"In the Chair"

[OdileCondacin 0]

Odile flinched as another console started to spark, then hissed as anti-inflammatory measures kicked in. What a grozing mess she had on her hands.

 

She glared at one of the controls on the miserably-flickering display closest to Harper's chair, slightly mollified by the readout; that there were a few repairs underway was lovely, of course; she already knew that there were some things that were getting "fixed" -- their comm systems being the prime example -- and others which were in the process of being "fixed". The torpedo tube, for example. That was something they were "fixing". And it was something Odile was going to be very happy about once it indeed was fixed.

 

In short, she was trying very hard to keep herself from thinking too hard about the fact that she was the ranking officer on Alpha bridge, and therefore, by some cruel stroke of divine* will, was at least de facto in command. Even though Harper and the cat were okay... even if they were out and unable to do colonel-like things, the current situation was terrifying. Odile wasn't entirely sure that she liked this whole "command of situation" thing. For if something went wrong -- which happened fairly regularly -- Odile would be help responsible. It did, after all, tend to turn out that way.

 

What a lovely time for this calamity to strike, too. It wasn't like they could go unconscious on a quiet day. No no no. They had to choose the worst possible time to be knocked out. Now Odile was left with the joyous decision of whether or not to slink back and let Agincourt lick her wounds, or to charge into battle screaming foul oaths at the blue bastards.

 

Odile, for reasons that to her seemed fairly obvious, had chosen the latter. After all, there were Starfleet ships out there that needed help as much as Agincourt, and by a bit of divine providence, they'd managed to stumble upon a weakness that could be exploited with the combined firepower of a few ships' torps and phaser arrays. Therefore, into the clusterjumble went Agincourt, even if Condacin expected there to be a few mumblings from various greasy-goldshirts later. After they survived, of course.

 

With a tense sigh, she tried to sit back in The Chair, pretending for all the worlds like she belonged there. She really didn't, despite what all of those nasty people and the equally nasty deities kept trying to elbow her into. Officer commissions, promotions, and now this. Somewhere, she knew there was a dog-eared admiral who would be rather entertained once he heard of this. She also planned to have a stern talk with Harper about going unconscious in the middle of battles. That simply wouldn't do. And for that matter, she also planned to have an even longer talk with any potential Soltan captives they took, and explain exactly how much she liked being shot at. That would feel rather good.

 

Assuming they lived, of course. That would also be a plus.

 

* - As an OOC note, divine in this case may refer to the cruel, insidious whims of the gamemasters. They may choose to blame it on the gods if they so prefer.