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C.T. Caine

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About C.T. Caine

  • Rank
    They call me "Junior."
  • Birthday 11/01/1989

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  • Gender
    Female
  • Location
    Out among the stars.
  1. When Christina-T'Prinn Caine had been about thirteen years old, she'd developed an "emotional affinity" (as her father had disapprovingly called it; her mother had been more blunt -- "the kid's got a crush, leave her alone") for one of her half-brother's classmates at the Vulcan Science Academy, a dark, handsome, highly intelligent young full-blood Vulcan whose field was computational linguistics. His name was Sutak, and she found him, to coin a phrase, fascinating. He was relatively approachable for a Vulcan, and one of that rare breed who knew that there is nothing a child of that age enjoys more than to be taken seriously; he recognized her as housing an intelligence (albeit mired in emotion) equal to that of her father and brother and he took pains to interact with her in the same style with which he would have approached them, thus firmly capturing both her heart and her mind. Whether he knew he held quite such a fascination for her, she never precisely questioned him on, but in the thirty years of retrospect now separating her from that period, she thought she could remember a rather un-Vulcan note of amusement in his voice which suggested that he probably did. He had been her first debate partner; though their conversations tended to start out in the fields of physics, chemistry, linguistics, and computer science which were most familiar to him, he had allowed her to range out into all sorts of ideas which had caught her attention. As she grew older, they had both noticed that these subjects began moving further and further away from the academia her father encouraged, but to his credit, he made every effort to continue offering her an ear to run her ideas past, and he had been the only full Vulcan she had spoken to who had not blinked when her interests turned in the direction of military history. "Really?" he'd asked, in the low, smooth, calm voice with which he addressed himself to all of their conversations. "Indeed...you will find little on the subject on Vulcan proper, I think. It would hardly be considered the most logical use of your time; we are a pacifist people." "But other people aren't," Caine had said, with the childhood certainty of being absolutely right. "We need to know what they might do. So we can stop them." Even thirty years later this still made more sense to her than much of Vulcan dogma. Sutak had raised one eyebrow at her firmness. "Those who would make their living in the military may well find this their concern; it is not yours. Your mind is strong enough to move beyond such concerns." "Into school stuff?" "Yes." Caine wrinkled her nose slightly. "I mean...it's fun and all. And I'm good at it. But what good does it do anyone else? The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the one..." Sutak was silent for a few moments. "It is your own choice, in the end, how you define your contribution to the greater good. For my own part...I choose science because the knowledge of one furthers the knowledge of the many." "Yeah..." Caine's voice was skeptical. "And you think that fighting's for fools." It wasn't a question, just a statement. She'd heard it from her father enough, in less casual wording of course. "The ability to defend oneself is of course important. But to lash out, to be the aggressor? That is only waste." She had taken the words to heart in her own curiously interpreted fashion. From then on, the military had been her goal -- with the sole purpose of being a defender. A protector. She would, she'd promised Sutak and her parents, never advocate the striking of a blow before one was struck at her first. And with this, she had convinced them that she was indeed serving the needs of the many by her departure from the sciences. Of course, she'd then begun the tactical track at the Academy and realized that it was a nice sentiment, but it didn't really work out that well in practice, and the lesson had been taught and retaught to her over her years in Starfleet until it was merely a calculated paradox which she could shove to the rear of her mind with the ease of practice. The irony was not lost on her now, though, as she scrolled through the intelligence reports that were the foundation of what was probably the most dangerous, complicated, and potentially foolhardy mission of her career. They were going into the mouth of the enemy and, hopefully, coming back out. If things went smoothly, they would be stealing equipment; if things didn't, there would be property damage and death. That was war. There was no defense at work here except in the broadest sense. This was an offensive move, a blow struck to prevent other blows. The best defense was a good offense. Logical. They had a good team. Yates was a steady hand; he had experience and self-control. Mattingly did as well, in addition to a keen sense of observation which would be valuable in the upcoming trenches. Decatur...was young, certainly, but he had energy and he knew when to keep his mouth shut, and both were imperative. She knew less of the marines; but she had worked with Karo Veras in the context of the projectile training courses which had run some weeks earlier. He knew his business, and though he too was extremely young, he had taken on the authority required for this mission without blinking under it. Between the two of them, they would manage alright. They would take it one step at a time, get in, get out, get going, and strike first so as to defend. Highly, highly logical, she thought, making a noise of amusement deep in her throat as she flicked off the screen before her and leaned back in her chair. Oh, y'tek jacktah, Sutak, if only you could see me now.
  2. Caine turned just in time to see the small feline charging forward and moved to block the blow but slightly too late; JoNs's weight smashed into her, taking her into the air over the bar to land with a crash among the bottles. Her head struck a shelf and light flashed behind her eyes and she yelled in pain, every muscle in her body going on full alert with the impact. Heaving upwards, she flung JoNs's body away from her in the first available direction. Kansas took the rough push awkwardly and landed off to Caine's right. With a snarl, she bolted at the lieutenant again, splaying her claws. Caine had her legs under her by then and she leapt sideways, landing on top of the bar and rolling to put the wooden structure between herself and the angry Caitian. Her blood was roiling in her veins now; all the simmering hatred was boiling over into a taut, controlled battle fever. She would never have another chance like this. Kansas was alone; they were off the record, and the XO's carefully honed guard had slipped to a single woman on her way to being betrayed by the emotions that were fueling her. "What is it you want, Commander?" Caine asked, tauntingly. "Are you hoping for a scratching post? I'm afraid you won't find one here..." JoNs hopped up on top of the bar on all fours, her baleful green eyes fixed on Caine. Despite the natural predatory beauty of her feline species, she was not what one would call a graceful fighter; she tended more towards the style of a brawler. The claws and fangs added weight to her fury, but she was a lightweight – at 130 pounds and 5'3”, she couldn’t pretend to be a superwoman, heritage notwithstanding. No, the battle had to be won quickly. JoNs leapt again, using the bar for leverage as she flew at Caine. Caine allowed herself the luxury of a smirk at the telegraphed leap, and then surged sideways and forward, bringing one arm up in a sucker punch into JoNs's stomach, letting gravity double the impact of the blow. Her fingers stung as her fist collided just below the XO's ribcage and she grunted in pain, letting JoNs's momentum drive her back a few feet. The gut punch stopped JoNs in her tracks and dropped her on her side on the carpeted flooring, wheezing. Her training kicked in shortly, however, and she managed to focus the pain out long enough to roll onto her back and then onto her stomach, lashing out and leg-sweeping Caine as she completed the move. The clawed paw sinking into her calf made Caine yelp with pain and she lost her balance and toppled backwards, hitting the decking with a jolt that knocked the breath from her body. With a sharp gasp, she flailed for purchase with one arm and found a grip on JoNs's shoulder. Immobilize and incapacitate. Her own training engaged and she twisted, pulling Kansas towards her along the carpet and trying to wrestle her into a floor hold. The two women rolled violently; Kansas struggled against the hold, and sank her teeth into Caine's palm. Caine shouted as the sharp feline teeth ripped through the flesh of her hand; wrenching it free with a painful flick of her wrist, she grabbed JoNs's shirt collar and slammed a punch into the xeno woman's nose with all the force in her body, snapping her head back. Blood droplets from nose and mouth flew in an arc, and JoNs stumbled back into a table, sending the dishes clattering across the top. Caine hissed in satisfaction and staggered to her feet, taking the moment's pause to catch her breath and gauge the situation. JoNs was angry, making mistakes, but they were also making a hell of a mess. This needed to end quickly, and with some pain on JoNs's side if possible. "Don't toy with me, Commander. I don't have the time or the patience for it," she said, her voice sharp in the bar which had gone silent, the patrons staring at them, muttering feverishly at the sight of the Vulcan and the xeno coming to blows. "I am trained to be able to do this all night." Slightly winded, Kansas replied, “I am not toying Lieutenant. And I can go all night too. If you had patience, we would not be having this little issue right now. You wanted this to happen, and you let this happen, just like me. If you didn’t, you would have used that vaunted logic to just walk away. You keep claiming superiority...I don’t think so.” "Oh, I don't merely claim it..." was all Caine replied, and with no warning lashed out with a kick that caught JoNs under the ribcage, then grabbed her by the hair at the base of her neck and spun her around, steering the XO's head to knock into the fish tank in the wall of the bar, shattering the glass. Cats had fast reflexes, but so did Vulcans. JoNs had no opportunity to deflect the tactical move and Caine’s strength made it easy to accomplish. JoNs's head made contact with the decorative tank and within seconds multicolored fish were scattered across the soaked carpeting. JoNs slumped the the floor, half-conscious. "Haa-ahhh..." A gasping grunt hissed from Caine's lungs as the impact jarred up her arm. Recoiling as JoNs's weight sagged against her, shoved her shoulder into her opponent's midsection, the tackle connecting with a solitary thunk and slamming them into the plate-glass window to their right which overlooked the lower levels of the bar. The window, decorative stuff never meant for the impact of a furious pair of enemies, shattered with the force of their bodies and Caine felt her momentum carry them out into the open air. They hurtled outward from the upper deck through the protective barrier, completely blowing out the dura-plastisteel, and fell at a rapid pace; several onlookers screamed out in surprise. The two officers landed with a muted splash in one of the decorative lagoons, sending several scantily-clad dance performers hastily clambering out of the way as they hit the water. The stinging chill revived JoNs, and she gasped, inhaling a lungful of water as she broke the surface of the five-foot-deep water pocket, choking and sputtering. Caine's hand closed implacably around her shoulder and spun her around; the Vulcan's nictating eyelids had closed down over her eyes, blocking the water from blurring her vision, and she barely noticed the chill. Nothing else, in fact, mattered -- all of her training was in full force now and only one thing had her attention. Finish the fight. Finish it. Finish her. She slammed her opponent up over the wall of the fountain, leaving JoNs gasping on the stone floor. Clambering out herself with a single powerful push of her arms, she landed on top of the other woman, pressing her to the ground and putting a knee squarely in her stomach. Her free hand went to her boot and came up with the silver hilt of a knife; before she knew it, she had it shoved up against JoNs's furred throat and everything went still. She held it there, staring into JoNs's eyes, the movement of her wrist hanging in the balance. Blood from both of the Agincourt officers dripped in the silence, mixing with the water, running green and red across the stonework. Kansas stayed very still (not that she had a choice, mind you), but she couldn’t resist cracking wise. "Had enough?" Caine's jaw tightened and the flat of the blade pressed down heavily into JoNs's neck till it interfered with her breath. The Cait gurgled as her air passageway became obstructed. "I could kill you," Caine murmured. "Why shouldn't I?" The colonel's instructions notwithstanding, the death of superior officers...happened. It would not really be questioned. Kansas had opened the fighting; for Caine to finish it was acceptable by every law she was aware of. And she would be rid of the kitten forever. But her hand remained still over JoNs's neck, and she let the options slide through her mind like the blood-smeared water behind her. Were the Caitian to die, it would solve problems in the short term, but it would also make JoNs a martyr. She had supporters that Caine could not afford to anger just yet. And having her here, at Caine's mercy, and letting her survive...that was shameful for JoNs as death was not. JoNs would be in her debt, as Caine had once been in hers, to her own impotent fury. It was...fair, in the cold sort of way that Caine liked fairness. Her wrist flicked backwards, folding the knife blade against her wrist, releasing the pressure on JoNs's neck with a jerk. A flicker of surprise appeared in the Cait's eyes for a brief second. Caine had had her, plain as day. Was it a reciprocating gesture, because of JoNs tackling her out of harms way on the Stiletto? Or did the Vulcan have yet another ulterior motive for not slicing and dicing JoNs? Her purred voice came out hoarse not from emotion, but from the damage her throat had taken. “Looks like I’m not the only one who thought better of a decision…” The whine of a weapon charging broke the silence, and Caine felt the barrel of a phaser rifle pressed against the back of her head; a similar barrel became prominent in JoNs's field of vision, pointed directly at her face. A male voiced barked out into the stunned silence. “Alpha Station Security! You will cease your activities immediately!” Caine sighed and turned her head, very slowly, until she could get her feet under her and stand up to push the barrel away. “Starfleet Intelligence,” she answered coolly, eyeing the thuggish station guard with disdain. “Our activities are quite ceased, thank you, and as for the broken window...Commander JoNs will be happy to explain.” Folding her right hand into a fist to quench the blood dripping from it to the stone, she turned and walked away without a backward glance.
