurd amount of data awaited him. He needed to study said data, compile it onto a personal device, have a sonic shower, change into uniform, and proceed to the necessary deck for their departure to the Erudite, all in the space of about forty-five minutes. As such, gallivanting down to the wrong deck was realistically the last thing he should be doing, especially with his tendency to get lost. 

However, he figured that handing over his medical records ought to be a priority too, given Commander Cross’ warning that the mission he’d just been assigned to, would probably be the most dangerous series of events that Sylvain had performed in his life. Perhaps if he was fully human, he might have been able to get away with not doing so, but given his part-Yattho physiology, if he did end up wounded in some way, he figured that it would be best if the attending medical officer knew the details of his biology. After all, as far as he knew, Sylvain was a somewhat unique case.

The topic of death however, was one that seemed to have a knack at spurring Sylvain’s mind into overdrive, testing the boundaries between cognition and premonition, and usually doing a fine job of sending his anxiety into overdrive. In such circumstances, he’d usually find a means to occupy his mind, to prevent it from roaming into realms of doubt and paranoia. Unfortunately, he didn’t have the luxury of duty tasks to complete, nor the opportunity to exercise or throw himself into a holo-deck program… Thus, he elected to do the only thing available to him. He was fairly confident that he could sing quietly enough that nobody else would notice…

“All I wanna do, all I wanna do, baby…” Sylvain began to quietly mumble to himself, revisiting the repertoire of musicals that existed within his head, his lips humming gently around the sounds of the first jaunty tune that he could find, barely even concerning himself with anything beyond his desire to keep his mind as occupied as possible, distracting it as he hurtled ever closer to whatever fate might have awaited him aboard the Erudite. He departed the turbolift with a gentle humming hanging on his lips, journeying down the corridor somewhat purposefully, hoping that sickbay was as close to the turbolift as the schematic had indicated.. “...Broad, dark, sexy Mannox, taught me all about dynamics…” Quiet words subtly slipped out through his humming as he continued, the Ensign’s face lighting with relief as he noticed the doors to the Theurgy’s main sickbay ahead of him, a bustling flock of medical staff visible beyond the threshold, as well as a rather conveniently placed reception desk that was bound to be the destination for his medical records.

His pace increased, a soft smile playing upon his lips.

“...We spent hours strumming the lute, striking the chords and blowing the flute…” He continued with a slight increase in volume, the hustle and bustle of sickbay drowning his voice with ease as he stepped through the threshold, heading directly to the receptionist’s duty station. “...he plucked all my strings, all the way to G, went from major to minor, C to... Good afternoon.” He curtly interrupted his singing, his voice increasing drastically in volume from his soft mumbling, a volume that could compete with the liveliness of sickbay. “I’ve just come aboard, and I wanted to submit my medical records?” Sylvain began as he caught the receptionist’s attention, leaning forwards slightly in order to better talk to her. .

Thankfully, their exchange was brief, Sylvain transferring the details from his PADD to her with a warm smile that had blossomed in the relief that his singing had granted his mind, thanking her profusely as she confirmed receipt of the file, and wishing her a pleasant day. He turned from the desk, and made a move to exit sickbay once again, resuming his singing as he did so, skipping over a few lines that had passed him by during his brief interaction with the receptionist, and opting for a louder volume, one that was still totally drowned out by the commotion in the busy room.

“...Cause, all you wanna do, all you wanna do, baby, is touch me, love me, can't get enough, see…” Sylvain’s soft lips continued, his eyes returning to his PADD as he attempted to retrace his steps, his fingers slipping across the screen in order to bring up the deck ten schematic, to best analyse the most effective route to his own quarters. “...All you wanna do, all you wanna do, baby, is please me, squeeze me, birds and the bees me...” He continued onwards, making a beeline to the turbolift without taking to much care as to his surroundings, losing himself in his PADD as he continued his jaunty song, oblivious to the volume of his voice as the hustle and bustle of sickbay faded further from him, feet moving forwards as his lips danced jovially around the words that fled his mouth. “... Run your fingers through my hair, tell me I'm the fairest of the fair…!”

