The Scientist: A Star Trek 2009 Fanfic
A/N: Yep, this is the second time this fic has been posted on this site, I admit it, and I am the original author. The first time, I deleted it because of receiving too much hate mail. Go figure. But in any case, I decided to post it again, after blocking an insanely large amount of accounts (due to the unfortunate inability to turn off reviews entirely), because I really enjoyed writing this story regardless, and have an itching to finish it and share it with those who *don't* hate me and followed me this far and really want to read it and keep bugging me (you know who you are). So, I deleted the questionable parts, changed my character's last name because I can and found another one that I liked better. Generic Disclaimer should be inserted here, I don't own Star Trek, I haven't plagiarized this, occasionally I use ideas from the Original Series' episodes, and that wraps it up. This is the last author's note you'll ever hear from me because I'm a strong believer that readers don't give a crap about writers' emotastic lives, don't have conversations with my "ZOMG RANDOMNESS" multiple personalities who just serve to irritate everyone, and don't whore for reviews. Haha.
There came a time in every young Starfleet cadet's life in which he or she was given the chance to prove their worth. To shine with potential, make the stars look like dull marks of cosmic shadow! The moment could be colossal; it could disintegrate all laws of nature, both human and space, and watch the doubting commandments flutter through taught, thick air like ashes.
Or it could be smaller. Scaled to fit the size of its hero.
Such as proving one's possession of steadfast intelligence.
I am certainly not the most stunning, romantic leviathan like my generally irritating serial-lover roommate Clarissa, nor am I fantastically cunning or clever, paling in comparison to my best friend's regular tormenter, Lucas Hough. And it is clear as day that I also lack the brilliance of my best friend, Pavel Chekov, when sheathed in the glow of a dim computer, muttering in Russian under his breath as he deciphers seemingly impossible advanced theoretical physics homework. When seen in front of a computer, I am generally cursing, screaming, or slamming my head against the wall, for your information. No, I am simply Carlotta Battaglia, a meager-figured, quarter-Vulcan, bright-eyed cadet scientist from the Mars colony.
But I digress; the point of this chapter is not for me to angst about my general average-ness. It is surrounding the fact that there is one massive blemish on my intelligence that I am desperate to erase from all existence, even more so than my incompetence with computers. I am ignorant to the laws of masculine nature.
Exceptionally bright when faced with the intricacies of comparative xenobiology or gravimetrics, I am positively dumbstruck when it comes to the male species. I am not quite as bad as Chekov with girls, but I am still infuriated with this bewildering discrepancy in my span of knowledge, and I ponder the ways of my human counterpart.
I chose my subject randomly. It was not a day marked by specification, as to me, days were merely relative to the haze that plagues my mind whenever Chekov is absent, lately during lunch on Tuesdays because apparently it's the only time he can squeeze in the astrophysics lab to do something highly dangerous that I would probably destroy in five minutes with my clumsy tendencies. In fact, I was merely sitting here, alone with my food, which had curdled after wandering too far as to question where the ingredients for its production were found, and happened to look away from the contents of my plate.
I heaved a sigh of listless boredom, regarding the empty spot beside my tray as a tragedy without my usual book, and then perused the expanse of the room with a curious eye. Then I saw him, my perfect specimen! I ignored the ongoing embarrassment of 'stalking,' as Clarissa would call it, this man; I was obligated as a scientist to study him!
He was exceptionally attractive, I mused absently. He was tall and looked around the cafeteria of younger students with an irritated expression. His eyes were sparkling as he exchanged banter with one of his fellows. I idly wondered if this was the first clue as to the question of my specimen's nature, and instantaneously began a thorough search through my book bag for my data pad. As soon as I began to wonder where I'd left it, I found the thin metal device lodged between the wrapper of a sandwich I'd eaten earlier and Chekov's old quantum mechanics notebook he'd given me, knowing I would never take notes in his absence, without any recollection of it being there.