  3. Note: This is an off-Plot log set in the Mirror Universe of the ISS Agincourt Civil Unrest "I don't care if you hate each other, love each other, fight with each other, sleep with each other, or both at once. I do care how you present yourselves in public." She stared at each in turn for a long moment. "I expect my senior officers to at least pretend to civility in front of the crew. Kill each other on your own time -- and in private." - Colonel C.E. "Medusa" Harper, Commanding Officer, ISS Agincourt. = = = = The Blue Bulldog was a very popular nightclub that had been established on Alpha One Space Station, an Imperial Fleet base on the edge of the quadrant, right at the Outer Rim borders. Alpha was a destination for Starfleet Marines, Naval Fleeters, and civilians alike, and the patrons to the club usually came from a variety of backgrounds; whenever a ship made port for a shore leave or a layover, it was a sure bet that at least half of the crew would end up at the Bulldog at least once. Commander Kansas 'Will' JoNs, like most of the crew of the ISS Agincourt, found herself on the space station for some well-earned shore leave. The Agincourt had lately been busy searching the quadrant for an Alliance-class scout frigate that the resistance had supposedly gotten their hands on, and had stopped for a break at Alpha One's doors. The felinoid’s establishment of choice was of course the famous Bulldog, and she noted that quite a few of the Agincourt crew were already scattered throughout the crowd. It was a rather impressive place, structurally. There were three main tiers; the upper tier was designated as the quieter main restaurant area, serviced by a regular-sized bar. The middle tier accommodated larger groups of partygoers and boasted an impressive bar that ran half the size of the tier floor area, with a live band which riffed on the latest music from the Andorian pop scene to which a few of the patrons gyrated out on the dance floor. The lowest tier sported various gaming suites, holosuites, and pool tables. All of the tiers overlooked the main lobby area, which was decorated with lavish leather seating, with a few waterfalls emptying into an artificial lagoon at the center. Completing the aquatic vibe, large fish tanks were embedded in the walls on all levels. JoNs stood in the main lobby area for a few moments, taking in the atmosphere. The leonine Cait blended nicely with the party crowd; she had chosen to wear a simple pair of black slacks and a deep green blouse with a plunging neckline, contrasting nicely with her gold fur and green eyes. A tall and lanky Bajoran waiter took her drink order and returned with the beverage; she sipped at the drink as she made her way up to the third tier by way of the neon staircase that intersected the three sections of the club. After a few minutes of dodging patrons, the commander spotted her party: Lt. Commander Sarritt Ssib’Ley of the Agincourt shuttle pilots. The big tiger-Kzinti had already snagged a table. He waved a huge paw in the air, beckoning her over. The two felines had planned a dinner with some of JoNs's professional mercenary contacts who were in the sector and temporarily docked at the station; she noted that her former colleagues had not yet arrived. She and Sarritt contented themselves with small talk, for once not speaking of ships business. **** Some minutes later, the doors of the club swung open again, and Lieutenant Caine's tall, lean form stepped through, her durasteel-hard grey eyes and Vulcan hearing taking in the headache-inducing lights and sounds of the various bar tiers with an uninterested air. She could see a few members of the Agincourt's crew here, and a few locals attempting to attract her attention, but she ignored them with the focus she brought to everything; she was here for one purpose and one alone. Saurian brandy. Caine was in a bad mood. The last few hours had centered on a call to her contacts at Starfleet Intel, a call she had expected to proceed without incident. The names she (it was in her mind already only her) had retrieved from the Stiletto merc vessel had implicated several Terran officers in a drug ring operating outside Imperial control. It was information she expected her contacts would find extremely valuable -- and more to the point, it was crucial that these activities contrary to the benefit of the Empire were halted...immediately and with force. However, she had been surprised and thoroughly frustrated to find that not only was there no enthusiasm in the response she received, but it had been emphatically suggested to her that she would do well to keep well clear of the whole business. Caine knew their intention had been to make her believe that they had other, more important work for her and that they would take care of the mercenary question as they saw fit; she was not fooled. This question went deeper, clearly, than just the few names on the Stiletto list – and her hands were tied. It was enough to make anyone seek out the nearest available bar, and Caine was no exception. Having satisfactorily cased the place with her eyes, she set course immediately for the Bulldog's upper level, where she quickly secured a table with her back to a wall, ordered something large and potent, and settled in to wait out the time till Agincourt began moving again. In the morning she would determine her plan of action. More of the Agincourt's crew was up here; her eyes flicked from face to face, finally landing on JoNs, who was sitting with one of the other Caitian jacktahs a few tables away. Up to no good, no doubt... she thought irritably, staring over the top of her bottle and turning her aggravation on this new target, and in the off-duty dim light, with the weight of a civvie jacket rather than a uniform bearing on her shoulders, her gaze sparked with the dislike she usually made slightly more of an effort to mask. ***** Like any good predator, both Caitians had noted the entrance of the Agincourt’s chief security officer, and when the XO’s personal communicator blipped with an incoming message, Ssib’Ley took the opportunity of the lull to observe the female half-Vulcan officer from a distance – Caine was staring daggers at JoNs’s back. Will finished up her conversation over the secure communications device and turned her attention back to her on-again, off-again boyfriend. “My cousins are passing on the evening out. They just got a hot business lead and are following up while they’re still docked here at Alpha. Told us to enjoy the evening, and Tarressa would like to know why we aren’t married yet.” She smirked at her male companion. Ssib’Ley deliberately finished chewing the appetizer shrimp before replying, sidestepping the question of betrothal and going for a more immediate…concern. “If looks could kill, you’d be dead right now.” “If looks could kill, I would be dead a few dozen times over by now. Caine?” The tiger-Kzin nodded and took a sip of his drink. “Yes. Same spot, middle table against the wall. Hasn’t moved, nursing some sort of hard liquor, more pissed off then usual. You want to switch seats so you can keep an eye on her?” JoNs shook her head. “I have a better idea...“ She stood and quickly gathered their two empty glasses from the table top. “I’ll get us a refill, and ask her a couple of questions on my way to the bar.” Sarritt gently grabbed her arm with a striped paw. “Don’t do anything stupid, Commander, sir.” JoNs's eyes lit up and she smiled, exposing all of her fangs and giving her the look of the rogue. “Who, me?” She winked, and then turned around and started walking across the restaurant. In the second that it took for JoNs to pivot, her expression went from happy-go-lucky to cold professional. The feline predator had been dialed back to a cutthroat business executive – serene, no-nonsense, down-to-business. There was an ongoing, though unwritten tradition in the Imperial Fleet: constant tension among the senior staff. Service to the Fleet was never boring, and one had to always be on their guard. Caine and JoNs had managed – through explicit orders from their commanding officer – for months to ‘play nice’ and pretend some professional civility towards one another. But Kansas would be damned if she was going to be stared at all night by a stiff-necked Vulcan safassashetora. With a stride that spoke of confidence, she deliberately crossed to Caine's table, empty glasses in her paws as if she didn't have a care in the universe. With a curt nod, the XO spoke to the line officer. "Caine. You've been staring for the last half hour or so. Is there something in particular I can help you with? Or are you a fan of my earrings or something?" Her purred tone came out with a slight growl, and she cocked her head to one side. Caine, who had been lifting her bottle to pour, froze partway through the movement and set it down slowly with a heavy thunk. Of course, the kitten felt like talking, and would play dumb about their conflict -- though Caine would have no difficulty believing that she wasn't playing at all. "On the contrary, Commander," she said, her tone scrupulously even like fine-polished iron, masking a feeling of impatience which welled up in her like blood from a wound. "I was contemplating the gross unfairness of the universe of which I'm afraid you are of too little importance to be a central figure. Merely a footnote." Her Vulcan features twisted in a sneer. Well, that was an interesting comment. JoNs assumed -- if her information was correct -- that Caine must’ve gotten some bad news from Imperial Command. JoNs herself had tried to get further information regarding the Stiletto and had been blocked. Considering that the data from the ship had named Fleet officers as part of the smuggling ring, it made sense that Command would be keen on keeping the whole thing quiet. An old comrade of JoNs's had hinted as much to the Cait in a secure wireless conversation; any and all inquiries into the incident would be politely blown off. Considering the Agincourt had been the ship to expose the smuggling ring, Caine had no doubt attempted to delve deeper still, and had gotten the long distance equivalent of a slapdown. For the moment, instead of inquiring about the underlying tension that suffused Caine's words, the felinoid deliberately hedged and cracked wise to annoy the Vulcan officer; she quirked an eye whisker and favored Caine with a cocky look. “You mean I’m not the center of the universe? I’m so glad you’re here to inform me of these factoids, Lieutenant.” "I am here to have a drink," Caine said coldly. "Any contact you might have with my evening's plans are, I assure you, entirely incidental." Pushing herself