And only then, at a noise that came from somewhere distressingly close to him, did Sylvain abruptly realise of two things. One, his volume had increased significantly, and two, he was no longer alone… 

Re: PRO: S [Day 1 | 1235 hrs] Tell Me I'm the Fairest of the Fair

Reply #1 – August 09, 2024, 01:54:35 AM

[CPO Avandar Lok | Turbolift | Deck 8 | Vector 02 | USS Theurgy] Attn: @TWilkins
[Show/Hide]

His examination completed, Lok made his way to leave Sickbay, the unsmashed PADD that Doctor Leux had given him tucked under his arm while draped over his other arm was the bath robe he was presumably supposed to wear. His mind however was still processing all that he had been told and perhaps reeling a bit from his outburst earlier that had resulted in damaged Starfleet property and a scolding from the sarcastic Doctor Leux. He didn’t really pay much mind to the ensign at the receptionist desk, who himself appeared to be too occupied with his own task to notice the large felinoid, as he made his way out the door and slowly down the corridor towards the turbolift.

Before reaching the double doors Lok remembered he would need to get his things out of storage, if they were still there that was. He stepped over to a nearby panel and tapped it to activate then asked, “Computer, location of personal effects and quarters, Lok, Avandar, Chief Petty Officer, Flight Operations?” The computer buffered for a moment then responded in a voice that was unfamiliar to Lok, another thing that they had changed, that gave him a fleeting moment of melancholic nostalgia of the old computer voice that he had known for so long, now that was gone too. “The personal effects of Chief Petty Officer Lok are located on Deck 14, Section 9, Enlisted Crewman’s Storage; Personal Quarters are located on Deck 13, Section 21, room 1321-8 Alpha.”

Of course they have it on a different deck on the complete opposite side of the ship, Lok internally griped, I might as well just transport the things over there. He of course had no intention of doing so, something he always prided himself on was the ability to know his way around a ship by memory without the need to consult a schematic, though on further inspection of the schematic that the computer was displaying this ship was certainly quite huge. He hadn’t had much chance to look around when he first came on board owing to the whole battle and being put on ice, so now he had to make up for six months of lost time.

Satisfied he knew where he was going, Lok stepped into the turbolift. “Deck 14, Section 9”, he commanded, and the lift responded with a chirp indicating it acknowledged the request but was holding for an approaching passenger. Lok actually heard the new addition before the doors opened, his ears perked up to the sound of a singing voice. The doors then swished back open to reveal that same ensign he had seen earlier, a young man of fairish complex with spots that looked like that of a Trill but clearly were not. The young officer seemed oblivious to Lok as he stepped into the lift, still singing a song that the Kzin had never heard of before; he sounded nice, though Lok wasn’t the best judge, he only ever sang karaoke when drunk and his accent usually left popular songs butchered in his wake. Lok was going to let the ensign continue but the volume of the singing was such that it was obvious the young man thought he was alone so Lok gently cleared his throat to make his own ample presence known.

The singing suddenly stopped. If the young man was to turn around he would certainly be greeted with a bit of an odd sight. A hulking Kzinti, nearly a half a meter taller than him, in an ill fitting hospital gown, his furry rump hanging out the back and pressed against the wall of the turbolift he had leaned against, his tail swishing about showing his curiosity.in the situation. “I mean I guess I could do that but I’m not sure that would be appropriate, sir”, Lok says with a smirk, acknowledging the last lyric that the ensign had sung.

Re: PRO: S [Day 1 | 1235 hrs] Tell Me I'm the Fairest of the Fair

Reply #2 – August 11, 2024, 08:53:33 AM

[Ensign Sylvain Llewellyn-Kth | The Conference Lounge | D.8 | V.2 | USS Theurgy]
@joshs1000  

“Wha-...” Sylvain’s exclamation concluded with a strangled cough, the remainder of his words lost in the unfathomable horror that had coiled itself around his chest at the man's words, scalding hot like a thunderbolt as it rippled through his body and left nothing but a mortifying warmth in its wake. He felt for a moment, as though his entire body had been cast into a void, some sort of subspace realm where all that existed was the clammy heat of embarrassment and the stomach-churning tickle of anxiety, a stifling place that tied his stomach into a knot and choked the words right out of his throat.

Such was the instantaneousness of his humiliation, that Sylvain hadn’t even turned himself to face his apparent audience, his mind preoccupied with how to cope with such an absurd circumstance, rather than to address the situation as it was. Still, the Ensign managed to gather himself enough to swallow down the dry clump of dismay that had embedded in his throat, his mouth opening and closing a few times to work the dryness away, before he forced it shut with a not inconsiderable amount of effort. His entire face felt hot, his cheeks incandescent, whilst the rest of his pale face flushed scarlet, with the intensity of a red alert, but he yet made an attempt to remain composed.