My heart began to trill at the thought of having something fascinating to do: studying a creature that had remained an enigma to me all those months of watching them walk by my seemingly invisible dormitory (unless they were seeing Clarissa), and sitting behind them in classes I was too much absorbed in to take much heed of anything else. Now, I had my chance! I checked my wristwatch, and then began to write.
Time: 12:54 P.M.
Mood: Hungry (is that a mood? ask Chekov later)
Specimen A: Rugged and tired looking, but unlike researching party's own slim figure, he has muscles. Tanned, cannot tell eye color from position. Must move closer for additional information. Hair is brown, a bit messy. Note eye color at later date. Addressed by companions as "Jim" instead of any standard name.
Specimen has reacted to female stimulus of Lieutenant Uhura in a strange way. Instead of snorting violently and nearly choking on his own spit, such as Chekov tends to do in presence of females other than researching party, unless I sneak up on him or poke him mid-snore while sleeping, Specimen smiles and tilts head slightly in her direction. Confused as to emotion this conveys, as it can be a variety of many. Specimen's laugh cannot be heard from proximity, and must be observed at a later date.
Note: Must find new name for Specimen at a later date.
Habits: Laughs and smiles often, smiles very wide, teeth are well taken care of and very, very white, a theory of male hygiene must be calculated with this observation…Researcher wonders if Specimen's mouth begins to hurt after so much smiling. Researcher's own mouth begins to hurt. Ouch!
I idly caressed my jaw as I finished scribbling this data down, and nearly leapt out of my skin to hear the clatter of trays sitting down in front of me. My wide eyes darted up to see none other than Specimen and his companions standing in front of me, faces unfamiliar except Dr. McCoy (who gives me stitches on multiple occasions due to my accident-prone nature) and Lt. Uhura (who I nearly killed in an accidental radioactive chemical spill on my first day in quantum chemistry). Needless to say, my scrawling fingers froze in horror that they caught me creeping about them, and my mouth dropped open in mute horror until a friendly face popped out from behind the much taller Specimen.
"Allo!" none other than my only and best friend Pavel Chekov greeted me, waving so eagerly that he almost knocked the tray of replicated food out of Dr. McCoy's hands. My heart was still racing from terror and I probably resembled a deer caught in headlights as my friend awkwardly scrambled around the table in his usual rushed and hyper manner and pressed me to him in a needless (but welcome) hug.
"Oof!" I wheezed as he squeezed too hard, drawing a giggle from the tall and slender Uhura, her long dark hair swaying gracefully as she sat her tray down and pulled out a chair from the little round table.
"Eet is o-key if we sit here?" Chekov excitedly asked before the North African officer could, and I mutely nodded. He was poking his face uncomfortably close to mine, probably wondering why I was so uncharacteristically quiet around his fellows. "Carly! Wat ees eet? Wat ees wrong?"
"Erm, nothing," I stammered, palms sweating. Specimen was staring blankly at me from across the table, probably wondering what on earth was wrong with me. Chekov calls me 'Carly' because 'Carlotta' is very difficult to say without making an ass of yourself when you have an incredibly heavy Russian accent.
"And wat is zat?" he yelped suddenly, and tried to tug my data pad from my hands. I screeched and fought back, and we began to wage a classic tug-of-war. It's always funnier when two skinny teenaged braniacs do it.
"It's…it's my motorcycle magazine!" I exclaimed, lying between my teeth as I pried his long, pale fingers off my belongings. "I was reading it!"
"Oh," Chekov said, seeming disappointed. Judging from the heat radiating from my face, I resembled a tomato. "Well, will ju show it to me later?"
"Sure," I agreed, casually stowing the pad in my book bag. Great, now I had to design a motorcycle during analytical chemistry instead of working on the paper that was due in physics two weeks ago.
"You're into motorcycles?" Specimen asked curiously. His voice was not as deep as I imagined it would be, but still sounded manly.
