SIM:Whale: Waking Up in Vegas
Waking Up in Vegas
(( SOMEWHERE ))
:: The brightness was killing him. Against his better judgement, Lieutenant Commander David Whale -- currently on a leave of absence from Starfleet -- slowly opened on eye, squinting against the shaft of brilliantly painful simulated morning sunlight that lanced its way ever so happily through the half-closed blinds and straight into his horrifically hung-over head. ::
:: Another groan, shutting his eyes against the light briefly, then slowly -- and very, very gingerly, shoving himself into some approximation of a sitting position. Forearms resting on his knees, Whale was so hunched over, his head was practically between his knees. ::
WHALE: Bloody hell...
:: The words had been whispered, but their sound still made him wince slightly. Opening his eyes again -- a little, anyway -- he slowly looked around the room. It was all done up in dark oak and red satin and gold accent.s Where the hell-? The thought was cut off by a low moan from the other side of the bed, quickly followed by the loud thump of a body hitting the floor. Looking over, Whale saw a pale arm reach up and grab a handful of sheet and a moment later, the tousled red hair of Doctor Fiona Shelley came into view. Shelley looked every bit as horrible as Whale felt. ::
SHELLEY: Oh god...
WHALE: I know.
:: She too looked around through narrowed eyes. ::
SHELLEY: Where are we?
:: Whale stood. There was a pitcher of water and two glasses on a table nearby and he concentrated very hard on getting to it. Pouring a glass took even more concentration. ::
WHALE: No idea.
:: Their first priority would have to be replicating some kind of hangover cure. Whale supposed that was a major advantage to waking up like this beside a doctor -- she’d know exactly what to... Whale turned as Shelley made her way to the bathroom with surprising speed given her condition. And he just as quickly heard the unmistakable sound of vomiting. Yes, he was sure she’d be replicating a hangover antidote pretty damn quickly. ::
:: Taking a sip of water, he gently lowered himself into a ridiculously plush armchair. The two of them -- he and Shelley -- had been through a lot the past few months and while neither one of them was prone to night of drunken revelry, they’d both badly needed to just cut loose and lose themselves for a while. They’d both come face-to-face with the Borg, or some modified version of them, from what Ensign Cain had pieced together, and seen so many people assimilated that they just needed to remind themselves they were alive. It was the main reason Whale had taken a leave of absence that coincided with Shelley’s medical leave. He just needed time to breath, time without Starfleet, time without orders and responsibilities and crises. ::
:: But now what he really needed was time without a headache. ::
WHALE: Fiona? You okay?
:: In the small washroom, Shelley rinsed out her mouth and nodded. And then remembered Whale couldn’t see her. ::
FIONA: Yeah. I’ll be fine. :: pause :: I think.
:: Brushing her hair back, she splashed cold water on her face. She had no idea what she’d had to drink the night before- she frowned. She had no memory of the night before at all. It was a complete blank. Splashing more water on her face, she towelled off and looked at her left hand and forearm. Her NEW left hand and forearm. The skin was still a little too pink, but the genetically engineered replacement skin was well on its way to adapting to her natural skin tone, and the underlying cybernetics had been very skillfully made. She wouldn’t be performing surgery in the near future, but she’d already adapted enough that she felt she could get back to work fairly soon. Having ordered a marine medic to sever her arm just below the elbow had been a panic move on Shelley’s part. A Borg drone aboard the fully-assimilated USS Nimitz had injected nanoprobes into the back of her hand and the impromptu amputation had save Shelley’s life. And then, as she looked at her new hand, she froze, frowning. A ring. She was wearing a ring on her ditigus annularis -- her ring finger. A Starfleet Academy class ring... ::
SHELLEY: Class of 2263... oh frell. David!
:: She winced at the volume of her voice as she exited the washroom and went back into the main area, where Whale waited, handing her a glass of water. ::
WHALE: What’s wrong?
SHELLEY: Did we... do you remember anything about last night?
:: Her frown deepened. ::
SHELLEY: Or the last few days, really?
