"Recovery Ward"

[Kansas_Jones 0]

05.27.07

ISS Agincourt ICC-81762

“Recovery Ward”

 

Master Chief Petty Officer Keltex and Lieutenant junior grade Mical both double timed it down the corridor, heading for the duty that they had been called to carry out. Harper had given no information, only saying to “come and gather your chief”. Both the male Klingon and the female Andorian guard wore equally grim expressions.

 

The personal guards entered the NNC, not knowing fully what to expect.

 

The personal guards to Colonel Harper – Norales and Davlin – stood just inside the entrance, each flanking a furred form that was decidedly passed out on the decking.

 

The Caitian’s back was a criss cross of crimson welts, some of the blood soaking into the torn fabric of the gold wrap top. Tufts of gold fur littered the decking here and there.

 

Mical had been entertaining thoughts of amusement, perhaps some of vindication as well. However, one look at the condition of JoNs, and all thoughts – amusing or otherwise – were replaced with a shared sympathy.

 

Surprisingly, Norales broke the silence. “The Colonel worked her over pretty well, but for what its worth, your chief goldshirt didn’t utter a peep until the last stroke.”

 

Keltex harrumphed. “I trust that rumors of this incident will be contained as much as possible?”

 

Davlin and Norales shared a look, and Davlin responded to the Klingon guard. “Master Chief, as far as Norales and I are concerned, we know nothing.”

 

It was a shared moment among the personal guards that transcended the service branches and Mical, Keltex, Davlin and Norales all clasped forearms warrior style. No one out of this group of four guards would comment on what had transpired in the NNC between their respective charges.

 

With an uncommon gentleness, Keltex gathered up JoNs, throwing the feline over his shoulders in a traditional fireman’s carry. He led the way out of marine country, with Mical taking the rear guard position.

 

“Damn…” Norales’s voice cut through the silence of the NNC.

 

****************************

 

Eight hours later, pumped full of painkillers, JoNs regained consciousness in the medical bay; she lay on her stomach as the transparent gel healing pack affixed across her back finished the work that the medical tech had started.

 

Zimm had himself regained consciousness two hours prior, and occupied the bio bed beside the Caitian. He wore a bone knitter on his right wrist, and with his left arm, he carefully propped himself up on an elbow, offering a wane smile. “Chief JoNs, my transfer went well, don’t you think?”

 

Careful not to move, Kansas blearily focused on Zimm and spoke quietly out of the left side of her muzzle, her right cheek bone pressed into the pillow.

 

“I love it when a plan comes together.”