RP Log: On Mousetraps, Part I
| Roleplay Log | |
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Location(s):
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Stardate:
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| 2023-08-20 08:48 | |
Knock from Out: *bang bang bang* A voice calls from the other side of the door. Hello? Is there anyone in there? *bang bang bang* Hello?
- Security Complex <USS Phoenix NCC-170100-A>
- The corridors of the security complex are spacious and allow for easy access to the various offices and compartments of the department. The walls and bulkheads are an unpainted titanium that reflects a natural blue-like tinge. This is accentuated by horizontal and vertical inlays in the walls of a slightly darker blue tinge, creating a half-meter square tile-like effect. The carpeting down the center of the corridor is a deep maroon with a thin band of light-grey trim, then to the walls it is a roughly a half-meter wide mocha-colour. Recessed lighting in the ceiling and along the floor boards provides ample illumination, adjusting in colour as the alert status of the vessel changes. Black, glossy panelling runs intermittently along the bulkheads at shoulder height, allowing access to the LCARS interface.
Hawthorn is arguing with some security officers just outside the Security Chief's office door. She's tiny, but apparently rather mean. The security guys are trying to reason with her, but she's not having any of it. "Because I need to, as I've already told you idiots," says the Terran scientist, her eyes going back and forth between glaring at the security guys and rolling in exasperation. She has her hands on her hips clenched into fists.
The knocking on the office door was a bit more insistant than T'Shaav expects, so she actually comes out. Then again, the human may have been seeking someone else, so she appraises the scene and says, "Doctor Hawthorn. I believe that was you on the door. Were you seeking Commander Worthington, or myself?" She regards the human scientist.
Hawthorn is in the process of opening her mouth to berate someone again when she hears T'Shaav's voice. She turns toward the Chief's door to face the Vulcan, transferring her glare from the security guys. Hawthorn looks T'Shaav up and down. "Is that dipshit security Lieutenant Captain what the hell ever guy in there?" she asks with a nod at the office door.
"Commander Worthington is not," the Vulcan says. "I am overseeing some matters in security these days, as security is my background. Perhaps we should step inside." She turns towards the CSec's office, looking to see that the agitated scientist is coming.
Hawthorn wrinkles her nose and rolls her eyes again. "Yeah, maybe we should," she says, then barges into the office.
- Chief of Security's Office - Saucer <USS Phoenix NCC-170100-A
- This dedicated office is large and designed to meet the needs of the officer and billet assigned to it. The carpet is steel-blue with navy-blue trim, with the bulkheads, walls, and furniture in a subdued pewter colour. The room is bathed in a soft glow from the overhead lighting panels, and a glossy black panel set into the bulkhead opposite the door provides access to an LCARS interface. A sizeable desk is positioned in the center of the room, with a tall backed swivel chair behind it. A display curves out of the desk with a touchpad set into the desk at its base, and on the opposite end is a tall, built-in lamp. In front of the desk are two mid-sized chairs, and two workstations are built into the bulkheads on either side of the room in small cubicles.
T'Shaav enters the office slightly behind the scientist. She crosses to the replicator, saying, "Can I get you anything, Doctor? Please sit down and tell me why you are so urgently seeking security."
Hawthorn ignores the offer of refreshments. She also doesn't sit as was suggested. Instead she puts her fists on her hips again and scowls. "Do you have an answer yet in the question of who killed that girl?" she demands.
"No, I do not," T'Shaav says. "Her killers have thus far eluded me. Have you heard or seen something, Doctor?"
"Not a God damned thing, and that's the point," Hawthorn nearly spits. "How many weeks have we known that there's a killer running around on this ship somewhere? And how long are we going to accept the fact that this person is free to move around and do whatever they want? Are you people doing anything at all besides asking whether I have seen something?"
The Terran's agitation doesn't phaze the Vulcan, of course. "Plenty. Have you never wondered why the ship's executive officer is running a murder investigation?" She inquires mildly. "Doctor, I will be candid with you. Our killers have kept one step ahead of us, in part, because of computer sabotage that has allowed them some advantages, advantages we have only recently nullified thanks to the Corps of Engineers." She studies your face and body language as the interview goes on.
Hawthorn clicks her tongue. "Did I ever wonder?" she asks with heavy sarcasm. "Until I walked in that door just now, I didn't know you were running the investigation. So, no. I never wondered," she answers tartly. "But good, you've gotten some help from the outside. Maybe, just maybe, you'll be able to get something done now." She grumbles something under her breath that sounds suspiciously like, 'high and mighty Starfleet'. Then, as if that grumble has somehow fueled her fire, she asks just as tartly as before, "Don't you Starfleet types have a reputation for being super freaking resourceful? Aren't you supposed to be the ones who can solve any problem, get to the bottom of any God damned mystery? Since when did you strutting Starfleet people ever complained that you can't get the job done because your precious computer isn't working right? Is the computer the only freaking tool you have?"
"You know, Doctor Hawthorn, I have had many decades to observe Terran behavior," the Vulcan says. "I have seen them lie. I have seen them tell the truth. I have seen them bluster, and I have seen them afraid." A considering pause. "Did you come here solely with the intent of berating Commander Worthington for not yet catching the killers? Or perhaps, you had another reason?" She suggests.
"So, no answers to my questions," the scientist says acidly. "Why am I not surprised?" She sighs, crosses her arms under her breasts, and visibly makes an effort to cool her temper a bit. "You're aware, no doubt, that we're currently orbiting a planet where live a bunch of displaced Terrans... humans... who, right up to the point at which we arrived, have been actively engaged in hunting sentient non-human species that live along side them, and they were doing it for fun... for sport."" She pauses to see what, if any, reaction she gets from the Vulcan.
