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That might be a fun idea! There's a Star Trek convention down in Cherry Hill I'm attending soon after that, too, if any of us Philly people want to meet up

^Is soon going to be accepting my salute...

^^Supports the incorrect House in A Song of Ice and Fire #TeamLannister lol

You get a Star Trek coffee mug

I put in some delicious asparagus cooked up in real butter and olive oil

[POW!]

=/\=Personal log=/\=

I don't like to normally mingle with other departments. PO3 Proetheus is a fine fellow, very intelligent and gregarious and between him and "Trisha's" squishy friendliness my limited social needs are about covered on deck 12.

But today I strode into the mess on deck 10 with a mission, and one so unlikely for me that I probably drew more than a few looks.

I wanted to talk to some lunks.

I have a theory about the men in mustard: all of the noxious chemicals in engineering and the energy from phasers and torpedoes in ops and the sweat in security soaks into their brains makes them all dullards. Maybe not technically, stupid, mind you, but stupid all the same.

Take that gold shirted menace Revek, for example. He's undoubtedly fearsomely good at what he does. It's just that what he has to do isn't particularly noteworthy, is all.

It's all about the mindset. Pretending I was scanning the room with a sensor sweep I targeted a trio of likely looking lunks having a quiet conversation over tankards of ale. Probably managed to not have to drink synthahol, knowing their type.

They all glared at me as I stood at their table, and what I saw on their faces besides contempt at someone smarter was all I wanted to see: swollen lips, bruises, black eyes. One was even missing his two front teeth.

"What do you want?" came the friendly greeting from the one with two black eyes.

"Mind if I sit?" I inquired, even though I was already taking a seat.

"What do you want?" repeated the one missing his teeth.

"Take a look at this," I held out the PADD and he snatched it away.

"How you making out?" I asked the lunk who yet to speak, a beauty with a swollen mouth and a broken nose.

"Mmmhm." Was the only sound he made.

Missing Teeth was flipping the PADD around as if it was written in a different language. "I can't make heads or tails of this,"

Hardly surprising, that, but I wasn't there to educate them.

"It's sickbay's patient report for the month, cross-sectioned a few different ways. Diagnosis, treatment, patient's name, department, rank...take a look," I urged Broke Nose. I was ignored.

Missing Teeth was a PO1 and probably had some misguided notion that I shouldn't be speaking to him so brusquely. "You better tell us what you want."

I sighed. I took back the PADD from his knobby hands. "Look, if I organize the report by rank, patient department and diagnosis a man can see that an unusually high number of personnel, all enlisted, all from security, engineering, and operations have all come to sickbay with injuries seemingly related toÁ¢â,¬""

"Come with us!"

I was yanked roughly by my collar from the table and dragged toward the exit.

I am not without physical strength. In fact, I was probably in just a good a shape as any of them. But a lifetime of hulking containers and such gave them a gift for moving unwilling cargo. Plus, there were three of them.

No one seemed to notice me being transported--there's no other wordÁ¢â,¬"out of the mess and hurled by my shoulders and legs into a nearby storage room. There was no chance to cry out, so swiftly did they move.

"Hey!" was all I was able to get out.

Missing Teeth raised a fist the size of a small cannonball.

POW!

The others followed suit and rained down fists and boots on me until, mercifully, I blacked out.

I want to say came to but I was awaken by no less than some dirty water thrown into my face, invading the bruises and cuts. There was a hugely powerful light in my eyes the moment I opened them, blinding me.

"Get him!"

"He's awake!"

I curled up into a tiny, impregnable ball but to no avail, there were simply too many strong hands and arms prying open my defenses.

The communicator badge was ripped from my chest and the top half of my uniform torn off.

They finally allowed me to sit up. At this point I was reduced to a sputtering, angry, cursing, bare-chested mess.

I was slapped resoundingly across the ear.

"Stand down Crewman!" The voice didn't need to shout. It carried more than enough to authority to be obeyed as it was.

There was a monstrous, scarred, grizzled old Chief Petty Officer sitting half in the shadows. He was also stripped to the waist, hunched and powerful, with such a hulking mass of muscle and bulk that my own not-at-all bad body couldn't help but feel inadequate in comparison. He had long gray-blond hair and one of his eyes had been ripped out a long time ago; so long ago that prosthetics were not available. The other was a piercing blue. The scar around the missing eye looked ugly and the empty socket glared.

"This is a place for men," came the voice again, sounding like rocks breaking, brittle but deep. "Enlisted men, not officers. No newbies, either, you got to have at least a pip to be heard and to speak."

"What is this?"

The man smiled like a lizard. "You're an enterprising little medic, aren't you? The first from your department. You're also new...that means only one thing."

I didn't want to know or ask. "What do you do here? Is this why we've been treating so many injuries?"