sharply to her feet, she stepped around the table, narrowly missing colliding with JoNs's shoulder as she moved back towards the bar. Addressing the bartender, she leaned her hands on the wood of the bartop and scowled. "Whatever you gave me, it's not Saurian brandy. I am not paying for watered down schut." She waited, and nodded in icy satisfaction as he began hastily rummaging into his stores. Kansas, unperturbed, followed the Vulcan towards the bar, motioning for the bartender to refill her glasses as well, and then turned her attention back towards the ticked-off department chief. “So, what is it that’s really bugging you, Caine? I’m sure you got the same answer that I did when I inquired about the officers who were backing the Stiletto. In so many words, you were told to mind your own business, am I correct? And your status as an Intelligence agent didn’t mean anything with regard to cutting through that red tape.” Caine kept her eyes on the bald top of the crouching bartender's head, but her fists clenched on the smooth polished wood. She focused on the clean, sharp pain of her nails in her palms, kept her breathing even with an effort that made her chest hurt. She would not give herself away in anger, not yet. JoNs knew more than was good for her (or could guess better than Caine would have expected from someone of her race). But it would do no good for Caine to admit to her own limits; such an admission only asked for...unnecessary difficulties. "You know nothing of my status as an Intelligence agent," she said, the words emerging like a hiss. "Or of what I can and cannot do. I could end careers based on what I found aboard the Stiletto." Again, the "I"...not "we"...this time jabbed like a knife, a sharp word into JoNs gut. What she said was not untrue, either...in a sense. Caine smiled faintly. She could indeed end careers...she was, however, not being allowed to. But now was not the time for that fact. “Well, you are definitely a ray of hope this evening, Caine.” Will’s tone, while not heated, had taken on a spit-snarl effect as her patience started to thin; a couple of nearby patrons vacated the general area, picking up on the tension. “That’s your problem, Caine, you know that?” JoNs went on. “You aren’t royalty, just because you sport that extra Intel pip. You’re a field soldier, just like the rest of us.” Caine's nails tore into the skin of her palms and she turned sharply towards JoNs, her tension suddenly snapping. "A field soldier? I am far more than a simple yellow-collar cannon-fodder grunt, Commander. I am the face of the Empire's interests; I am the sword in the hand of the warrior." Her scarred jaw worked in an expression of derision. "More than I can say for you, Commander. The Colonel's pet you may be, but I know your true bearings and I will not chafe under your scorn as well as your authority. Now..." Her voice abruptly dropped, the closest thing to a growl she could muster and still be heard. "Kindly leave me to my business and you may return..." Her grey eyes flicked towards Sarritt and she smirked in disgust. "...to yours." The Cait’s only response to that was a squint coupled with a curt nod of the head. She gathered her glasses silently and returned to her table. She kept her back towards Caine while deliberately setting the refilled glasses down on the surface, and then remained standing while she planted both of her forepaws on the table. She flipped one ear back as she addressed her dinner date, her expression perfectly calm. “Sarritt, I’m about partake in a rather silly tactical move. I’ll have to ask that you not get involved, and it’d be best for you to make yourself scarce. Station security will be swarming all over shortly. I don’t want you compromised, as anyone remotely resembling a feline will be a suspect until this mess gets itself sorted out.” Her sharp eyed gaze flickered once about the general area. “Probably anyone of Vulcan descent as well, now that I think about it; station security tends to get rather tetchy here as I recall.” Sssib’Ley smirked, and then placed his big paws on top of JoNs’s. “Commander, that’s what I like about you...honest, direct, and to the point…most of the time. About time you touched this off -- it’s been coming for a while.” His purred murmur barely carried. “What’s the status of the Caine-and-JoNs-go-batsh*t shipboard betting pool these days?” “I believe the current take is a very handsome sum.” “If you win, I expect a cut of the profits.” She raised an amused eye whisker. “Always…” The two felinoid’s shared a muzzle on muzzle kiss… Maybe it was the alcohol. Maybe it was the crazy after-hours setting. Maybe it was the fact that there was no uniform, only civilian clothing that offered some freedom from the yoke of day-to-day operations. Whatever the cause, something had snapped within the Commander, and she was tired of the glass-edged professional sparring with Caine. A decision had been made, and there was no going back. She was So. Done. With. This. Histhl’shfasa Vulcan. With no warning, Kansas turned and charged at Caine.
  4. Updated player-character list; updated Decatur and added Crewman Spencer.
  5. Chief Petty Officer Tyla Mattingly eyed the whiskey being poured into the glass of the man next to her, with the casual, appraising eye of someone watching something they've seen done better. Something'll have to be done about this one. He won't last. The new bartender in the crew lounge was a half-blind old humanoid of indeterminate mixed race; clearly he was lucky to even have the sort of position he held, but it didn't leave him free from the virulent curse that erupted from his customer as he splashed a little whiskey over the man's uniform jacket. "Stupid jacktah, can't even aim a drink into a glass proper. Bet it's a right sight when you use the john, ain't it?" Mattingly chuckled. "Easy, Spencer," she murmured, leaning herself on the bar and eyeing the young security ensign sideways. "Not like you don't smell enough like drink anyhow." "Hey, shut up, half-breed," Spencer growled, rounding on Mattingly and glaring at her. "No one asked your opinion." "If I had to wait to be asked my opinion, I wouldn't say much," Mattingly said easily. "And no need to take it out on the barkeep that your girl's looser than a small rock in a landslide." Her lip curled a little as she saw Spencer's color rise, and she knew she had guessed right. "Hell, if you wait your turn, maybe she'll come back around to you again." Spencer snarled and raised his fist as if to strike her, but a set of string fingers closed around his arm from behind before he could deliver the blow. "I wouldn't do that, you know, Jacob," Farragut muttered in his ear. "I've told you before...if you're going to brawl, do it where the blood won't spoil appetites." Spencer wrenched his hand free from Farragut's grasp and gave the older man a murderous look, but he knew better than than to make a stand when the odds were two on one and he was drunk. Backpedaling slightly, he muttered an electrifyingly racist oath under his breath and disappeared out the door of the lounge. Farragut took his seat as if nothing had happened, picking up the undrunk glass of whiskey and sniffing it. Apparently satisfied, he took a sip and hissed a breath out through his teeth before looking over at Mattingly. "Made yourself a new friend, there...Chief." "What can I say? I'm a people person," Mattingly said with a blithe shrug, picking up her own drink and tossing back a large gulp. "Something you wanted, Ensign?" "Just preserving public order, of course," Farragut said, flashing a sly grin at her. "And I must admit I'm curious about you." His eyes hardened a bit. "Saw you talking with the Cait a few days back. And now here you are with a brand new pip on your collar. What's it about, then...cutting deals?" The words slid from his mouth with such practiced casualness that it was hard to ignore the seriousness of the underlying accusation. Mattingly didn't need much of her intelligence to fend off the jab; as a matter of fact, she'd prepared for it. Been hoping for it, really. It was an opening, as she had more plans yet in the works. She knew Farragut, and she knew any dealings with him had to be made to seem like his idea, or they would go nowhere. "That's what it's all about, of course, Ensign. I...did someone a favor. But not the Cait." She paused, and then added deliberately, with another swig of ale, "She's not my type." That got his attention, as she'd known it would. Farragut, for all his confidence, was more or less a busybody -- and more to the point, he hated hearing that some other man had gotten something he hadn't yet. Even a xeno like her. The fact that she was lying would not even occur to him now. "Who, then?" She shrugged noncommittally, and she could hear the wheels turning in his head, his suspicion diverted to a lascivious curiosity. Who else might Tyla have...made contact with, who might have had the authority to give her that promotion? Had one of the other security men managed to bypass his seniority? Had she moved outside the department, or gone over to one of the men still loyal to JoNs? Or had she somehow climbed even further up the food chain, and did Harper or even Caine somehow have tastes he would not have suspected? Clearly she had made some kind of liaison which went over his head, and that was a potentially dangerous situation for him. She was an unknown quantity and Farragut was smart enough not to like those. He had seen the chaos which even the bottom-rung alien crewmen could wreak if allowed to take any particular control. Clearly this was something that would bear further investigating. There were numerous ways, of course, to investigate a fellow officer's contact network. There was the snooping around undercover. There was the outright accusations, the threats behind closed doors and in Jeffries tubes and dark alcoves. And then there was the method Farragut liked, and even with a woman like her, it could be worthwhile, at least until something better came along. "What're you drinking?" he asked casually. "Buy you another?" Tyla smiled slyly. Caught -- hook, line, and sinker. She now had her ticket to ride with JoNs for at least a few months; men could be as careful as they wanted in the light of day, but when faced with a warm body at night that they could view as their own, as under their control, their tongues tended to loosen. "Oh, I don't know," she said, with a carefully practiced uncaring air, flicking her eyes sideways at him. "Maybe I've had enough for now." His face widened in a smooth grin and he gestured at the bartender. "No...I think you can have plenty more tonight."