It was a poor attempt, but an attempt nonetheless.

When Sylvain turned towards the source of the voice, forcefully pulling his eyes up from his PADD as though the thing had its own gravitational field, he didn’t quite know what he was going to say; thoughts were rampaging through his head at a million miles per hour, and he hadn’t quite figured out which one to latch onto just yet. On one hand, he felt a fervent need to apologise profusely for his choice of song, the lyrics of which were immeasurably inappropriate for a public setting. Why on Earth had he chosen that particular song, of the entire breadth of his musical knowledge… Why couldn’t he have chosen something else, anything that wasn’t rammed with innuendo and blatant sexual subtext? Under ordinary circumstances, he’d have sooner swallowed his own tongue than willingly have said such things.

Then, from a different perspective, his mind seemed to ration that apologising to his colleague would make him appear guilty, when in reality, perhaps the situation was worsened by their actions? Sylvain had clearly been immersed in his PADD, absentmindedly singing to himself; immersed in his work... Not only had the man not made his presence apparent earlier, but he had gone out of his way to comment on the lyrics...

No, it definitelywasn’t appropriate to offer to pull his hair in a turbolift… 

And yet, a third part of his brain considered that neither anger not apology would serve his needs particularly well, and instead, investing in a way to diminish the implications of his song choice, as well as move the conversation onwards to a new topic, might’ve been the most prudent option. After all, the song was from a historical musical… Perhaps it might pave a way to a cross-cultural dialogue regarding cultural attitudes in Renaissance England?

It might have been an incoherent tumble of all three avenues fleeing his mouth, had Sylvain’s eyes not all but burst in their sockets as he finally addressed his posture to face the other man in the turbolift.

The voice had been deep and gruff when it had spoken, the slight Betazoid twinge to his accent providing Sylvain with a subconscious image that was absolutely not what he was greeted with. The sheer volume of fur on display might have been enough to make an Orion blush, the man's only attire being an ill-fitting medical gown that would have been akin to Sylvain trying to cover his entire body with a pillowcase. As Sylvain’s eyes shot upwards, his neck almost tilted forty-five degrees before he could see the man’s face, his mental state grew all the more scattered. He had a somewhat ferocious appearance, the brown fur around his head somewhat smoothed out, drawing even more attention to the lengthy fangs that protruded down from his mouth.

Sylvain had first considered that the occupant might have been Caitian. This person however, was undoubtedly a Kzinti.

Immediately, the Ensign pulled his head away from the larger male, distinctively boring his gaze into the side of the turbolift, an effort to afford both himself and the Kzin a little personal privacy; Sylvain was aware that Kzinti didn’t necessarily have a robust sense of fashion, but surely there had to be some sort of Starfleet regulation about wearing so little clothing… Though, as the thought presented itself, Sylvain suspected that whilst there almost certainly would be such a regulation, there would also be a subsection concerning the necessity of Captain’s discretion concerning individual cultures of serving species… And of course, the Captain of the Theurgy probably had more to concern themselves with than a mostly-naked Kzin strolling around Deck Eight.

Still, perhaps it warranted a review, maybe by a department head or something?

And that thought brought Sylvain back around to discontent, since, given his very recent appointment, there was every chance that the Kzin’s department head might well be himself…

“I-i, ah… Think, ah…” Sylvain struggled painfully, conscious that he had no idea of the man’s rank or status on the crew, and was therefore unsure as to how to address him; this Kzin could very well be his superior for all he knew… Though, given that the Kzin had addressed him as Sir, perhaps he was of a lower rank? Either way, there was no certainty to it, and Sylvain's mouth had already began yapping, forcing him to improvised without any opportunity to consider the options available. Always a disastrous result. “T-that that, would, indeed, not be very appropriate… Ah… Colleague…”

Speaking was almost painful, on account of both his self-embarrassment, his passive discomfort at just how close to being naked the Kzin was, the scalding flush upon his cheeks that burnt against his pale skin, and his desperate attempt to keep his mind shut to any wayward thoughts, precognitive or not. He was conscious that some Kzinti possessed telepathic abilities, and the absolute last thing that he needed was the Kzin intercepting some sort of wayward image of Sylvain’s wandering mind, and misconceiving it as an active thought; his abilities were allegedly a nightmare for telepaths and empaths as it was, let alone when he was quite so flustered. 