I gulped and an awkward little gurgling sound came out of my throat before I was able to squeak out an answer. "Uh, yeah. Just a little," I weakly replied, and one of Specimen's thick medium brown eyebrows curved upward. A group of females my age sighed and 'discreetly' fixed their hair as they walked by, making eyes at him. My fingers twitched toward my data pad, but I restrained myself as Dr. McCoy looked at me oddly as I twitched and audibly squeaked.
"Ju should see 'er! Carly ees eencredible!" Chekov cut me off, and my face turned a brighter shade of red. He kept babbling on like a proud parent, describing in unnecessary long and barely understandable detail of one of my races he was present for during shore leave.
Chekov's companions showed varying levels of boredom: Bones was simply eating his meal and paying the rest of us absolutely no attention at all, Uhura was staring into space in Chekov's direction like she had really been trying to follow him, and Specimen had propped his head up on one hand and looked ready to fall asleep. I felt bad, Chekov had gotten so excited, and unfortunately he was cursed with the worst Russian accent known to mankind. I patted his knee when he sunk back into his chair, looking a little sheepish. He knew I could understand him by now, even if no one else was listening.
"Sowree," he apologized, shrugging as his cheeks turned a little pink. We shared our smile, Chekov smiling my favorite crooked one that he didn't show to anyone else (to my knowledge, which I assure you is quite vast) and I flashed my own pearly whites back. I don't usually do the teeth-showing-smile-thing, but Pavel says I light up a room and told me it's his favorite smile. Meanwhile, as I thought of this and stared at his ocean blue eyes, nobody on the other side of the table had moved.
"Oh, he's finished!" Bones exclaimed suddenly, elbowing the lightly snoring Specimen.
"Urgh, oh!" he exclaimed, rubbing his eyes as I glared at him slightly. "Sorry. You know how it is," he justified himself to me, drawing a small external smile from me when Chekov wasn't looking.
"Trust me, you get used to it," I replied in an undertone as Chekov launched into another story on another subject to Uhura and Bones. Specimen snorted and the corners of his mouth twitched at my remark as if to say "tell me about it."
"So, Ensign Chekov told me all about you," he continued, and little parts of me started to die. Had he told him about the time when I dropped my napkin with my number on it in a restaurant and the cute waiter tripped on it and spilled hot coffee all over me? Or all those times when we accidentally walked in on my roommate, Clarissa, having sex? Or when I started that fire in chemistry last year and made the whole building run outside when the alarms went off and I got put on academic probation? Or when I fainted during standard vaccinations in front of everyone, crashed into a table, and broke my leg? People still call me Gimpy for that, by the way.
"Don't worry, Carly, he probably didn't tell me whatever you're thinking of," Specimen said as he laughed. It was a musical, throaty sound that I appreciated greatly. "Jim Kirk," he introduced himself, extending a hand. I think I died for a moment, being in the presence of the hero of Starfleet, who saved Earth from certain destruction by the Romulan war criminal Nero. I wondered as I resurrected myself why he was here for a minute, and not zooming off to save the galaxy in the Enterprise, but then I remembered: the crew of the undermanned vessel had to finish their education at the Academy before being assigned to the five-year mission. I was one of many hopeful cadets graduating this year who were vying to fill an empty position on the already infamous ship.
Anyways, I shook his hand, and then he proceeded to tease me about my numerous incidents until my face was so hot you could have cooked an egg on it. I'm notorious for not being the luckiest of people. I should be used to being called Gimpy McLimpy, but the comments stung. Especially coming from Captain James T. Kirk. No, Specimen. That was his name in my mind, and it would be my little secret that lets me snicker behind my hand at him so my own incompetence doesn't hurt so much. I sighed and stole fries from Pavel, attempting to rejoin the conversation like a normal person and get away from Specimen, even though it was pretty odd itself. The conversation might have been about Vulcan mating rituals, but what do I know about weird?