"Thus far, you have not asked any specific questions," the Vulcan says. "Sarcasm notwithstanding. But as regards what you just mentioned, I am aware of that fact. What about it, Doctor?"
Hawthorn's lip twitches in annoyance, but she manages not to explode. "This girl that was killed," she explains through partly clenched teeth. "Was the victem of some kind of racist humanist bullshit left over from that..." She snaps her jaws shut, clearly changes what she was about to say, then goes on. "That Admiral Hauser's group of murdering followers." She pauses again.
"That is true," the Vulcan says. "In fact, there is evidence to suggest they were interrogating her about something when she died." She lets that one hang a moment. "I have been pursuing the matter across the ship, interviewing her cabinmates, her acquaintances and coworkers. Miss Jenkins kept largely to herself, doctor, at least on this ship. I intend to keep interviewing people. You never know when someone will provide a piece of information, even a small one, that leads to a solution. Someone, or some ones, caught up with her and killed her most brutally, doctor, and I shall not rest until those persons are under arrest." There is a slight hardening in the Vulcan's eyes.
Hawthorn closes her eyes, her lips moving as she counts backward from ten. When she gets to zero she opens her eyes again and says in a barely controlled tone, "Alright, great. You're going to talk to more people, ask more questions, see what you can find out, because that's been working soooooo well for you up to this point." She grumbles to herself again, then says more clearly, "Don't you have people on this ship whose job it is to work on the same level as this killer you're looking for? They're not out there telling people who and what they are. Hi, I'm Jerry, and I'm a racist murdering bastard. Want to have a drink?" She rolls her eyes again. "They work behind the scenes, underground, in secret, in the shadows, that sort of thing. Do you not have people on this ship who know how to be seen without being seen? Spies? Intelligence people? Something like that?"
"Are you volunteering, Doctor?" The Vulcan inquires. "Consider this. There may be such people. How do I know I can trust them? The killer could be a security officer or intelligence analyst by day, a humanist sympathizer underneath."
"So all of the people on this ship with that sort of background are humans?" asks the scientist, still with plenty of sarcasm. "If so, I'd say someone somewhere did a shitty job in choosing who they were sending on this mission. Despite what these humanist pricks choose to believe, diversity is a major ingredient in the success of any project, especially a long term one like an exploration mission into deep space."
"There are many Humans onboard with the requisite background," the Vulcan says. "In addition, I have reason to suspect involvement by someone in this department, though I cannot presently prove that." a beat. "Nor can an Andorian or a Vulcan or a Telarite reasonably hope to gain the confidence of such racially motivated people. What would be required is a human who is beyond suspicion and who is willing to take on a potentially dangerous undercover assignment, attempting to contact and infiltrate this conspiracy."
What little control Hawthorn has on her temper is beginning to fray. "But you don't trust your humans," she snarls. "You're afraid that if you ask the wrong person to get involved, they might make things more difficult for you. How difficult is it right now, hmm? How much progress are you making without taking risks? You, a Vulcan, are going to be so crippled by fear that you're not going to take the chance that someone might get a peek behind the curtain. So, you're just going to continue plodding the fuck along not getting any closer to catching this killer, when we're probably about to have a bunch of displaced racist refugees from the surface of this planet loading their racist asses onto this ship. What, in your logical mind, do you think might happen if our racist humanist asshole gets free access to a shit ton of other racist humans without the need to indoctrinate them into thinking along their racist humanist asshole ways? Then, we send these racist refugees back to the Federation to start a new Admiral Hauser style movement? We start all over from scratch again? You'd rather take that risk?"
"An interesting analysis, Doctor," the Vulcan says. "I will consider your point. Are you offering to help?"
Hawthorn blinks. "If I can find some way to help, then of course I will. But if you're asking if I'm such a person who knows how to work in the shadows, no. The only work I do in the shadows involves a lot of sweating, panting, and naked skin."
"Indeed," T'Shaav says wryly. "If you are willing, here is what you do. If you happen to discover anyone of the sort we have been speaking of, perhaps in Ten Forward or somewhere else, pay attention. If they want to befriend you, play along. And let me know of it. Meanwhile, I will consider your point, and I have much work yet to do."
Hawthorn raises her brows. "You want me to be on the lookout for spy types? Maybe in 10 Forward?" she asks in disbelief. "You don't already have a list of people on this ship who..." She trails off, rolls her eyes, and puts her hands on her head. For a moment, she looks like she might start pulling out her own hair, but she doesn't. "Christ!" she exclaims. "We're never going to catch this son of a bitch." She turns and stalks toward the door. "I guess the only thing left to do is speak to the Captain about it instead. Hopefully he'll have more sense in his Starfleet brain, for mother fuck sake."
"On the lookout for spy types? You misunderstand, Doctor," the Vulcan says. "I have lists of those. I am suggesting you be on the lookout for the type of person who might be one of the people we are looking for. If you are willing."
Hawthorn wheels around, fists once again on hips. "You mean a racist humanist asshole?"
"Precisely," T'Shaav deadpans.
Hawthorn just stares for a while, debating whether or not to say something. Finally she replies, "If I come across anyone like that, I'll see what I can do. But I'm not a security officer, or a spy, or a soldier. Also, in case you haven't noticed, I'm not good at keeping my God damned feelings to myself."
"No, I had not noticed," the Vulcan says with a hint of irony. "Thank you, Doctor. And be careful."
"Pff," Atlanta responds, her eyes rolling again before she stalks out of the office without another word.