Immediately he forced the image of a beetroot into his mind, crunching into a raw beetroot as though it were an apple. He had heard a saying about Kzinti telepathy being disrupted by images of vegetables, and Sylvain considered that it might be worth a shot.

“Ah… I’m sorry if…” Sylvain began to turn back to the man to try and attain a more comfortable level of politeness as he spoke, craning his neck comically upwards in order to best avoid any chance of seeing more fur than he was comfortable with. He cleared his throat. “I… Ah…” It was surprisingly difficult to find words when one was picturing himself feasting on a beetroot, whilst simultaneously trying ridiculously hard not to think about anything else. “My choice of song was inopportune, and I- ah…” Sylvain let out a long breath of air that he’d been holding, and promptly turned around to face the doorway to the turbolift, his body strained so tightly that it was a good thing he was so close to sickbay; in this state, there was every chance that he’d accidentally snap his own spine.

“I’m really sorry…” He apologised again, his back now facing the Kzin and his eyes staring straight out into the, thankfully, deserted corridor. “I’m… Ah… A little uncomfortable with your lack of clothing…” He fumbled out in a single breath. “And I should mention, lest you think I’m some sort of degenerate… That, ah… That song is, actually, from a well-regarded piece of theatre, concerning a noteworthy historical period from the part of Earth where my mother grew up. It’s actually a really conscientious take on…”

Before he could descend into what would probably be a disturbingly unnecessary monologue about how the musical in question handled telling the stories of six important women whose impact on history had been reduced to just a few words in a whimsical rhyme, Sylvain acknowledged that highlighting such might be considered a jab at Kzinti culture. His understanding was that Kzinti had somewhat archaic attitudes towards gender.

“I… Wellthatdoesn’tmatter…” He raced, the words leaving his mouth in more of a jumble than a sentence, his mind still predominantly occupied with a war between a beetroot and the knowledge that there was a mostly naked Kzinti standing about a foot away from his back. “I… Ah…” His eyes had grown wider than a Saurian’s and his face as scarlet as a mug of blood wine, and he desperately wanted to retreat to a safe environment where he wouldn’t be putting his foot in his mouth every five seconds… Hitting himself in the face with a PADD, throwing a PADD at a wall, smiling like a deranged lunatic at a passing crewman, singing a lewd song in front of a Kzinti, if not half of sickbay, and finally, making such a fool of himself in a social situation, that the appropriate remedy might-well have been to bundle himself into an airlock…

Yes, he needed to return to his quarters… He had tasks to complete, lots of data to analyse… Not so many naked Kzinti there either…

“I… Ah… Should be heading to my quarters… Lots of beetroot to analyse before I… TACTICAL DATA!” He all but shouted as he attempted to correct himself, shocking himself with his own volume, and slapping a hand over his mouth so violently that it made an audible slapping sound within the turbolift. “I’m so sorry…” He murmured as he withdrew his hand, as mortified as he'd ever been. What he wouldn't give for a couple of subspace eddy's to navigate...

Somehow, Sylvain existed in a reality where a volatile subspace phenomenon was easier to navigate than a conversation... Though, in his own defense, this was a conversation with a nearly-naked, seven and a half foot tall feline... He was sure that had it been a Vulcan, he'd have faired far better. Assuming the Vulcan wasn't also almost naked, of course...

“I hope you can forgive my... Well..." He made a rather limp hand gesture to point to his own head, hoping that a visual cue would prevent him having to dwell too much on how much was going on inside his brain. "I only just arrived on board, and I’ve got to depart for some sort of dangerous, life-threatening, mission at fourteen-hundred hours, and I have an enormous amount of data to review before then, and frankly, I’m just-just a tiny bit overwhelmed, so you might not be getting the best impression of me…” He panted out in a monologue of words that kept him speaking so fast that he almost ran out of breath.

“I promise, I’ll make a much stronger impression after a tea, and, youknow, a little less impending doom…”

Worst of all, his desire to remove himself from the situation as soon as possible was suddenly hindered, and quite substantially so; he’d forgotten what deck his quarters were on.