An annoying, eardrum cracking, deafening bell sounded like a foghorn through the lunchroom, indicating that the cadets dispose neatly and efficiently of their garbage and make their way to class or wherever in an orderly fashion. Chekov's and mine older counterparts departed with casual waves and "Nice to meet you, Carly," from Specimen and a "Well, I'll probably see you later in the hospital," from Dr. McCoy. Chekov gallantly held the lid open off the trash can for me as I deposited my barely touched lunch inside. His face darkened immediately into a stormy glower and I prepared to be hounded for eating too little, despite the fact that I was simply never hungry, and even when I did not eat I experienced no negative side effects besides weight loss. So far, I've only gotten away without nutrition for two and a half days when Pavel had a cold and somehow Dr. McCoy tracked me down and forced a hot dog down my throat on his behalf, although he was quite intrigued by the absence of dehydration, starvation, or general sickliness.
"Hey, is hungry a mood?" I curiously asked, tugging on my slightly taller friend's yellow sleeve, marking him as tactical, as he pushed open the painted cherry red cafeteria door and we walked out with a crowd of fellow cadets into a sunlit hallway.
"Shall I eempersonate Doctor McCoy and say I'm a doctor, not a…"
"All right, I get it, you don't know," I cut him off, huffing and falling into step beside him after we wove our way through the crowd and escaped out a door to the grassy lawn that stretched between the towering buildings of the central Starfleet Academy quad. I could see the Golden Gate Bridge stretched scenically out in the background as puffy fat clouds bobbed across the sky. I stuck my hands in the pockets of my red cadet's skirt and awkwardly bobbed back and forth on my heels as we joined a small knot of students waiting outside a locked building. "But a personal opinion would be most useful…"
"Yes, I vould say so," Pavel informed me with a grin directed to my own sunlit face. "May I ask ju a question?"
"Anything for you," I replied automatically, our casual banter so practiced it was almost routine, but no less friendly or loving. Our drill instructor appeared and unlocked the side door leading directly to the locker room. I dreaded drills, but every cadet was required to take them and be in tip-top physical shape. Pavel had no problem, he won the freaking Academy marathon in the autumn, but I seemed to be the freak who couldn't take three steps without causing some sort of accident resulting in her own injury. I'm really not clumsy, Pavel and I performed many experiments to prove this, I just have terrible luck.
"Vhat were ju really writing on ze data pad?" he asked in a semi-serious tone, and I dropped my shoulder bag in fright as I tripped over the slightly higher last step leading to the second floor locker rooms for low ranking cadets with a yelp. I always trip on that stair. Always.
A firm hand locked itself around my right elbow before I could fall, though, and I managed to scramble my legs back under me, although I lost the bag in the process, but missed the familiar crash and swearing of whoever was unfortunate enough to be behind me. Pavel's hand gripped my elbow with more strength than I'd estimated for him and to my surprise he apparently caught my bag in his other hand, indicated by the fact that it was now dangling from his other shoulder as he regarded me with the look of a man watching a mildly interesting television show. Well, that was new. Maybe being graceful and strong was a magical instant benefit of being an officer on the Enterprise.
"Oh, shut up," I snarled at the snickering cadets behind me and allowed Chekov to guide me carefully to the door of the girls' locker room.
"You can let go now," I said, attempting to yank my arm away from him once we reached flat terrain, a.k.a. linoleum hallway. "I think I can make it from here."
"Ju sure?" he asked, raising his eyebrows. I couldn't tell if he was kidding or not, but I smiled and smacked/patted his cheek and pranced in my best imitation of a ballerina down the hallway and through the door. I turned around once I got there to bow with a large flourish and prance inside. Pavel cheered "Bravo!" and grinned at me as we parted ways, sadly, for a total of ten minutes.
Of course, in that time, I somehow offended my roommate when she asked me if her newly altered gym swimsuit looked good on her and I replied quite honestly that she looked like she belonged on the corner of 12th and Cass, which she apparently took offense to. The situation only escalated when as we walked into the area of the Olympic sized swimming pool as my mouth, also about that size, asked her rather sarcastically if I offended one of her boyfriends.