  6. It had taken, unfortunately, more time than Caine would have liked to finally manage to get herself and Buddha into a Ryder-Presit restaurant where the food seemed unlikely to make them both eject most of it soon after consuming. The first one they walked into -- some distance from the establishments they had already frequented -- had resulted in some strange looks, given their clothes smelling of booze and smoke and their generally dilapidated demeanor. This had therefore resulted in the necessity of going back to Agincourt for a change of clothes, and the temptation to just stay there and make use of the mess hall had been quite strong. However, there was more to be gained than just a hot meal by hanging around on Ryder-Presit a little further, so Caine had insisted they head back, which was how she and Buddha now found themselves in the entryway of a restaurant called, as best Caine was able to translate it from the mix of Rihan and Orion on the sign, the "Silver Bullet Buffet." "Cheerful," she said wryly, walking in and grabbing a seat at one of the tables, which she noted with pleasure were somewhat less grimy than those she had been staring at for the past day or so. "At least we won't be meeting any vampires in there," Owen said with a wide grin as pulled out a chair for Caine. He was also looking forward to a good meal. "That's werewolves," Caine corrected with a grin, settling down into the seat with a nod of thanks. "Vampires are still an issue, so be sure to order something with lots of garlic..." "Werewolves, vampires, same difference if you ask me." Owen sat down, too and looked around to see whether the waiter had noticed them. "I hope this is gonna be better than the replicated stuff we get back on the ship." "It'll be...different, at any rate," Caine said dryly, looking up as a dark-haired woman of indeterminate mixed race approached their table with a bored expression and a battered-looking padd-type device. Looking between Caine and Owen skeptically, she launched into a short speech, clearly rote by the lack of implicit punctuation. "Special of the day is Viinerine with Antaran glow water and a side of Ferengi snail steak here at the Silver Bullet where we serve all species and all tastes, my name is Herena and I'll be your server today how may I take your order?" "Sounds delightful," Caine said with a faint placid smile. "What'll you have, my friend?" she asked, glancing at Owen and straightening up slightly, getting into character. Owen put on the best fake smile he could muster. "I think I'll go with the special of the day. Nothing like a good meal before doing business." Caine nodded slowly and glanced at the waitress briskly. "Same for me. And...ah...hold the steaks..." The waitress grunted and walked off and Caine leaned back in her seat, looking at Owen, pitching her voice to let it carry slightly to nearby tables in the restaurant. "A good meal's worthwhile. Like I told you, though, I'm skeptical we'll find any business worth having on this scrap-heap of a planet. Doubt most of these people can even afford a shuttle, let alone our scale of merchandise." They had planned this out beforehand; Toni had said some figure in the background of Ryder-Presit's economy was cornering the market on ship sales in the system. To coin a phrase, it seemed only logical that they should try to approach things from the other angle; rather than trying to find someone who was selling, she and Buddha needed to find out who was buying. "Yeah," Owen said, nodding. "I'm beginning to ask myself why we even bothered to come here." He fell silent as the waitress arrived with their appetizers and drinks. When she was gone again he leaned across the table a little. "We should leave and check out some other systems." "Why we bothered to come here? This was your idea," Caine retorted, letting some aggravation creep into her voice, though her eyes held amusement unseen by any who might be listening to them. "Said they would be jumping out of their skins to get a piece of us...three hijacked Fed cruisers is nothing to sneeze at. And yet...no one seems willing to bite." "Maybe noone here's got the guts to do some risky business. But these cruisers are top notch. I really thought we'd have quite a few potential buyers. Maybe we should see what the Ferengi will offer." Owen took a bite of something he couldn't quite identify, seemingly unconcerned with his surroundings. Caine's sharp Vulcan hearing picked up a low snort from the booth behind her, and she made a subtle motion to Owen to indicate that she they should keep going. "Yeah...the Ferengi. Slimy little trolls but at least they do better business than these people, don't know a deal when they see one." Owen nodded. "We should have accepted the offer we got a week ago. It was not as good as as I'd hoped but at least those guys were willing to pay some credits. Maybe we should tell them we made up our mind, what do you think?" He could hardly keep from grinning so Owen picked up his glass and drank, effectively hiding his amusement. Caine kicked him gently under the table and was about to make a joke at his expense when a low voice caught her ear behind her. "You'd be making a mistake, you know." A man wearing a dark hooded jacket and beat-up pants swiveled in his seat and grabbed Caine gently by the shoulder. "You're new in town, aren't you? Because clearly you don't know where to look. You see, only one fellow buys ships in this system, and the others stay out if they know what's good for 'em." Caine arched her back slightly to pull her shoulder from the man's grip and gave him a searching look. "You know this guy, then?" she asked him casually. "What's his name? Can you put us in touch with him?" The man's white teeth flashed in the shadow that hid his face. "There are those who call him Tim. When they call him anything at all. And I can get you in touch...for the right price."
  7. The whole place, from the moment they arrived, gave an undefinable impression of darkness. Even areas bathed in all available direct sunlight had a layer of dinginess brushed on like paint against the worn wooden and metallic architecture. The area where Caine and Owen had beamed down was somewhat northerly on the planet, too, and nearing nightfall; as a result, the dinginess was supplemented with an encroaching chill that cut through the dark civilian clothes they were wearing. The waning daylight cast long shadows across the street on which they had landed in relative isolation. "Nice place," Caine commented dryly, checking one last time that her phaser was secure in its holster and the other in her boot was nestled comfortably, and then endeavoring to forget about them until they were needed. It was easy to telegraph the location of one's weapons, which could be a dangerous practice in this sort of place. Then she glanced at Owen and quirked an eyebrow up, deliberately relaxing her body out of its usual stiff posture into a subtle slouch that still kept her balanced on the balls of her feet. "So...nudge the locals until one of them tells us where to find sixteen stolen D'deridexes which are probably more valuable than both our lives. Piece of cake, hm? Shall we get to work?" Owen took in his surroundings. The place actually looked worse than he had thought. But that didn't particularly worry him. He noticed Caine briefly checking her sidearms. Owen didn't need to check. Bearing arms hidden in various places under his clothing was second nature to him. Caine would probably be surprised if he told her he carried three phasers and two knives. One could never be too careful in places like this, especially if you don't know them. "I hope you brought enough of the local currency. I bet we won't get anywhere without buying drinks and bribing the right people. But first of all we should just...euh...socialize and listen. We need information before we start asking questions." Caine smiled. "I'm well-prepared with all the bare necessities, Buddha, don't worry." She cocked her head, focusing her Vulcan hearing on their surroundings, taking in the noise of loud talking and shouts just off to their right. Gesturing, she turned to move down the street in that direction. "So come on...let me buy you a drink." With a grin Owen followed the security chief. "That's an offer I can hardly decline." Five minutes later Owen and Caine were standing at the bar of a rather delapidated but nevertheless crowded establishment. The place smelled of all kinds of body fluids, spilled alcohol and smoke. It was difficult to make out much in the dim light. But most of the patrons didn't seem to worry being overheard. Within a few minutes Owen had picked up the latest local gossip but nothing about an opportunity to buy Romulan ships, yet. Caine's boot heels crunched lightly against the rotting floorboards as she leaned forward on the slick bartop, her expression impassive for the moment. The barkeep, an unshaven Bajoran with one grey eye and one scarred shut, turned towards her without seeming to really see her even from his good side. "Yeah?" "Saurian brandy, straight up," Caine said coolly, "and an Aldebaran whiskey for my friend here." She gestured at Owen, and the barkeeper looked skeptically between the two newcomers. Caine sighed and pulled out a few coins, letting them skitter across the bar, then turned and slouched back against the bar, not even checking to be sure that her drink was being made. As the man shuffled off, Owen half turned and observed the people around them. "I'm not sure this is the right place," he whispered into Caine's ear, leaning forward pretending to inspect something that looked remotely like peanuts. **** Three bars and an uncounted number of drinks later Matthews and Caine found themselves in an establishment that was just as dirty and bad smelling as the first. Owen was just about to suggest they go back to the ship when he noticed three men in a dark corner talking frantically and shooting occasional glances in their direction. "Might get interesting, Junior," he told Caine with a nod in the direction of the men. Caine flicked a glance at them peripherally while ordering another round of drinks. "What's their problem?" she murmured. "Haven't blown our cover as Fleet just yet, have we? Or does word of fresh blood just travel fast in these parts?" Picking up the glasses, she turned, handed Owen his, and made her way easily across to a table near the men and sat down, stretching her legs out in front of her. Instead of following her, Owen took a sip of his drink and watched the scene, ready to step in whenever necessary. Caine didn't need him to wiggle information out of reluctant subjects. And in this particular case his presence didn't seem to be needed. Worst case, the guys just thought Caine was out looking for adventure. Best case, they thought they could impress her with an interesting offer. Caine set her glass down and leaned back in her seat, relaxing the last of the Vulcan stiffness out of her behavior. This was not the sort of place where one gained many points by seeming too straight-backed and on-the-level. The change of bearing didn't do anything to decrease her sensory acuity, though, and out of the corner of her eye, she caught the group flashing her another set of furtive glances, before two of them stood up and crossed the distance to her table with a confident sort of air. One, a thuggish fellow with a permanently annoyed expression, remained standing; the other, without so much as a greeting, slid into a chair across from her. Caine gave the seated man -- a sallow mostly-human who seemed to have a little bit of mixed heritage in his bloodline -- a sideways glance and then smiled casually while raising one pointed eyebrow. "Evening." Mentally she was taking in the physical builds of and locations for potential concealed weapons on both of the new arrivals, and she made a subtle gesture without turning towards Owen, indicating that he should stay alert on the man still standing, who she judged to be the brawn rather than the brains of the discussion that was about to take place. The guy shot a quick glance to Owen. When he looked back at Caine he grinned, revealing a row of immaculate teeth. He leaned back in his seat, just like Caine. "We don't see your kind often around here." "I always enjoy providing a bit of variety," Caine answered easily, turning her glass gently on the wood of the table and keeping her eyes locked with his. "I take it you didn't just come over to tell me that, though." The guy's grin grew bigger. "Bright, too," he said with a look at his companion, who gave a bark of laughter and nodded. "It seems to me that you're looking for something. Maybe it's something I can offer...for a reasonable price." At this point he leered at her, his grin never wavering. "Maybe it is, though I prefer those boys who don't need to have a brick wall following them around in order to make a statement," Caine said dryly, unfazed by his expression, gesturing at the broad-shouldered thug still standing next to the table. While the man's behavior meant that he would bear close watching to be sure he didn't try anything too...distracting, she actually could appreciate a certain amount of directness from this kind of affair; it also meant that they now probably had something to work with and would perhaps be saved another crappy bar and more watered-down brandy. She leaned forward, resting both arms on the table, and after a moment's thought to determine the best line of approach, continued casually, "I'm in the ship market. You know anything of the local word?" The guy's grin faltered for the fraction of a second. With a wave of his hand, he dismissed the thug and sat up a little straighter. "Ship market, huh? I may have heard something. But my info isn't free. What do you have to offer?" "Enough coin to buy you a better suit, maybe," Caine said crisply, seeing the chink in the man's self-confidence and driving another nail gently into it. She removed a bit of the local currency which she had been able to bring along for drinks and let the coin spin in her fingers. Eyeing the coin the guy seemed to be torn between the prospect of money and the promise of other pleasures. Another look at Caine helped him decide. "How much I'm gonna tell you depends on how much you can pay." Caine let the coin fall heavily onto the table with a thunk, and set one finger down on top of it, holding it to the wood. "Not a poor offer for one question, I think. Suppose there were a large number of ships in this area that weren't, strictly speaking, supposed to be here. Who would know about it and who would be selling?"
