Post by Lt. Commander Cobus Rok on Jun 24, 2012 19:17:59 GMT -8
Workaholism was a disease. It was like Tuvan syndrome: degenerative and incurable. There were three PADDs lying in a heap to one side, and a fourth in his hand, drafting his report.
But there was more.
There was that sad realization when you'd been gone for so long that your hot date for the evening had finished their shift, showered, gone to bed, and started work all over again before you'd even made it home.
Cobus had committed to the all-impressive accomplishment of being a single person taking up an entire table. A small mountain of food was also present. There was something about a long away mission that made you crave real food, not the replicated stuff. It was that very craving that had woken him from his nap and shoved his nose back to the grindstone.
He was one of those try everything sorts of people, and by some miracle or gift of spacial-reasoning, he'd managed to fit every buffet item on his plate. Well, maybe it was two plates, but only to prevent a moussaka landslide. Rouge meat sauce could be very dangerous.
He still couldn't believe his Mehtak ship had blown up. Seriously, he'd gone over his tricorder data a hundred times and he still didn't see anything that would have indicated an explosive from his early scans. His report sounded horribly defensive even in his head, but he knew all of his superiors would start clamoring for it if he didn't get one in soon. They could be so demanding sometimes.
Fortunately, there was that thing called "spin," and many years ago, when he'd been a politician (not him exactly) he'd been pretty good at it.
Right now his report read something like: Dear Starfleet, I extensively scanned and flew a ship completely unknown to the federation in extraordinary measures and saved numerous crew members from a hostile threat, and you're worried about a tiny explosion that harmed...no one? Perspective. xoxo Cobus. (Except for the part where it was way less snarky and insolent, because frankly, he loved his job).
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But there was more.
There was that sad realization when you'd been gone for so long that your hot date for the evening had finished their shift, showered, gone to bed, and started work all over again before you'd even made it home.
Cobus had committed to the all-impressive accomplishment of being a single person taking up an entire table. A small mountain of food was also present. There was something about a long away mission that made you crave real food, not the replicated stuff. It was that very craving that had woken him from his nap and shoved his nose back to the grindstone.
He was one of those try everything sorts of people, and by some miracle or gift of spacial-reasoning, he'd managed to fit every buffet item on his plate. Well, maybe it was two plates, but only to prevent a moussaka landslide. Rouge meat sauce could be very dangerous.
He still couldn't believe his Mehtak ship had blown up. Seriously, he'd gone over his tricorder data a hundred times and he still didn't see anything that would have indicated an explosive from his early scans. His report sounded horribly defensive even in his head, but he knew all of his superiors would start clamoring for it if he didn't get one in soon. They could be so demanding sometimes.
Fortunately, there was that thing called "spin," and many years ago, when he'd been a politician (not him exactly) he'd been pretty good at it.
Right now his report read something like: Dear Starfleet, I extensively scanned and flew a ship completely unknown to the federation in extraordinary measures and saved numerous crew members from a hostile threat, and you're worried about a tiny explosion that harmed...no one? Perspective. xoxo Cobus. (Except for the part where it was way less snarky and insolent, because frankly, he loved his job).
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