Re: PRO: S [Day 1 | 1235 hrs] Tell Me I'm the Fairest of the Fair

Reply #3 – August 23, 2024, 07:00:20 AM

[CPO Avandar Lok | Turbolift | Deck 8 | Vector 02 | USS Theurgy] Attn:
[Show/Hide]

While Lok had intended his remarks in jest, he certainly wasn’t expecting the younger man to drop that PADD of his and they go at it in the turbolift without so much as asking each other their name, he also didn’t want to upset the guy either. The stammering followed by a sudden rush of emotions, took the large Kzin off guard, like a torrent of water from a waterfall was the best way he could describe it. And while Sylvain was correct that there were Kzinti telepaths, it was not common, nor were they something you ever wanted to mess with if even half of what Lok could find about them was true. No Lok was but a mere empath, like most other Kzin, though unlike most others he had been trained by his Betazoid mother to finely hone his abilities; it was honestly what was saving him in that particular moment from also falling apart into an anxiety riddled furball as this spotted ensign’s emotions poured into him.

Lok felt a knot in his stomach forming and his hearts start to beat faster as while the young man stammered out the crudest apology he could, his emotions crushed everything in the lift, but with a deep breath and a moment to focus on the situation at hand, he kept himself from stumbling over the edge. He could now focus on the young man’s words, such as they were, though they seemed to be a bit more coherent now if still a bit frantic and contained “sorry” every other word, but at least Lok could understand him. First thing was the mention of clothing, which Lok of course had not even considered, he was so comfortable in his own fur that if he could get away with it, he would be naked all the time. He once strolled right past a group of admirals completely nude without a care in the world, he only didn’t get reprimanded for it because said admiral found the incident funny at the time though warned him never to do it again.

The topic then quickly changed to the content of the song itself that the young man was singing, some Earth song, as Lok had suspected. There was something historical about it but the ensign chose to dismiss that bit and continue talking. As was well anyway, Lok was a poor student of history that wasn’t related to technology, especially Earth history. Sure he knew the basics, Zephram Cochrane, Vulcans, Captain Kirk, founding of the Federation, no money, and all that.

Finally, the ensign reached the end of his long and confusing apology to explain what was going on. “Just arrived” and “overwhelmed” were the key words of it and Lok could certainly empathize right now, granted he had been on the ship the whole time just in a state of frozen unconsciousness. But he didn’t want to dwell on that right now, rather he actually wanted try and calm this guy down before he fainted or had an aneurysm. Raising one of his clawed hands up he gently patted the air slowly while saying, “It’s ok kid, calm down, you don’t need to apologize, I meant nothing by it…just bustin’ your balls as the humans say.”

He added a smile, ensuring to keep his teeth, apart from his large fangs of course, hidden to not give off an aggressive beastly demeanor.  He had years of practice, though it wasn’t really an act, he always tried to be friendly, especially to those lower down the totem pole or those who might appear weak to some.

“-And sorry about the clothes”, Lok added, “I’m so used to not really wearing all that much except to be decent, that I forget sometimes…plus I’ve got a lot on my mind myself…”

He took the bath robe that had been hanging from his arm and quickly slipped it on; it wasn’t the best fit but it did cover him up more and removed the risk that the poor befuddled ensign would catch a glimpse of his furry boys. Once the cord was cinched up he smiled and went back to leaning against the lift. He then offered his large hand in a human handshake, “How about we start over, I’m Avandar Lok, you can just call me Lok or Chief- and I know wha you are thinking and no I am not from the Kzinti homeworld so I don’t do any of that weird honor shit they get up to and no I don’t eat people…usually…OKAY OKAY I said I would stop joking around.”

He chuckled a little to himself before remembering that they were in a stopped turbolift, “Oh and whenever you are ready we should stop holding up the lift.”

Re: PRO: S [Day 1 | 1235 hrs] Tell Me I'm the Fairest of the Fair

Reply #4 – September 02, 2024, 06:15:49 AM

[Ensign Sylvain Llewellyn-Kth | Deck Eleven Turbolift | Deck 8 | Vector 2 | USS Theurgy] @joshs1000

“Oh gosh…” Sylvain admonished himself under his breath, acknowledging the Kzin’s words with an abrupt step forwards into the turbolift, no small amount of alarm echoing across his flushed features… He was supposed to be in a rush himself, he had an absurd amount of information to gather from his quarters before he departed for the Erudite, and time was very much of the essence; holding up the turbolift for the whole ship was quite the antithesis of that goal. Stepping back into the turbolift in a flurry of feet and boots, Sylvain twisted himself on the spot and faced out through the open doors with a somewhat pained expression, positioning himself just-so that if he concentrated especially hard, he could forget that there was a towering, almost-naked, Kzin, sharing the same confined space as him.