  8. It was a typical work day on the ISS Agincourt, and the secondary shift had just started. Commander JoNs had completed her required bridge command duties and then retired to her office on deck fourteen in order to deal with an accumulation of paperwork; the feline settled easily into the litany of reports, updates and requests that were recorded verbally or in text format on the various digital data slates and PADDS that were strewn across her desk in semi-neat stacks according to importance. A squad of marines filed past her open office entry way, shouting out some nonsense cadence about running a two kilometer run at dawn only wearing underwear, causing Kansas to smile to herself; the simple day to day routine of the marines was comforting to the feline. Honor. Duty. No nonsense. No wheeling and dealing. Well, no, that last bit wasn’t entirely true. At the very least, the Marine version of wheeling and dealing had a stricter code set attached to the practice. On the down side, they could be a real snooty and hidebound lot as a whole with who they allowed into their ranks. A ping sounded from the vicinity of the personal guard standing watch detail outside the XO’s office. She flipped an ear in the general direction of the sound, but if Lieutenant Mical had anything of value to report, the female Andorian would let JoNs know. And as a matter of fact, the lieutenant did have something to tell her boss; the blue skinned, silver haired humanoid stepped into the entry way and looked at JoNs expectantly as she silently asked for permission to convey the information along. The feline returned the look, flipping one ear back in silent acknowledgement of the non verbal request. Mical quirked one antenna as she spoke. “News on the new retainer recruit Commander; she wants to meet with you to discuss the particulars.” “Of course she does.” Mattingly was definitely a lot like the late Master Chief Keltex when it came to certain aspects of interaction. JoNs felt a pang of loss and regret when her thoughts flittered over the memory of the master chief, but she quickly got her mind back on track regarding current matters. It took a certain stripe of enlisted/non-com in order to successfully be able to dictate terms to a commissioned, and do it respectfully; Mattingly had that talent. Any other sort would end up dead at some point during their career. “When and where?” “Twenty one hundred tonight. Secondary observation lounge.” “I can handle that.” = = = = The commander stayed in the entry way of the entertainment area, taking in the room and it occupants visually before she committed her person to actually stepping into the area. The secondary lounge was busy at this time of night despite the later hour. There were at least twenty or so crewmen, enlisted, and officers enjoying themselves and speaking in small groups. Alcohol flowed freely, as did the holo-emitter games. The general feeling of the lounge room was relaxed, and most of the crew present spared a respectful glance towards the ships XO, but nothing more. JoNs had gained a deserved reputation among the crew as a being not to be trifled with, but she was not a tyrant. This non-tyrannical SOP enabled her to move rather freely among the crew and ‘blend in’ during certain situations, such as this off the record meeting. It was a useful trait to be exploited to her advantage. These were big boys and big girls and…species of other persuasions; if they chose to revel in pleasures late into the night and early hours of the morning, then so be it. As long as these officers performed their assigned duties and shifts and the productivity of the ship did not suffer, the decision was their choice and it was none of JoNs’s business. A micromanaging exec was a hated exec, and JoNs was very content to remain a lesser target and maintain her skin in the process. And any disciplinary action if an individual or individuals were to be late to shift was to be handled by their department heads and shift leads, and unless a tardy situation truly became a problem, JoNs willingly kept her distance from the day to day micromanaging of the departments, letting the chiefs do their jobs like they were supposed to. Her pay grade was executive level Imperial officer, not truant officer. Her light green eyes took in every detail of the area within a few seconds. Crewman Mattingly was at the far end of the lounge, seemingly admiring the star field while she sipped at a light blue colored drink. The half-Bajoran woman had made a point to pick an area to stand at the far end of the room…yet she was closest to a secondary exit…just in case. Mostly all the departments were represented, including the Marines who more often then not stayed within the confines of their inner domain on Deck 14. Several card games were ongoing…and about three of Lieutenant Caine’s people were partaking in one of them. Jimmbo Farragut was one of the players. No matter; sometimes the best off the record meetings happened in plain sight, and Farragut was definitely on the low grade officer watch list: just this side of unimportant, but was occasionally worth watching to keep an eye on him, like an agitated wasp flying about a room. Although, it was so much the better that the good lieutenant had some eyes and ears in the lounge this night. With a fangy smile, JoNs nodded greetings and returned a few greetings to the gathered officers as she began to move confidently through the observation lounge. Kansas never commanded a room. She had the ability to bring order to a room, verbally or physically with a snarl, a direct order, or a smack with her paw if the action was needed. She gave orders confidently, and the soldiers under her command followed them without question. She could move through a room with fluid grace, stalking any and all that she considered a target. Colonel Harper had the ability to command a room. JoNs had observed her patron and sponsor in action, had seen the results, but had not yet been able to copy the ability except in smaller doses of practice. Perhaps someday the feline would learn to adapt this ability into practice. The Caitian feline was a fusion of traits and personality quirks that seemed perfectly at ease with the agenda and career of an Imperial officer, yet oftentimes at odds with the individual. Her rakish and feral appearance hid a predatory mind that was at best held in check by the tenuous hold of the civilization that she chose to live in. JoNs wore the typical black uniform trousers, yet had chosen to were the alternate sleeveless wraparound tunic uniform top, the mandarin design of the tunic evoking memories of Earth Asian pirates of yesteryear. The gold glittering metallic mesh sash completed the uniform, but also contributed to the piratical appearance. And the projectile ordnance that the cat carried on her weapons utility belt? The sawed off plasma shotgun worn low on one hip seemed was decidedly not Imperial Fleet issue, and would be of more use to a colony marshal’s position. Yet, the Imperial uniform and choice of weapons suited Kansas, blending her professional and personal choices into her chosen career path: a Caitian with deep blood ties to the mercenary culture, with a day job as an Imperial officer. Her feral qualities were dangerous and synonymous with freedom; the orders and regulations and duties of the Fleet would never beat down who the Cait officer really was. She would forever use that predatory outlook and feral nature of her feline heritage and would never hide who or what she really was. …not to say that certain persons hadn’t tried to beat some sense into her… Now though, there was a personnel matter to attend to, and soon Kansas would have a definite answer as to whether or not she would have a new retainer to her informational network, or not. She also didn't give a flying frag that Mattingly was part of Lieutenant Caine’s security night shift staff; the half-Bajoran crewman’s service record showed a capable officer, and JoNs straight up wanted competent people on her own staff. Kansas might not have commanded the lounge per se, but she moved among its inhabitants in all her stalking glory. Soon, she reached Mattingly, who had stopped studiously ignoring the new arrival when JoNs had gotten about halfway across the room; bright and cunning Bajoran eyes met equally bright and cunning Caitian eyes; both females acknowledged one another’s presence non-verbally. Then Mattingly broke the eye contact and returned to looking coolly out the window, as if she had no particular interest in the Commander’s presence, as if she barely even noticed when Kansas padded to a halt next to her. JoNs remained unfazed by the seeming lack of interest on the other female’s part, and pitched her offer directly to Mattingly. “Are you interested in taking on the position of mobile remote retainer within my retinue, Crewman Mattingly?” The feline’s gaze was turned outward as well, admiring the outlying blackness of space and the distant stars with a matching feigned casualness. Mattingly’s expression stayed cool, dismissive, almost bored, though JoNs could see her eyes flick once in Farragut’s direction with an alertness that said she was, in fact, listening very closely, that the air she carried was for other observers than Kansas. Jimmbo had been following the Caitian commander’s progress across the room and had seen her begin talking to Mattingly, but he couldn’t hear the gist of the discussion. This was good; it meant that the right facial expression could potentially convince him that nothing of significance was being said, which was of course about as far from the truth as it was possible to be. Jumping from the relative security of department service to becoming an informer for a senior officer was not without inherent risks. If that officer ended up dead, you could very possibly end up dead as well, and more often than not were unable to return to the departmental structure that you had left. Those retainers that did manage to live through the untimely death of their patron typically transferred off ship to pursue their career elsewhere. The same circumstances went for