Clarissa is quite a lot taller and heavier than me, and from her expression I could formulate a logical hypothesis that this situation would not end well for either party involved. Mainly myself. Statistically speaking, of course.
"What did you say to me?" she accused in a loud, aggressive voice, and I backed away a little bit, trying to mingle smoothly with another group of swimsuit-clad students, who backed away in fear of impending doom and injuries that generally associate themselves with anyone in a ten foot radius of me.
My voice seemed to fail me as my jaw flapped uselessly on its hinges, and I only wished that I could run as fast as Pavel. I'd never be able to outrun Clarissa, and I shared a dormitory with her, so it wasn't like I had anywhere to hide either. I could win a fight against her, I've completed far more advanced combat training classes than she has, but the administration of the Academy seems to look down on me when I repeatedly solve social problems by causing massive, cataclysmic accidents. Well, it looked like I was going to have to talk my way out of this one.
"Did you call me a whore?" she incredulously asked me, as if she hadn't clearly heard me earlier. But, my "people skills" as Dr. McCoy would call them, had progressed quite a bit since I first enrolled in the Academy, and I knew she just wanted to broadcast her wounded ego in front of everyone else so they would ostracize me even more. It was working, currently, but she hadn't figured out yet that I didn't particularly care.
Of course, that was the precise moment my voice decided to start working properly again.
"There's nothing wrong with you that reincarnation can't cure," I blurted out. Girls sharply inhaled in unison and the guys displayed various degrees of interest, nudging and glancing, as a small knot formed around us. I flinched at my own stupidity, and prepared myself for a fight. I might be a complete anathema, and I might be the slowest cadet on account that I am also the shortest cadet, but being cursed can be helpful when battle drills is the one place where no one yells at me for tripping and accidentally shooting everything in sight. I decided in the funny split second of lengthened time due to adrenalin that I would go for her nose first while I stomped on her bare foot. I opened them and apparently no time had passed since Clarissa was merely rounding on me before the charge.
"All right, break it up," the booming and resonating masculine voice of our youthful drill instructor Lt. Ramirez filled the echoing pool, and the knot immediately departed. Clarissa glared at me venomously as I weakly gulped and tried to look menacing as I scampered away to stand next to Pavel by the water. We already knew what was going on, which was a relay race until the second coming of Jesus, and lined up together in our usual teams.
My heart dropped when the drill instructor started changing relay teams to create variety. "Percy, get out of the water. Hough and West, trade teams. Don't give me that lip, Igraine. Chekov, switch with Smith over there," he said carelessly, and directed my friend to switch places with Clarissa. My stomach joined my heart on the ground when she noisily cracked her knuckles, standing behind me. At least he was in the team next to me, I thought. If she tries to drown me, there will be a witness, at least.
"Cadets, ready, go!" the instructor tiredly called, probably having run this drill all day long, observed by a superior officer I did not recognize. I was a little slow to jump off the cement side of the pool, so Clarissa roughly pushed me in from behind. I tumbled with a shriek over the side into the water and got a mouthful of chlorine before I surfaced, choking and spitting it out.
"Go, go!" my teammates urged me, apparently not noticing that I had been shoved. I felt offended that they thought I was that clumsy to fall off the side of the pool like an idiot, and I lingered to glare at them all through my stinging eyes before taking off, fighting to catch up with my classmates. Chekov passed me on his way back, thankfully having missed my flounder on the opposite end of the pool. I had had enough humiliation in front of him for today. I also didn't want to make an idiot of myself in front of the observing superior officer. With this angry thought in mind I finished my lap only ten seconds behind my fellows and pulled myself out of the pool and up to the concrete deck as Clarissa swan-dived over me. I must have looked pretty scary, because my teammates eyed me warily as I stomped to the back of the short line, dripping.
