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Lt. Shayne: Consequences


Maxwell Traenor
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((Deck 7, Shayne's Quarters, USS Darwin-A))
 
::The room would be considered chilly by most humans, downright frigid by Vulcans, and almost seasonal to Andorians. He liked it cold. It seemed that the temperature of his surroundings was directly proportional to his ever-temperamental stomach. The hotter he was, the more uncomfortable he felt.::

::His quarters were spartan. Small things that no one else would recognize decorated the room here and there. A framed patch collection, cultivated over the years, hung on the wall. A small table stood near the chair in which he now reclined. Upon it, a pyramid shaped candle, and a stack of subtle incense burned. A velvet-lined case lay open upon it as well.::

::The robes were bulky, but comfortable and dignified. As he sat, staring at the stars out the porthole, his fingers caressed his flute. The smooth wooden finish felt good in his hands. He'd had it specially modified so that it could play a wider range of notes. The melody was slow, and mystical, and sad, and wonderful. No sheet music sat before him, and he hadn't memorized anything. The music came from him. From the heart. He didn't know where he was going with it, and he had no interest in remembering it as he went along. There wasn't a present, or a past, or a future. He just was. The world was, at least temporarily, small, and static, and peaceful.::

::He really wished they hadn't had to leave nem. It wasn't for Iy's sake. As far as Shayne was concerned, the mutinous, traitorous, feckless pile of targ gosa could rot in the lowest corner of the underworld. So then why did he feel so torn about leaving nem? It was obvious that he hated what his martial arts mentor had turned out to be, and was grateful that he hadn't exactly been friends with nem. But you'd think that with all the technological excellence at their disposal, they could complete a rescue mission, even under those difficult conditions.::
 
::His musings were cut short by a sudden rush of adrenaline. It surged through him, soiling his calm mood. His body involuntarily clenched. He swallowed hard, as his heart dropped as if he was in a free-falling turbolift. His limbs tingled in a most unpleasant way, and his face was scrunched. Clumsily, he lowered himself to his knees, where he jerkily leaned forward, inhaling some of the potent incense like his life depended on it. A single gasping weep escaped his lips as the full brunt of the anxiety attack washed over him. He was completely overwhelmed. Every one of his senses was confusedly urging him to run, to hide, to fight, to scream. Everything looked threatening, everything was a monster prepared to relieve him of his life. The more he tried to suppress his overactive imagination, the more graphic the images became. In his mind's eye, the bulkhead directly beside him ripped open with an ear-rending shriek of metal, and he watched as his perspective became that of the story playing out inside his mind. He found himself lifted, quickly and mercilessly, out of his quarters and into the godless cold of space. He tumbled and spun, his arms and legs flailing madly as he instinctively sought some purchase on dry, stable ground. The stars zoomed pass sickeningly quickly. He couldn't breathe. He couldn't breathe!::
 
::He couldn't hold back any longer. With an almighty retching sound, he gagged. The minimal, fluidic contents of his stomach came up and redecorated a small part of his carpeted floor. His face was beet red. The pressure that had been placed on the back of his eyes during the long, painful upchuck had broken several of his ocular blood vessels. He now had the vague appearance of an inebriated raccoon. But that was the last thing on his mind. Perhaps, perhaps, he might finally get some sleep. Exhaustion and sleep deprivation was one of the most unpleasant things he'd ever been forced to endure, as it seemed that it was occurring with some frequency nowadays. Maybe though, now that he was physically drained and mentally... broken, was as apt a word as any, he could...drift...::
 
::Before he lost total consciousness, he moved himself to the recliner, where he collapsed, eyes closed before he'd even hit the fluffy pillows. The last thought he had before drifting off was that he should compose something for Isabel as soon as he could. He'd never done anything like it, but he was at the point where possible and impossible didn't mean a thing. He loved her. He would do it.::
 
TBC...
 
Lieutenant Randal Shayne
Helmsman 
USS Darwin
NCC 99312-A
G239202RS0   

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