a crewmember or enlisted officer or commissioned officer who chose to be a remote retainer under the pay and influence of a senior officer and got caught; remote didn’t exclude you from reprisals by your chief if you were discovered passing along information. And when your chief was Caine…well, that just about made it suicidal. But then again, no one with alien blood and a noncom rank who wasn’t somewhat suicidal tended to make it very far in this game. “What are your plans, Commander JoNs?” she asked easily, sipping again at her drink, her eyes still on the stars rather than her conversational partner. JoNs understood what the Bajoran security guard was asking -- the age-old question of job security. She could have given a deliberately obtuse answer; instead she stuck with the truth and decided not to play dumb or coy with the subordinate officer. “For the moment, the Agincourt and her current master retain my loyalty. If you join up with my crew, you won’t be getting your ass shot off in a coup attempt. Is that an acceptable explanation for you, Mattingly?” Mattingly said nothing for a moment. It was a reassurance; it wasn’t a hell of a big one. “It might be. What if I were to decline your officer, Commander?” “Hypothetically, you wouldn’t be here of you weren’t more then halfway interested, Crewman. And, hypothetically, if you do turn down my offer, there’ll be no dagger in your back. Doesn’t work that way. Or I should say, I don’t work that way. So, you signing on or what?” JoNs just cocked an ear back as she asked this final question, turning her full attention to the Bajoran; if Crewman Mattingly refused to take the open remote informant spot on her staff, the feline would just move right along; there were other officer and enlisted candidates that she could tap into, simple as that. Planting eyes and ears throughout every department on the ship took time and effort, and the felinoid Ex Oh had no qualms about moving forward until she got who she wanted in representation of her mobile eyes and ears among the crew. A little smile quirked at the corner of the Bajoran’s mouth, breaking the dismissive shell for a moment, and she cocked her head to one side, thinking. Mattingly wasn’t a woman for strong bonds; she’d seen the security department through a couple different Security Chiefs and a couple of different XOs by now, and the fact was that she had not really expressed any interest in joining Kansas’s ‘side’ because of any burning loyalty to her. Nor had she, as she had briefly speculated with herself while waiting for this meeting, considering the idea because Kansas was, like her, non-human, because she felt some kinship with the Caitian on that level. No, she was here because she hated Caine with a passion, but she tended to figure that was a good reason enough. “Aye sir, guess this means I accept the offer.” “Good. There’ll be no interference with your regular patrol and brig duties, all I ask is that you check in with me regularly. And, in the future should you wish it, you’d be welcome to transfer permanently over to my staff as a guard and aide. A lateral transfer would mean better food, quarters--” “--and a knife in my back more than like--” “--and a promotion…” Kansas finished, giving a fangy sort of grin at Mattingly’s interruption. How rude. “But perhaps I can see to that promotion in the interim. The new promotion orders will be sent to you and your chief within the hour. Welcome to the family…Petty Officer Mattingly. “ Typically, any agreements would be sealed with a clasped paw and hand in a forearm shake of commitment, But in the interest of clandestine communication, no such politeness was involved; instead, Mattingly nodded a curt acknowledgment and then scowled deliberately as if the conversation had been of a tenor more appropriate to their official relationship, and, raising her voice just loud enough to be heard, delivered a blistering, dismissive Bajoran oath by way of goodbye. Then she returned to her quiet admiration of the star field set outside the large picture window of the lounge as if nothing had happened. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Farragut relax back into his seat with a smirk and a wink in her direction; he approved, suspected nothing. Commander JoNs responded in kind to the supposed dismissal from Mattingly, carrying on the professional ruse: The golden furred Cait growled and hissed, exposing fangs as she backed away from the crewman. She snapped her fangs at thin air, and then turned away from the female security officer, slinking back out of the lounge much the same way that she came in -- as a feline on the proverbial hunt.
  9. Yay! Shadow iz back! ^_^
  10. ((This log is set during last week's sim.)) One of Caine's instructors in three-dimensional strategy and tactics at the Academy had once described the gunner's position in combat thus: "You'll fight, and you'll fight, and you'll fight, and you'll suddenly realize that you're damn glad you're not an engineer." With the Agincourt's usual hum taking on a strange groaning undercurrent and her thrusters dragging sluggishly on the starboard side, Caine couldn't help thinking that he had been absolutely right. The ship had taken a pounding; this crew's home was being shot out from under them and there was a certain amount of satisfaction to be taken in thinking that she would at least not be required to clean up the mess. Then again, given the plan that was currently being concocted over the spotty inter-ship comms, it was quite possible that none of them would survive to reach that cleanup anyway. "We have navigation, even if it's limited." That was Commander Condacin from the main bridge. Caine had not directly spoken to the Xenexian CSCI much prior to this, but with Colonel Harper out of commission, she was the current ranking officer up on the main deck. She, along with Caine on the tertiary bridge and Commander Kassem in engineering, had been doing their best to formulate some kind of plan. "We've seen that tag-teaming these grozing ships can make them explode fairly easily. I say...keep those Defiants on us to balance the shields if we lose them, and bring us back in mirroring the attacks of the nearest large-scale ship." Caine glanced at the tactical readouts, picking out the two support ships Condacin indicated, her mind flashing through various tactical stratagems. She was of the Xenexian's mind, completely -- she had no particular interest in turning about and fleeing the scene. Caine did not leave jobs unfinished, it was not in her nature, and now that some control over the tactical situation had passed in her direction, she was back in her element after the seemingly interminable waiting period with Slick Hefner in the locked-down Gamma command center. However, Murray in engineering had indicated that perhaps a temporary retreat might be recommended, and Caine was waiting for the final word on the feasibility of any attack run whatsoever. "Perhaps..." she responded, with a nod that Condacin could not see anyway. "I'll pull us out and around and put us in position for an attack run at a greater distance." "Good. Get us on the line with... whoever's close and not off licking their wounds." Caine nodded absently, then muttered an oath as the ship's banking maneuver lurched somewhat to starboard; the damaged nacelle was causing her real problems in the power flow to that side of the ship -- not to mention that she wasn't usually a pilot of more than support craft, but when you'd reached the point when you were navigating from Gamma Bridge, you'd reached the point where you took what you could get. No matter...it would only have to hold long enough for one burst, assuming they even had that capability. Bringing them back into a stable turn again, she hastily tapped the comm again, switching to the engineering channel to address Kassem. "How quick can you get us shields that'll hold long enough to make a run?" she asked crisply, hoping Kassem wasn't the indecisive sort -- they didn't have time. There was a short pause and then a response almost muffled by a burst of static. "As quick as it takes me to tap on my console." Good. She was confident; she felt they would hold. That settled it. They would not run away. Caine's breath caught with an abrupt rush of adrenaline and despite the severity of the situation, she almost grinned. At least the waiting was over. Grunting an acknowledgment, she tapped the line closed just in time to pull the ship back to port again. "Starboard nacelle may be sluggish, Ma'am - strut's weak," Hefner said from behind her a moment later. "Aye...bit of a drain all over..." Caine muttered without looking back at him, but her mind was moving now. Kassem had confirmed they were alright to push forward; if they were going to do it, they had to do it now. "This is Lieutenant Caine on the Agincourt," she barked into the external comms, putting all the authority she could muster into her voice. There were times when being in your forties had its advantages. "We're coming about for an attack run on the ship at...oh-four-five-mark-four-one, can you cover our flank?" "Copy, Agincourt, we have you." Her grey eyes scanned the helm board, and then she glanced over her shoulder at Hefner, who had been sitting more or less silently at the tactical console. "In position for attack run, Defiants confirm support positions. Here we go," she said, partly to him, partly to Condacin and Kassem still in contact over the commlines. "Go for it," Kassem replied. The closest thing to a blessing any of them were likely to get. Caine slammed her hands against the controls and let out a low whoop as the the huge Prometheus-class surged forward, no less intimidating for the beating she had taken. The two Defiant-class ships swooped in to flank them on either side, covering the vulnerable areas in the Agincourt's weakened defense grid as she boomed back into the fray, locking onto its target of choice and homing in for the kill. "Come on, boys..." Caine murmured, her grey eyes focusing down until it seemed that all she could see was the helm readouts before her. "Let's have another round."
