Farrell Log Three

[Banshee Farrell 0]

Note: Jumper Honor-Scar used with permission of STSF Jumper. Some mature-ish content and language contained in this character log, so please be advised.

 

Camelot Station

CENTRAL HUB: Levels 37 – 49, Hanger Deck

Senior Chief Petty Officer Banshee Farrell

 

The work day for the deck hands assigned to the hanger deck on level forty five had started out routine enough: the aviation mechanics were tasked with getting four Lancelot’s, two transport shuttles, and three Runabouts ready for the next flight shift rotation.

 

No problems, no rush, no pressure. Yeah, right.

 

The fact that Farrell’s promotion to senior chief petty officer (which usually meant more evenly distributed administrative and work duties for the individual) was pending and within the administrative works seemed to have escaped the deck chief when he handed out the duty rotations. Her transmitted orders to repair two of the four Lancelot’s -- by herself, mind you – had also included a lovely text message from Mister Personality himself, which read “Pending promotional review or not, your butt is still mine and you’ll go where I tell you.” The Trill truly was a born arsehole, and Farrell would be happy to leave him behind once the promotion and the transfer that went with it was official.

 

She would not be happy to leave her mechanic squad behind however. They were good people, and she had already lined up her senior man to take over as squad leader when she departed for a new duty assignment. Camelot station had been a good place to work, but the fact of the matter was that it was time for her to move on again. As it was, she’d be on the station for another few months because the ship she had been assigned to was still out in the middle of nowhere on patrol or some such assignment.

 

Banshee stood in the large sized office set just off the main hanger deck, signing off on her work orders and scanning the data chip which signaled that she was starting her work day. She had slipped into her bright yellow jumpsuit (and Banshee liked to refer to it as the “I’m a large demented tweety bird outfit”) but left the top half portion tied and sagging around her waist. Even though her promotion was still officially within the works, the Quartermaster had already issued her the senior enlisted officer yellow colored jumpsuit, and she found it rather ironic. Usually, it took the quartermaster months to get the correct uniform to a grunt. Such was the life of an enlisted officer assigned to the lower decks of a star base: nothing made sense, and if you tried to apply logic to this place, you just succeeded in giving yourself a headache. Regardless, at least wardrobe wise, she had graduated to the demented tweety bird jumpsuit.

 

She wore the Starfleet issue sleeveless uniform tee shirt and tank top combo, which left her tattooed upper arms bare. Half bent over the work table set within the office, the Irish mechanic was double checking the schematics for the aviation birds that she’d be working on today. The office area, like all administrative sections down here on the lower hanger decks, was a study in controlled chaos; tool belts thrown here and there, various paper schematics either rolled up or spread out on the tables, digital schematics stored on this padd or that data padd or tacked up on the cork board as a data flimsie printout, tools, and perhaps a dried puddle of oil that the cleaning crew hadn’t gotten to yet. Mechanics and deck chiefs and squad leaders were also constantly streaming in and out, grabbing this tool or that work order.

 

As Banshee was visually perusing her schematic of choice and bent over, a strong hand cupped her left butt cheek with a solid smack.

 

Banshee Farrell and Collum Gunter had an understanding with one another; he was allowed to fondle her ass, and she was not allowed to deck him. The tall Irish woman smiled and easily turned to grab the big Scot and give him a hard kiss on the mouth, falling into the old routine with an ease born of practice. Honestly, even if the two humans weren’t from the same geographic area of Earth, Farrell was pretty sure the two of them would have still hit it off.

 

His weather beaten features lightened with a smile, and he regarded his sometimes girlfriend and all the time sex partner with a genuine look of affection. “Now that’s what I call a good morning kiss.” He lifted her by the back of the thighs onto the work counter, plopping her rear end on the surface, and settled himself between her spread legs as his big hands moved and started to massage her lower back in rhythmic circles.

 

“It’s the least I could do after last night there Collum.” Farrell practically purred and her ice blue eyes danced with equal parts affection and mischievousness

 

He gave a good natured chuckle. “Aye, last night was an adventure, and I’m sure we freaked out the neighbors a wee bit. But, it was the least I could do considering you’ll be shipping out at some point. And, I’m still takin’ ya out to dinner at one of the fancy restaurants on the Promenade. I’m even planning to clean under my fingernails for the occasion, and break out my best civilian outfit, the one I use for funerals and weddings.”

 

One of the junior grunts, a young human who had recently come into his own and gotten comfortable with the job, people, and duties down here on the lower decks, called over from the other side of the office, in a mock suffering voice. “Yes, I may never be the same again after hearing all that grunting and moaning through the bulkhead … and did I hear a sheep or was that just sheep related noises from the two of you?”

 

The few assembled mechanics and deck hands broke out into shared laughter at the bawdy joke, including Banshee and Collum. They all worked hard, played hard, and joked hard. If you couldn’t take the heat on the lower decks of Camelot, then you had no place within the enlisted ranks.

 

“I rrreally hate to brrreak this little comedy and laugh fest up, but there are some pilots who will be waiting on your sh*ttin’ repairs today. How about we get this shift moving along?”

 

The growled speech cut through the levity like a knife, and half a dozen heads turned to latch onto Jagrissa “Jumper” Honor-Scar, a Caitian feline pilot attached to the Wildcard squad. Banshee and Jumper did not get along, and it was best to give them both a wide berth when the commissioned officer and enlisted officer got into it. The enlisted mechanics and deck hands who had been in the office quickly muttered goodbyes or something about attending to their duties. Only Collum, Banshee, and Jumper remained, and the stony silence that descended on the semi-enclosed administrative area was palpable.