He would be cordial as always, but there was no pretending that he was especially comfortable with their circumstances…

Whilst the Kzin’s somewhat relaxed demeanour in the face of their interaction had done something to soothe his nerves, Sylvain was still very conscious of his presence, especially as he sensed the man moving around behind him… How exactly did one forget to put clothes on? Sylvain had never once left his quarters without checking every pip, every bootlace, adjusting his combadge a minimum of eight times, and surely sickbay were under obligation to issue him some sort of coverings? The thought of just strolling around the ship, sans clothes, was a truly alien thought; nobody else had so much as seen his upper arms since he had to share his quarters on his Cadet rotation, and that had been a hellish experience in itself. The thought of having his full body on display for anyone to see was… Distressing.

Thankfully however, Sylvain understood that Kzin’s nudity probably wasn't a result of any debaucherous intention, as the man had stated, and as such, made his best effort to relax his stance at least a fraction. He elected to shift his footing ever-so-slightly, angling his body just barely towards the Kzin, in his best effort to appear a trifle more open than he was actually feeling, though his hazel eyes quickly found themselves affixed to one particularly fascinating spot of the turbolift wall. Jokes or not, the threats of being eaten weren’t overly reassuring, and Sylvain didn’t think he had ever had someone talk about balls being busted in a professional conversation…

What sort of Humans had Mr Lok been spending time with? Sylvain privately wagered that it was probably a phrase he'd picked up from some of the non-commissioned officers; he'd found that they always seemed to have a flair for slightly cruder language...

It was only at that stage, contemplating the finer details of what busted balls exactly meant, that the somewhat flustered Ensign remembered that the man had offered introductions...

“Gosh, I’m sorry…” He apologised immediately, snapping his entire body in the Kzin’s direction as he did so, irrespective of his personal concerns regarding the nudity involved, in his best attempt to try and recover any of the professional courtesy that he had so far been lacking. The man had introduced himself as 'Chief', and whilst Sylvain wouldn’t personally have introduced himself using his position as a department head, that didn’t mean that the Kzin wouldn’t have done so; most people were proud of their assignments after all...

“Ensign Llewellyn-Kth.” Sylvain responded with his most polite tone, speaking as formally as possible, shoulders straight and chin up, swinging his soft hazel eyes up to Mr Lok’s height as he did so, keeping his neck comically strained as to ensure his vision was focused solely on the Kzin’s head, and not anything that existed below the neck… “Sylvain, if we’re being informal, but I tend to prefer my surname when I’m in uniform…” Glancing down at himself, he reminded his brain that he was, in fact, not in uniform. “So, I suppose that Sylvain’s fine for the moment…” He tried to disguise his embarrassment with a watery attempt at a joke, glancing back up towards Mr Lok in the process, inadvertently drawing his eyes across the man's entire body.

Sylvain blanched.

With his head so overtly tilted upwards towards Mr Lok’s own, he’d completely missed two things. One: the Kzin had kindly donned the simple bathrobe that he had been carrying, which immediately acted as a salve to Sylvain’s increasing anxiety concerning the circumstances of their close proximity. Two: the man had, at some point, extended a large furry hand to Sylvain, outstretched in an offer of greeting, driving the levels of Sylvain’s briefly controlled discomfort straight back up into the red… Sylvain was completely unsure of when the Chief had chosen to extend his hand, and thus had no idea how long the Kzin had awkwardly been offering him a handshake...

Handshakes were a greeting type that lingered outside of Sylvain’s comfort zone… There were enough day-to-day tasks that prompted his psionic abilities to trigger, and even more so that prompted his brain to believe that his psionic abilities had triggered, that ignoring physical touch just came naturally to him. Perhaps it was because it was such an alien sensation to him, to be in physical contact with another being, or perhaps it was a genuine trigger that caused the precognitive centres of his brain to jump into overdrive, but either way, the act of physical contact with another being almost always sent droves of intrusive thoughts whirling into his psyche. Truthfully, he found it gravely uncomfortable that so many Federation species had adopted physical contact as a form of greeting; his time on Vulcan was rapturous in that he hadn’t needed to awkwardly explain his aversion to physical contact every time he met a new person…

Yet now, he didn’t find himself in possession of such a luxury of being able to whip out a Vulcan salute and be done with it... The Chief had been holding his hand outstretched for an indeterminate amount of time, Sylvain had already been extremely unprofessional on account of his singing, and the last thing he needed was to be seen as disrespectful by someone who may or may-not have been a fellow department head… His time to consider the implications of such things was limited, and as such, in a moment of haste and panic, Sylvain hurriedly extended his own hand to meet the Kzin’s, his own personal preferences on the matter be damned…

He regretted that quickly.