"I hate this bathing suit," I bitterly remarked to Chekov after I finished whining about my roommate as we shivered next in line to each other as our other teammates raced. It was a red two-piece that hung loose on me where it hugged sinuous curves of other girls and the top was basically held on my body by a single knot tied in the back. All the uniforms were irritating here, from the too-short skirts to these damn swimsuits.
"Ju look fine," Chekov tiredly assured me, and it was his turn to go again. His team was much more athletic than mine. I lost count of the times I dove plainly in the water, and my body became numb to the cold created by the unheated water and humid air. It was an easy enough routine, and I appreciated the mindless simplicity of it, much like solving an algebra problem. Left arm, right arm. Cross multiply and slash through the common denominators. Familiar motions. Of course, there was Clarissa trying to make my life hell, which made the process much more difficult. She pushed me a couple more times and even kicked me while getting out of the water before I decided to simply dive off as fast as I could, and she decided to pull the stupid strap on the back of my swimsuit's top.
Needless to say, I found myself very, very quickly in a pool, without a shirt, and very cold while everyone else had a brilliant laugh, Clarissa leading the charge with her full hearted guffaws as she held the skimpy wet piece of red fabric in one hand. The whole class was laughing. Oh, look! Carlotta's gone and done it again!
I don't care what other people think, I desperately told myself, telling myself that the stinging in my eyes was chlorine. I squeezed my steaming eyes shut. I wanted to die. I don't care what other people think!
It isn't fair. Why does this stuff always happen to me anyways? I wanted to find a hole, crawl in it, and pull the top in after me. Tears mixed with the chlorine in my eyes and stung even worse. A blurry person reached out over the edge of the pool and fished me in, wrapping a towel from who-knows-where around my shaking shoulders. I clutched it around myself and let my stringy wet hair cover my face and hide me away. I peeked out through the tendrils and met the steady eyes of my rescuer, who was the overseeing officer, and was quite obviously of Vulcan heritage. My human emotions took over and I glanced away quickly, biting my lip to keep from showing weakness in front of him. I failed quite miserably.
By that time our drill instructor had reinstituted law and order, directing me to wait in the locker room for him. I won't lie and say that I remained cool under pressure. I was shaking so badly I could barely stand up, let alone walk, and couldn't see because the tears I was holding back blurred my vision. My head pounded and body hurt too from all of my rough, smacking dives into the water. Overall, I was a nervous wreck, and the unfamiliar Vulcan escorted me from the gymnasium wordlessly, saying only "Lieutenant" to my instructor as he passed.
I managed to get halfway down the hallway before I started crying, and once I started I couldn't seem to shut the floodgates. It started as small sniffles, but by the time I got to the locker room I was doubled over and collapsed forward once I sat on the cold metal bench, sobbing violently into my knees. I eventually ran out of tears and wasn't shaking as much, except from being cold. The officer was sitting beside me calmly on the bench, watching me with an expression of mild interest that I recognized as my own on many other occasions. He glanced away to look straight ahead emotionlessly once he noticed me looking.
"Are you feeling recovered Cadet Battaglia?" he asked in a quick and neutral tone, unblinking.
I nodded after a second's delay taken to register him speaking. "I'm feeling really stupid," I honestly admitted, my voice raspy after sobbing my eyes out. My head felt too light and my body too heavy. He offered me a fresh towel and I wrapped it tightly around my partially exposed body and pushed thick strands of chlorine filled hair out of my face as I wiped my eyes and nose with my water-wrinkled hand. "God, I'm pathetic," I wetly muttered under my breath, cheeks burning bright red.
"I may assure you that you are one of the farthest things from pathetic, Cadet," he said in the same emotionless manner, only in a lower tone. I shook my head fervently in disagreement until he caught my chin in his hand and held it there. He was very strong, a trait I shared from our common ancestry, and was able to hold it there. "You are currently upset and are currently unable to see the logic of my statements."
"I shouldn't get so upset over something so trivial," I mumbled as the officer sat comfortably next to me. "Shouldn't let it bother me. Should be stronger."