 

The tawny furred Caitian officer swaggered up to the older enlisted mechanics, and tried to put some intimidation into the whole act. But, to be honest, if it wasn’t for the claws and fangs, the hissing and the tail switching back and forth, Jumper was still a young kid just trying to find her way in life and failing miserably with the various detours of her own choosing. Banshee saw right through the act because she herself had been in that same position many moons ago. The question was would Jumper pull herself out of her destructive habits as Farrell had? Or would the young feline continue her downward career spiral?

 

Collum pulled away from Farrell with the parting words of “watch yourself” before adopting a relaxed parade rest in a knee jerk training deference to the presence of a junior officer … even if that junior officer didn’t deserve the respect of the attention stance.

 

Jagrissa’s tail lashed and she let loose with a low snarl. “What are the two of you waiting for? You have your orders, get out there and fix our gods damn fighter shuttles.”

 

Farrell, who had pointedly stayed in her seated position on the work table, now hopped down and landed with a thud of her combat boots on the decking. Usually Banshee was reserved whenever the cat tried to get in her face and goad the human woman, but the Irish officer decided that she would be havin’ none of this targ sh*t today.

 

Looking right at the shorter and uppity feline, Banshee’s facial expression was hard and unyielding, and her blue eyes held a dangerous glint in them. “Actually, before tending to my official duties I was sort o’ plannin’ on tending to an unofficial one that would probably be appreciated by everyone on this deck right now, hell, probably the whole damn station. Honor-Scar I’m going to turn you over my knee and beat your little furry arse until you cry for your squad leader.”

 

Collum’s jaw dropped and he didn’t know whether to run like the dickens out of the office or be all manly and try to step in the middle of any sort of female scrapping and try and stop it.

 

Honor-Scar obviously vacillated between fear and a feral reaction to the threat, before finally giving into a snarl and beckoning Banshee with her paws in a “let’s do it” gesture … right after she gave the human a gesture that was considered rude on like, four planets.

 

Banshee wasted no time, and went into action while the cat was still busy posturing with her gestures; she moved faster then you would give a human credit for, probably owing to the few bar brawls she had experienced in her time. Farrell certainly had the scars to show for the fights, and the bottom line was she was a down and dirty brawler through and through. This “training” gave her an advantage over the green commissioned officer

 

The Irish enlisted officer quickly grabbed the feline by an arm and the scruff of the neck, bringing her upper body down while her knee came up and impacted with the younger feline’s midsection. She jerked Jumper back up and then let go so she could backhand her across the snoot. The Caitian saw stars and then fell down, slamming hard into the decking. Jumper didn’t recover from the assault, and stayed down on the decking in a confused and semi-conscious state.

 

The one sided exchange of blows had taken all of about five seconds, and now Collum Gunter looked like he was indeed about to crap a brick. “Margaret!”, and he used her given name, so the situation must be bad, “What’re you doing girl? Ya just struck an officer!?”

 

Farrell worked her sore hand, trying to get feeling back into the fingers. “Don’t worry ‘bout it. Help me get her on top of that anti gravity transport pallet. She can sleep my administrative punishment off over there and nobody’ll step on her or something.”

 

Collum easily picked up the semi-conscious feline and moved her to the little flat transport pallet that was parked off to the side and within easy access to the open doorway. Once the feline was settled, Farrell pressed two fingers to the officer’s neck, just double checking that the pulse was strong. Nodding, Banshee was satisfied with the results and backed away from Honor-Scar. Collum was still a bit thunderstruck. “What’dya mean, don’t worry about it?! The camera just recorded you decking a freakin’ officer!”

 

“The camera has experienced a technical glitch and is currently being repaired.” Her tone came out deadpan, and she pointed a finger out the large picture window set at the front of the office with a view of the hanger deck area.

 

Gunters gaze shot to the window and he looked out onto the outer area beyond the office, just beyond the doorway and right before you set foot on the hanger deck proper; the automated camera affixed to one of the dividing bulkheads had its visual data feed covered with a greasy rag. The deckhands who had vacated the office area now stood around under the security camera location and everyone waved jauntily back at Collum as he stared out at them.

 

He turned his gaze back on his sometimes girlfriend. “Honor-Scar can still file a formal report against ya! It’s a court martial offense!”

 

Farrell was calm, cool and downright collected. She shrugged her jumpsuit on the rest of the way, zipping up the top portion of the work uniform. “It’s her word against mine, and her word really doesn’t hold much stock around here anymore.”

 

To answer Gunter’s still questioning gaze, she pointed to the ensign insignia visible on the young cat’s black pilot jumpsuit. “Honor-Scar’s been busted all the way down to ensign, in case you didn’t pick up on that little doo dad pin there. She’s been busted down to acting ensign as a matter of fact, and the lower decks scuttlebutt making the rounds also claims that Wildcard Squad Leader Kendrick is fed up with the cat and her constant rogue firebrand act, and is jockeying to get her outta the Wildcards permanent. Honor-Scars already been booted out of her old wingman position, and there’s just been too many disciplinary infractions to ignore anymore. And the rumors aren’t confirmed yet, but there’s enough stories going around to corroborate that the internal transfer might be taken one step further. Lord help me, I’m hoping it ain’t true, but supposedly the feline is due to ship out to the same star ship duty station that I’m scheduled to transfer to. Not my choice, and we all need to go where command sends even if it is an ass backwards assignment.”

 

Gunter just sighed. It was sad to see someone so young p*ss away a promising career. “Think she’ll pull out of it?”

 

Farrell snorted. “I did. But, she ain’t me and at this point, the decision is entirely up to her. C’mon, we’ve farted around enough today. Let’s get the squads to work on the repair jobs for today before we get another junior pilot in here raggin’ on us who don’t know their place.”