The second that he had pressed his hand into the Kzin’s warm grip, a flash of scorching heat rushed across Sylvain’s face, shocking the Ensign with its intensity, plasma-hot, burning brightly against his sensitive skin as his entire body twisted under the weight of a sudden barrage of debilitating emotions. He couldn’t tell whether it was just the overwhelming sensation of touching another person, or an allusion to some sort of future embarrassment that he might yet have to look forward to, but either way, his body found the experience to be thoroughly nauseating. His stomach lurched suddenly, as though the floor had given way beneath him and he was falling straight downwards, whilst his ears rang with a deafening numbness, his whole brain fuzzy like cotton wool as he tried his best to isolate the new thoughts from those that had already existed; tried, and failed.

It was a dreadful accumulation of sensations, a combination that swallowed Sylvain’s psyche in a dizzying miasma of heat and nausea, one that made the turbolift spin and his body ache as he weekly attempted to ground himself. It was an imperceivable blur of feelings that left him blinded to how long he’d actually been holding the hand of the Kzin; perhaps barely a second had passed, or perhaps he’d been locking the other man into a death grip for a few seconds as he’d lost himself in his own mind. Either way, as soon as the thought occurred to him, Sylvain hurriedly withdrew his hand from the greeting, his breath trembling as his whole body shuddered, the dizziness causing him to stumble for a moment as sweat began to break through upon his brow… A harrowing encounter only made worse by the distinct knowledge that the whole ordeal had just been witnessed by someone else…

“Apologies, Sir…” He breathed, swallowing down the stingingly painful sensation of burning, the echos of which still rippled across his pale skin. “Mr Avander…” No, that wasn’t it either… “Chief Lok.” He confirmed a third time, his addled brain slowly resuming standard operating procedure and recalling the information that he needed, a little too late for him to save face, but necessary regardless. “I…” Truthfully, his abilities were a topic he preferred to keep close to his chest, the conversation following him admitting that his species had the capacity to see the future, always being one of the same few questions that, frankly, he wasn’t in a fit state to answer.

His interaction with Mr Lok, as much of a distraction as it was, hadn’t dulled him to the realities of his upcoming mission, and whatever might lay beyond that. As much as the singing helped remove the implications of his assignment to the Erudite from his focus, as much as being anxious about Mr Lok’s nudity had diverted his worries elsewhere, he was still somewhat conscious that the next few days would be the most trying time he’d thus far endured in his life… As small a thing as it was, having someone ask him whether he could tell them the outcome of their mission to the Hobus Star, might well break his psyche like an egg…

“I’m sorry… My species possess, some psionic abilities…” Sylvain made a pointed gesture to his head as he spoke, indicating to the spots that spanned the side of his temple. “... and I find that mine tend to get a bit, agitated, by touching other people.” He pressed a firm hand along the front of his tee-shirt, as if to push out the non-existent creases, before straightening himself up and trying to ignore how pink his face must have looked to the Kzin. “I don’t really do handshakes usually, I just didn’t want you to think I was being rude…” He humbly admitted, making eye contact with the man, before lowering his head out of a sense of self shame. “I've not exactly been my most professional self this afternoon…”

He really was making a mess out of his first hour aboard the Theurgy…

“I think my quarters are on Deck Ten, but I don’t know exactly where…” He abruptly changed the subject, conscious that the Kzin probably thought he was a lunatic and wanted to escape the situation immediately, something that Sylvain could at least try to accommodate. The Ensign pivoted his body once more to face the open doors of the turbolift, inconceivably thankful that nobody else had yet arrived to witness his rather shocking lack of composure… “Ah... What direction are you heading in?” He added, somewhat meekly.

If he survived this mission to the Hobus Star, he'd have to remind himself to send Mr Lok some tea or something as an apology... Did Kzin drink tea? He wasn't particularly sure; there had been an Earth feline called Mr Sterling aboard the Boleyn, that had occasionally jumped up onto his table and lapped at his drinks and tried to steal his food, but he didn't expect that Kzinti could be held to the same standard as Earth felines...

“I don't suppose Kzinti like tea do they?”

He could have punched himself in the throat at how easily the question slipped out of his mouth.

Idiot.