He paused to look straight ahead for a moment, like he was considering what to say. "You are only human." He turned and met my eyes with an unfathomable expression that stilled my oddly swirling thoughts immediately. The reason that I felt so drawn to my fellow Vulcan was illogical, but I found myself enveloped in peacefulness that I had never experienced before, if only for an instant.
That was the moment our drill instructor took to interrupt us, opening the door with a squelching bang. "Commander Spock, you may leave while I deal with Cadet Battaglia."
"Thank you, Lieutenant; however, I would prefer to stay," Spock responded immediately in a flat, computer-like tone. "Please continue."
"Ensign Smith declared the incident was provoked by verbal insults, and wishes to file a report against you," Ramirez said in a caring yet firm voice. I opened my mouth, then thought better of it and closed my protests. "Cadet witnesses of the entire incident confirm this opinion, and that despite Ensign Smith's visible offense to these insults, you continued to verbally slander her until she physically attacked you."
Well, it was pretty much the story from an outsider's point of view. I could feel the human parts of me bristling, but I forced them away in a practiced, cool sweep that I usually reserve for my work as a scientist.
"I do not deny these accusations," I said, my voice coming out strong and confident. I was rather pleased with myself, seeing as I felt anything but. Other than that, I got off easy from Lt. Ramirez, and simply had the doom of a complaint report dangling over my head, which could ruin my chances at a good assignment after graduation. Both officers left, Spock's cold gaze evenly meeting mine in an entirely different, guarded manner for a last time, and I had completely stopped shaking by the time I heard their footsteps fade. I stood up and crossed the row to my locker, prying it open and pulling out my uniform. I scolded myself for thinking he appeared guarded, Commander Spock was a Vulcan, and would not feel any emotions, only logic. My body was beginning to warm up, and I wanted to get the stench of chlorine out of my mouth.
A little knock sounded at the door, and it opened. Chekov's head appeared and I smiled as he let himself hover in the doorway before our classmates arrived. I did not ask how he snuck out of class, but I related the discussion of the incident to him anyways. He sat in a comfortable way next to me, and was overly concerned about my health.
"You should go," I told Chekov offhandedly when I finished. He hadn't moved an inch, and looked at me in surprise. "This is a girls' locker room."
He looked taken aback for a moment, then openly laughed. "I will wait for ju," he said, eyes sparkling and returning to good humor as he quickly left. I took forever in the shower, enjoying the absence of my fellow cadets, and my thoughts churned unpleasantly in a disorder that I was unaccustomed to and intensely disliked. Clarissa, my analytical chemistry paper, Specimen, those stupid advanced theoretical physics problems, Chekov, his sandwich wrapper lurking in my bag, the new bruise on my thigh just high enough to be irritating but too low for my skirt to cover, my humiliating introduction to Commander Spock, the strange and strong reaction I had to his presence, and my physical and mental exhaustion were all jumbled up and I couldn't seem to sort them out like the scientist I was. Maybe I hit my head on the bottom of the pool. Maybe my brain was going to explode. Maybe I was going to be expelled from the Academy, seeing as this was the last offense I could make before expulsion according to standard procedure.
"Uunggh," I groaned unnecessarily loud as I yanked the stupid uniform over my head, brushed my hair quickly over my slightly pointed ears (courtesy of my Vulcan paternal grandfather, although I am everything but logical lately) and bent down to pull on my boots after slamming the locker shut with unnecessary strength, wishing that taking out anger on inanimate objects was more satisfying.
"Eye heard zhat!" Chekov yelled, slightly muffled, from the outside corridor.
"Coming!" I called, and stumbled out the door while tugging on my right boot until I fell over, and Chekov had to fix it.
"Zhe zipper, it always jams," he explained, waving one of his hands around and avoiding my eyes as he pulled me to my feet, took my hand, and departed quicker than I could trip over myself again. Needless to say, we did not return to class. Also needless to say, I punched Clarissa Smith in the nose at dinner, and her complaint charges were dropped the next day.