"Yeah...you've been out for a minute so you probably don't know it's 2330 hours. We gather here once or twice a week and beat the living mud out of each other. It's against the regulations, violent, unsafe, and...oh so fun."

The wild shirtless men all cheered and pumped their fists.

When the din died down the CPO ordered briskly, "Up."

I was on my feet before I could reason with myself why.

"We have rules...nothing that can't be patched up in sickbay, no killing, no eyes, throat or groin attacks. If you can avoid going in to the doctor you avoid it. And not a word in the wrong ear or you suffer the wrath."

There were more savage cheers.

"You've been here and now you have to be initiated. There's no way out except through pain. It's up to you if you come back after this, but remember...not a word."

I had been quaking and my heart was thundering in my ears and chest. "Who do I fight?"

The chief stood and mounds of old warrior's muscle, delts and traps and pecs and biceps, all flexed like something out of a deadly nightmare.

"Guess."

The shouts started up and I raised my hands as the old man rushed me.

You get a clove of healthful garlic.

I put in a can of fizzy, delicious Diet Pepsi

You get Fruity Pebbles.

I put in my unborn child

You get Justin Bieber.

I put in a nice fatty beef roast.

^Gives me hope that my girlfriend might join up!

=/\=Personal log=/\=

Yet another security crewman in today with a wrestling injury: he claimed someone had him in a hammerlock during training and nearly broke his arm.

This got me to thinking. How many crew members have come in to sickbay lately with combat related injuries? Some preliminary checking revealed that they have been coming in regularly, across all shifts, with a lot of injuries one might see at a high school wrestling meet: bruises, bursitis, muscle strains, ringworm, black eyes, various cuts and scrapes.

What exactly is security up to? This goes way beyond the usual scuffles they have in their drills and training. If someone doesn't keep these lunks in line they'll be in here all the time and I'll have to work overtime.

This bears further investigating, certainly something too trivial for me to bother with. So I set up a simple computer program to cross reference crew members coming in with combat related injuries over the last few weeks. It took me quite a bit, most of my shift, actually, but I didn't trust anyone else to do it.

I'm going to get to the bottom of this.

Welcome to the Fleet!

Congrats on the position. In the words of RuPaul:

"Good luck, and don't f**k it up."

Probably the best advice ever...

By the way: www.Twitter.com/Shadow_Fleet

Quick social media survey: do you have a Twitter?

If so, list it for a follow from the offices Shadow Fleet twitter once you follow @Shadow_Fleet !

@SPIRITSRHIGH
@YourLordTywin
@AngryGoTFan

Quick social media survey: do you have a Twitter?

If so, list it for a follow from the offices Shadow Fleet twitter once you follow @Shadow_Fleet !

[again]

=/\=Personal Log=/\=

For the tenure of my duty here I've been the whipping boy for every security crewman, officer, and others for my department's alleged lack of manly mortal combat. Medical is also mocked for our trade being so cleanly and cerebral. In my mind this is not a bad thing. If a man wants to spend his days dodging phasers and fists so be it. I'll just go home to my family at the end of the day.

On a related note, confirmation that most complaints from patients are merely psychosomatic or whininess was confirmed today. I should say again confirmed as it has been proven to me in the past but today was especially noteworthy.

A lunk from security appeared during my shift and requested some treatment for the ringworm on his face. He looked very unsightly anyway and the red mass of rash on his cheek wasn't improving anything. I had him wait while I did some research and sipped at some coffee I wasn't supposed to have at my station.

Ringworm, I learned, is a common ailment amongst athletes and especially wrestlers. Bacteria festers on gym mats and then sweaty men spend long minutes mounting each other and mashing other men's faces onto the bacteria.

My coffee was cool by the time I got back to the patient. "Have you been wrestling?"

He looked at me like they all do, as if it was some kind of fortune telling as opposed to scientific knowledge and applying oneself. Riffraff. "How did you know?" Even his voice was dull and dumb.

"It's a common ailment for wrestling," I explained, palming a dermal regenerator. "Won't take but a moment to fix, but the mats in the gym will have to be replaced."

The lunk winced as the regenerator did its work. "WellÁ¢â,¬"it was in the holodeck, not the gym."

"Impossible," I snorted, turning up the intensity so it would really prickle. The infection was nasty and he deserved it, too. "No real bacteria can exist on holographic gym mats."

I gave the remnants of the rash a final blast. "Don't spend so much time face down on dirty, sweaty surfaces," was my last advice. I ushered him out and thoroughly washed my hands.

Imagine the audacity. Claiming it was the holodeck. Just goes to show you what liars populate other departments, not proper family men like myself. Speaking of, if my son and baby-in-the-belly were on board that lunk would have infected me with his rash and my children might be threatened.

And security liked to say sickbay never saw any danger.