  11. Joint Log 091013 -- "Getting It Together" LtSG Christina-T'Prinn Caine GSgt Mike Hefner, SFMC USS Agincourt NCC 81762 **** The ship continued to shake with each Soltan bombardment as Mike Hefner bolted through the barely-open doors of Agincourt's tertiary bridge, rounded the partition and logged on to the tactical console, shouting, "Rocky! Find Caine! Get her in here now!" Smoke from the Soltan's incendiary grenades choked the corridors and the smell of singed alien and charred Federation hung in the air. Mike tapped his helmet to clear the rebreather and slung his phaser rifle to the side, within easy reach in case Gumby showed up. Caine's last reported position was deck 9. Aside from preparing for possible MVA mode, if the main bridge became compromised they would need a senior officer on either Beta or Gamma to lockout commands, override lockouts, or otherwise maintain control of the ship. As the tactical display came online Mike wondered why they would bother to board 'Court, but at this point the situation was way beyond why. Initial reports in the NNC indicated incursions on decks nine, twelve, and sixteen, which meant tertiary bridge, shield generators, main engineering, and ventral docking port - everything Gumby would need to take control. Damn. After getting the Ex Oh's blessing he tapped Pete "Rocky" Petros of Snoop Recon team for backup. SSgt Valeri "Gus" Gustavson, the other third of Snoop, had stayed behind with "Will" JoNs in the NNC. "Rock!" Mike shouted again, glancing at the open door. "Caine...." Before he could finish, Rocky came flying through the door with Caine in tow. Together they slid across the deck, coming to rest against the command console as the door slammed shut and bolted in emergency lock-down mode. At first sight, Mike pressed the comm to the NNC. "Will, Slick. Package is secure. Repeat. Package is secure." No ping of confirmation, no response. They'd lost ship comm. Mike tapped his helmet to shift to the embedded unit coms. "Snoop 3, Report." No response. He turned to Rocky, who signaled negative as he helped Caine regain her footing. Another slam of weapons fire into the ship and the sound of internal explosives brought Mike's attention back to the tactical console. "NNC compromised. You're up, Ma'am." If JoNs was gone, Caine was next in line. "Package..." Caine mumbled, shaking her head slightly to clear it as she pushed herself to her feet. She'd been all but dragged into the tertiary bridge while in pursuit of Soltan intruders on Deck 9 and her dignity had taken a bit of a hit as a result but that was hardly the greatest of her worries. She cast a quick look around, her grey eyes taking in the situation, and unconsciously wiped a bit of adrenaline-fueled sweat from her palms. The room was rocking with Soltan fire and smelled of smoke, and the relatively cramped walls of the tertiary command center seemed to close very tightly around them. Focus. No time to worry about that. She puffed out a breath, blowing a stray bang out of her face, and looked at Slick Hefner; she knew the younger officer only in passing, as he had recently been doing weapons training with some of her officers as well as his own marine compatriots, but everyone was a friend under fire, if they weren't blue and pointing a gun at her. NNC compromised...possibly the bridge as well... That didn't bode well for the situation of their command team. Caine muttered an oath low under her breath as Hefner's words sunk in, and she quickly straightened, shaking off and moved to his side at the TAC console. "Anything in the way of a sitrep? Weapons, shields, primary bridge status? It felt like we were taking quite a beating." She had a feeling that she wasn't going to like the answer to any of these questions. "Shields are holding, Ma'am," came Mike's clipped reply as he continued to work the console, "good for everything but the full force of their subspace weapon, which I doubt they'll use. Looks like they want 'Court intact, given they've boarded." He shifted his stance to throw the internal tactical display onto Gamma's main viewscreen. "Starboard nacelle strut took quite a hit. Bridge took damage; it's intact with no signs of compromise. Intruders on decks nine, twelve, fourteen and sixteen. Internal comms are down; we're on unit coms. As for the fleet, we've lost the Australia..." As Mike initiated split-screen for an external view, a small but brilliant flash, just on the outskirts of the fray, was followed by a blip, identified as a Soltan scout, plowing through a debris field. Mike's eyes darted to the tactical console, then back to the screen. "...and the Brisbane. Cap'n Hogan, Ma'am." At that Mike and Rocky turned sharply to face the screen, came to attention, and bowed their heads in silence. Caine let the silence stretch for a few seconds while she glanced at the screen and the internal sensors, confirming Hefner's picture of the situation. "Make a note, Slick," she said grimly, "that I officially recommend to Fed Council that we avoid naming anything 'Australia' again for the duration of the war. Seems the Soltans have an issue with it." She turned, slapping off a proximity alarm as the sound of footsteps moved past the door; the deck nine boarding party had returned to the area. "You said you've got a few coms left working...good..." she muttered, her mind racing. Thank heaven for over-teched groundpounders. "Get one of my people into the secondary bridge if they're not already there. We need to get things locked down and fast." Giving a smart nod, Mike checked his BioSign detector, held down a button and pressed the detector against the tactical console for a second, then pulled it away for a read. "Looks like Mattingly is there, Ma'am, along with Doc Vaughn in the secondary sick bay. Bulldog has unit comm, and I have acknowledgment ping." He removed his helmet and passed his unit comm to Caine. Caine puffed out a breath. "Well, that's a start." She took the comm, setting it down on the console next to her and sparing about five seconds to run a hand down her face and work a quick kink out of her neck. "At least we've got a few places to work from; assuming we can hold Main Engineering, we may yet be OK. Let's start pinning down locations on those boarding parties and see if we can't put a dent in them."
  12. Chief Security Officer's personal log... Stardate 60910 mark 7. The Soltan lines have shifted again. Lieutenant Messner has run a last diagnostic on the tactical systems, all of which check out. And that's it, really. There's nothing else to report. These are the dark hours of war. Nothing to do but sleep. The order is out to rest, and rest hard, while we still can, though I doubt all of us will do so. When all you can do is sleep, it suddenly becomes a very hard thing to do, in my experience. And some of them are awfully young. Awfully young. Admittedly, I'm starting to get so I can legally use the title "Older Than God," but still...they're young, many of 'em. And scared, some of 'em. Probably wondering how the hell they got here. The Fleet's lost a lot -- there's no longer any grace period out of the academy, especially not for us in the gold shirts. We go where the war is. Period. That's the first lesson you learn that they don't teach you in the academy. A security officer is not there for the glory, a gunner is not there to explore. We exist to go where the danger is and throw our bodies over it, smother it out. It's a hard lesson, but I firmly believe that the luckiest ones are the ones who are smacked in the face with it. When you know it from the beginning, you can move on. It simplifies things. I was scared at Chin'toka, and Cardassia. I won't deny it. I was young. But I'm not scared now. I've moved on. These young'ns will move on too. We all have our trial by fire, sooner or later. This is theirs, and together we will burn the Soltans to the ground.
  13. Caine moved along the corridor of the Agincourt, a couple of PADDs full of the closest thing to comprehensive Soltan tactical information tucked under her arm. Colonel Harper had arranged for as much information as was available to be forwarded down to her department; Caine had sent it on to those of her subordinates who had tactical or engineering expertise and meant to look over it herself. Unfortunately, even the information that they had was sketchy, but it was better than nothing. For now, she was on her way to check in with Buddha Matthews, confined to quarters and demoted after his outburst at Commander JoNs, and on the crewmen guarding him. She didn't figure he was likely to attempt an escape or anything like that, but he had seemed very upset (to the point of injuring himself) when she had last spoken to him and she meant to keep an eye on him if she could. Coming to a halt at the appropriate door, she nodded at Decatur and Spencer, the two young crewman manning the doorway. "Any trouble?" "No, sir," Decatur said, coming sharply to attention as Caine addressed him. "He's just in there, sir..." He paused, then looked a little worried. "He hasn't eaten much. Or talked much. I don't think he's very good off, sir." Caine nodded slowly. She wouldn't have been very happy in Buddha's place either -- though she also wouldn't have been in that position in the first place. There were a lot of things to do that would help a situation, but she'd long since learned that mouthing off to the XO wasn't one of them. "Alright...as you were, Crewman." "Yes, sir!" Leaning forward, she pinged the chime to warn Buddha she was coming, then tapped the door open and stepped through. Owen didn't even bother to look up. He was sitting on the sofa, staring at the PADD lying on the coffee table in front of him. His uniform was disheveled, his hair looked unkempt and an empty bottle of whiskey was standing next to the PADD. Dark circles under his eyes suggested he hadn't slept much, if at all. He ran one hand through his hair for about the thousandth time since beginning to write the letter. After a few seconds he picked up the PADD and tossed it across the room onto the pile that had already formed there. Caine eyed this scene of desperation with a raised eyebrow as the door hissed shut behind her. A moment of silence stretched before she spoke. "Hello, Owen." Taking a deep breath re raised his head to look at her. "Hey. I'm sorry for the mess," he said gesturing at the pile of PADDs and the usual pieces of clothing lying around. "I've seen worse," Caine said with a shrug, her grey eyes remaining fixed on him. "You, on the other hand, look terrible." "Thanks," he answered curtly, scratching his chin which, usually shaven clean, was now covered in stubble. "Come to check on me?" "More or less." Caine could tell he wasn't happy, and while as chief of security she was responsible for making sure he remained in this predicament, it didn't stop her from a certain amount of concern. "I hear JoNs came down pretty hard." He shook his head, leaned back on the sofa and closed his eyes. "It's not the demotion or that I'm confined to quarters, Cain. I deserved that for being stupid. She ordered me to write a letter......to my sister and nephew." He had told Caine once that the two had died during the Soltan attack on Earth but he didn't feel like going into details. Caine blinked. "That's...a bit unorthodox, I suppose," she said, quirking an eyebrow up. Owen just shrugged. "This wasn't the first time I got into trouble with JoNs. Last time I took a leave to...deal with things. She figures I'm still not over it...never got a chance to say goodbye...is what she said I think. She wants me to do so in a letter now." He looked up at Caine with a mixture of despair, anger, and anguish. "I'm not sure I can do this," he said quietly. Caine nudged aside a dirty uniform jacket and a pair of boxer shorts to settle herself onto a chair near him, her expression displaying sympathy for the despair in his voice. "It sounds hard as hell," she agreed bluntly, leaning towards him with her elbows resting on her knees. "Saying goodbye never feels good." "She was my big sister, you know. She'd always stick up for me when I got into trouble as a kid. I remember, I was devastated when she left for college. I thought she'd always be there." Caine nodded slowly. "Must have been good to have that support as a kid," she said noncommittally, letting him talk as he needed to. Caine's words didn't quite register with Owen. He was lost in memories. After a few minutes he took a deep breath and looked back up at Caine. "I got in trouble quite a lot, especially with my dad. He wasn't a very understanding man and I wasn't a very well-behaved kid. I've gotten my share of beatings and Susan would patch me up afterwards. She also suggested I'd enlist in Starfleet when I was old enough so I'd be able to get away from home." "Not a bad idea, that," Caine murmured, her expression a little troubled. It didn't sound like Owen had a great childhood (and she was no shrink but she had to admit this explained a certain amount about him). Owen just sat there, staring at the PADD in front of him again. Usually he didn't talk about his family, especially not his parents but he somehow felt like he owed Caine an explanation. "I've been trying to write this since I got back from sickbay yesterday." Caine looked at him for a moment in silence and then laid her hand on his shoulder. "Maybe you should take a break," she suggested gently. "Take a rest on it and try again when you haven't made so much progress on a bottle of whiskey. Doesn't sound like the sort of thing you'll turn out in a day." Owen gave a noncommittal grunt. "You're probably right. I should take a nap. I mean, it's not like I've got anything else to do." He smiled weakly. "Thanks Caine."
