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Lt Commander Foster - In My Boot

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OOC: I can always count on a Wyn post for a laugh!



((Ballroom C-10, Starbase 118))

Wyn had his hair actually truly styled.

A rare occasion for sure, but his conversation with Sheila Bailey had prompted Wyn to visit that irritating neurosurgeon Jos to take a look at his damaged antennae and after a long discussion on future treatment options – none of which he was excited about, but all of which he should consider.

It had, at least, offered some pain moderation that allowed him to, among other things, get his rather terribly shaggy hair cut.

Now it was sleek, fluffy, brushed to one side and wisping gently around his antennae.  Distinguished almost.  He had a high-necked white shirt, an asymmetric fitted silver vest and charcoal slacks that emphasized his wiry runner’s physique.  Clearly he had gotten the memo as ogled the ballroom looking lost.   

Blackwell: Wyn, over here.

Ah, a beacon.  Nice.  He pivoted and went towards the call.

Yael:  ::trying to smile genuinely as the Andorian joined them::  Wyn, good to see you.  You look amazing.  ::then, to Rue::  Both of you do.

Pause.  Both antennae and eyes gravitated towards Yael.  There was something … off … about him.  If he was being cavalier he would guess hangover.

Foster:  Thanks.  So, what’s up?

Blackwell: We were about to get some water - care to join us?

His gaze went towards Rue.  Her eyes slid to Ashley.  Then the water.  Then Ashley.


Ok, absolutely hangover.

Foster:  Sure, water sounds great.

He sounded a little too happy about water.

Sliding beside Ashley he fell into step.

Yael:  ::to Wyn::  I wasn’t sure if you’d gotten an invite.  Glad you could attend.

Blackwell: Why don’t I go grab the drinks, and you two can find us a place to people watch for a moment so we can get a lay of the land?

Drinks.  Well technically water was a drink.  A pretty [...] poor drink if you asked Wyn.

Nobody had asked Wyn.

It was also not lost on him that Ashley ‘don’t you touch me’ Yael had linked arms with Prudence ‘touchy feely’ Blackwell.

What kind of voodoo black magic was that?

Yael:  Have you gotten sight of any of the artifacts?  They’re being quite secretive so far.  Terribly curious what sort of items they have to justify such finery.

Foster:  Artifacts?  ::Clearly he had not especially been listening.:: They were all pretty covered up.

Saved by the Rue, who stuffed a glad of water in his hand.  He sipped his own to cover up his [...] pas, watching Yael, doing backflips of mental doctor-calculations.

Absolutely a hangover. 

Yael:  ::sighing lightly in somewhat transparent relief::  Thank you.  ::beat::  You had your hands full there.

Blackwell: No worries at all. Balancing drinks is just one of my many skills.

Foster:  And you do it with grace.  ::he smiled towards her.::

Blackwell/Yael: ?

Eyes drifting between Rue and Ashley he gestured towards the tables.

Foster: Maybe we should sit down?  Find our names or something.

Blackwell/Yael: ?

Foster: You know, sit down before you fall down.

He regretted it after he said it, looking at Ashley with a doctorly skepticism

Blackwell/Yael: ?

His expression softened and he tried to recover with a compassionate offer.

Foster: If you ask nicely I have a medkit and I can administer hangover medicine.

Which would also require Ashley to admit the hangover.  Carrot.  Stick.  Check.

Blackwell/Yael: ?

He pulled back, looking a bit chagrined.

Foster: In my boot.  ::He pulled a perfectly fitted wallet-fold custom medkit from his polished boot.:: I always have at least one medkit on my person at all times.

And he meant it.  He usually had three, each set with a priority order of specific medical items.

Blackwell/Yael: ?


Lt Commander Shar’Wyn Foster
Chief Surgeon
StarBase 118 Ops

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