:: Thinking for a moment, Whale had a transient flash of himself, standing on a bar with a huge metal mug in his hand, toasting the sons of Odin, whatever the hell that meant. And he was pretty sure he’d worn his kilt at some point. But that was all he could remember and he told Shelley so. ::
SHELLEY: I think... I mean, we may have... look.
:: She held up her hand, showing him the ring. ::
WHALE: Hey, that’s my class ring. From first time around, I mean. How come you’re...
:: He trailed off, and looked into Shelley’s eyes. ::
WHALE: Frell. We didn’t. Did we?
:: Shelley stared for a few moments. No, of course they didn’t. That was ridiculous -- they were responsible adults, they would never... get so completely drunk they didn’t remember anything. Oh god. She looked at Whale as he picked up a small, folded piece of parchment paper from the table. The handwriting was immaculate, if slightly flowery, but Shelley’s eyes wouldn’t focus properly to read it. Whale read it aloud. ::
WHALE: “Congratulations! I hope you like what we did with your quarters. Eternally yours, Roxy.”
:: Well, at least he knew they’d been on Starbase 118 at some point -- Roxy was one of the ladies who ran the tea room. And that certainly explained the decor of their current location. Of course, Starbase 118 also had several fly-by-night wedding chapels. His hangover suddenly felt worse. ::
:: She handed him a vial of a thin, yellowish liquid that kind of looked like urine. ::
SHELLEY: I know what it looks like, but just drink it. It will work on the headache, the light sensitivity and the stomach.
:: He didn’t need any further convincing and downed it in one gulp. Thankfully, it didn’t taste like urine. Not that he knew what urine tasted like. ::
WHALE: Okay. So. We need to figure out what happened over the last few days.
SHELLEY: Let’s start with where we are.
:: He nodded. ::
WHALE: Computer... what is my current location?
COMPUTER: Current location is deck four, United Star Ship Drake, NCC 1987.
:: Drake...? ::
WHALE: No, seriously computer. Where am I?
COMPUTER: Current location is seriously deck four, USS Drake.
:: Shelley’s concoction had made his head feel better, but the computer was beginning to counteract it. And then the door chime went off. ::
WHALE: Who is it?
WESTON: It's Oliver.
:: With a frown -- and a squint against the too-bright corridor lighting -- Whale opened the door. ::
WHALE: Oliver Weston. :: pause :: I thought you were back on the Drake.
:: Oliver leaned back at that comment. He couldn't have been that drunk. Right? ::
WESTON: I am. And so are you. :: Oliver peered up and over the Lieutenant Commanders shoulder at the lavish room beyond. :: Though it looks like Roxy went above and beyond to make it look like the Tea Room.
:: Whale glanced at the ornately-decorated room behind him. ::
WHALE: Yeah, kinda looks like the Tea Room, doesn’t it? :: beat :: So... what the hell am I doing on the Drake?
WESTON: :: Oliver blinked repeatedly. :: You - Seriously? Ahem. Okay well you and the good Doctor have been aboard the Drake for the last few days. Before we made it to the convoy the three of us and a few non comms I know went out for drinks. But that was two days ago Commander.
:: Whale nodded, as if he remembered anything about it, hoping he was doing a convincing job and knowing he wasn’t. So, he had, at some point over the past several days, not only officially transferred to the Drake, but actually moved in. ::
WHALE: So... um... Mister Weston. Question for you. Have I actually started working here yet?
WESTON: Your leave ended officially this morning actually. I suppose that's why no one bothered you. I've come to get you moving as it were.
:: Well that was a bit of a relief. ::
WHALE: Okay. Last one. :: beat :: What do I do? I mean, what’s my job?
WESTON: :: Oliver patted the Commander on the shoulder and laughed aloud. :: You're Chief of Security Commander. Welcome aboard the Drake.
:: Again, Whale nodded. ::
WHALE: Thanks, Ensign, I owe you one. And, uh, this conversation never happened, right?
WESTON: What conversation? :: Oliver grinned and turned on his heel. ::
:: Chuckling slightly, Whale waved at the man. ::
WHALE: You have no idea, Mister Weston -- NO IDEA.
:: As the door slid closed, Whale went to what was apparently his closet and found what was apparently his new uniform. ::