  14. I dunno, I get the impression Owen might enjoy that. :)
  15. Buddha...what the hell have you been doing? Caine had gone to the marine barracks on the ship looking for Owen Matthews. He had been her closest teammate during the at best unsettling events on Corianis, he had no doubt by now received the word of the Soltan attack on Federation cargo convoys, the same as she had -- and the fact was, she needed someone to talk to. However, upon arriving on the Marine deck, she had been met with a couple of NCOs who had informed her, with emotions ranging from glee to disapproval to some shock, that the marine captain had been confined to quarters after talking with Commander JoNs. Thus, she had returned to the corridors and was now making her way for said quarters, and was wondering just what exactly had happened to put Buddha in this position. Pausing in front of the door, she rang the chime and waited. Owen was sitting on the sofa, a glass of amber liquid sitting on the table in front of him and a bottle of the same liquid 3/4 empty right beside it. He contemplated pretending he wasn't there but then remembered that he had been confined to quarters and that the news must have spread by now. "Enter," he called out glumly instead. The door slid open and Caine stepped through, her eyes immediately tracking to Owen sitting against the far wall with a mostly-drunk bottle of liquor. "Started without me?" she quipped, raising an eyebrow and coming to a halt, hooking her hands behind her back. Owen looked up briefly to see who'd just entered and he had to admit he was almost glad it was Caine. He jerked hi head in the direction of a cupboard with a couple of mugs and glasses and gave a non-committal grunt. It was impossible to misunderstand the meaning. He was inviting her to join him. Caine wasn't averse to a good bottle of whiskey or so on occasion when the fit struck but she was more interested at the moment in figuring out just what had put Buddha in his quarters and drinking alone. "Thanks for the offer. What the hell happened?" "Argument with JoNs," he said, not sure whether he really wanted to go into the details. Once his anger had worn off he had started to feel incredibly stupid about the whole business. Though he still felt that he had a right to be angry and frustrated at their latest orders, he realized that the XO was not to blame. "It's not a smart thing getting into a pissing match with your XO." Caine's eyes narrowed in faint, wry amusement at the younger man. "Generally speaking, that is a very wise statement." She moved to a nearby chair and leaned her arms on the back of it, watching him across the liquor-laden table separating them. "What was the...argument...about?" she asked, though she had a feeling she already knew. Having been staring at the glass in front of him Owen now raised his eyes to meet her gaze. "Sit down, already, will you?" He took a deep breath before going on. "I think I may have told her that making out in the locker room was still better than giving the order to subdue civilians without any cause." He resumed staring at his glass. "I could just as well have told her to go to hell," he added after another pause. Caine angled herself around to slide into the seat she had been leaning on, watching Owen without blinking. When he had finished talking she let out a long, slow breath. "Well, I'll give you one thing...you certainly know how to make your points...dramatically," she said after a moment, her eyebrow quirking up again. "I take it she didn't take it well?" "The Petty Officer did," he said with a wry grin. "Will...not so much. I mean, not that I tried making out with her." Owen broke off as he realized he wasn't talking much sense. "Anyway, I'm confined for quarters for now, as I'm sure you've found out. And I'm awaiting further disciplinary action. I bet she'll have me demoted...not a first, yanno." Caine grunted. "Everyone's on edge; you may not be the only one in line." There was a short silence in which Caine's expression darkened as she reflected on the tension that was definitely making itself felt as a result of recent events, which increasingly seemed to be having the effect of turning the Federation in on itself as well as outward on its enemies. The Avaros insurgents, the Corianis crackdown, and now... "Do you have access to the wireless reports?" she asked after a moment. Drowning the rest of his whiskey, Owen leaned back and groaned. "Yeah, well, if anyone else decided to question the XO's authority and her choices they have one big advantage. Do you realize that technically Medusa is my department head? When she learns of this...and you bet she will, she'll...well, I'm not sure I want to think about that. Come to think of it, she probably already has heard about it and is trying to come up with something appropriate." He opened his eyes again. "It's not gonna be pretty." As he studied Caine's expression he realized she wasn't talking about what he'd done. He suddenly sat bolt upright, staring at her. "What happened?" "I'll take that as a no," Caine said, glancing at him. "Some freighter convoys and their escort got attacked...by Soltans. We picked up a news bulletin with a casualty list. It's...not a pretty sight." Owen kept staring at Caine, the words not quite making it through the alcohol induce fog in his brain. When comprehension dawned he cursed, got up, walked up and down the room, cursed some more, walked again and sat back down, pouring himself another drink and taking a sip. "What's our ETA?" he asked, assuming Agincourt had been sent to investigate the incident. "I haven't heard our orders yet. I don't know if we're being diverted," Caine replied tiredly. "All I know is what was sent to my desk, which is, so far, damned dry reading." "This is exactly what I mean, you know," Owen suddenly burst out, jumping to his feet again. "We're on Corianis watching miners and the Soltans take out our freighter convoys. Tell me, what is wrong with this picture?" he said, looking defiantly at Caine, not even trying to compose himself. "I know," Caine said quietly, watching Owen pace furiously. "The whole situation is coming apart at the seams, on every front." For the first time her tone betrayed a little bitterness, a frustration with the enormity of the problems they faced. It had surprised her how much the news of the renewed Soltan attack had angered her; the first sign of true offensive since the attack on Earth had twisted her stomach. But they had to remain focused, had to think. The situation was too dire to surrender oneself to blind anger, as Owen was doing his best to prove. "There was new tactical data taken in, however. We will keep preparing ourselves. We are still fighting, Buddha -- sometimes I wonder if you think we've already given up." "Given up?" Owen said with a snort. "We haven't even started, Caine, that's what bothers me." He continued pacing, thinking about the time in the Perseus Arm, the attack on Earth, the events since then. Just remembering all this made the anger flare up inside him again. He turned around helplessly, not knowing what to do in his anger and frustration. A workout would have been just the right thing now but he was confined to his quarters. That thought didn't help one bit. He came to a halt in front of a bulkhead, seemingly contemplating it for a moment. "ARGH!" he screamed as he punched the bulkhead as if it was to blame for everything. Then he leaned his head against it, feeling a dull throbbing pain in his right fist getting worse with every second. After another long moment he pushed himself off the bulkhead, swearing loudly as he looked at the piece of bulkhead he'd just punched, seeing it didn't have so much as a dent in it. Of course Owen knew that he wasn't nearly strong enough to damage a bulkhead but somehow the fact frustrated him even more. Caine watched this performance with the same calmness that had marked her expression for this entire conversation, but her eyes narrowed with concern as he struck the bulkhead and she stood up, crossing next to him quickly and laying a hand on his shoulder, partly in a gesture of comfort, partly to prevent him from further injuring himself. She said nothing, however, just let his anger vent itself out. Owen turned his head to look at Caine's hand on his shoulder. This display of concern, maybe even friendship on her part surprised him a little. He knew she was only half Vulcan but so far their relationship had been purely professional. He was also taken aback by just how much this meant to him. So far he had not really had a friend aboard Agincourt...it looked like that had now changed. "I just don't know what to do, you know." Caine nodded. "I know. None of us do," she said quietly. "This sort of thing...well...as the man said, 'war is hell.'" She shrugged, squeezed his shoulder gently and released it, her arm dropping to her side. Then she smiled faintly. "But there's certainly nothing you can do with a broken hand." Owen was actually grateful for Caine's words...not that he'd ever admit it. "Yeah," he said grinning sheepishly. "I guess you're right. Not that JoNs would let me do much at the moment anyway." Caine chuckled. "JoNs knows what she's doing, I get the impression. She's young but she's certainly not stupid; she won't bench an able fighter permanently in this sort of game, not as long as she feels she can trust him. You'll be back in the game before long, assuming you keep your feet under you rather than in your mouth." Her expression grew just the slightest bit teasing. "Oh, thanks for the advice, Junior," Owen answered pretending to be offended. "Mind coming to sickbay with me? I need my hand looked at and I'm not allowed to leave my quarters without security escort." Caine quirked an eyebrow and gave him a mock-skeptical look. "Sure you're not just looking for an excuse to chat up the new Doc?" "You do know me quite well, Caine. But no, not this time." He held out his hand so she could see the huge bruise forming on the back of his hand. "It hurts, yanno." Caine refrained from the available sardonic comments about how punching a bulkhead tended to result in that kind of thing. Owen was taking this hard enough as it was, so she just nodded slowly. "Alright then, Mr. Matthews. Out we go. After you -- gotta keep an eye on you, after all."