Life in the capital city just before noon was hectic, to say the least. Countless city-dwellers, office workers, and public works personnel left their usual places in search of food, joining the crowds of ravenous schoolchildren and Starfleet cadets just getting out of class. Trains, buses, taxis, and private cars rushed to their various destinations, and shouts rang from business owners trying to promote their wares. The rich smells of Earth-based foods mingled with those of more exotic interplanetary cuisine.
Amidst the chaos walked a man who, by all accounts, appeared perfectly average. He was human, with brown hair, brown eyes, and a sturdy build, and he carried a thick black folder close to his side. His suit and shoes were worn but well cared-for, and his proud bearing suggested something of a military background.
He walked at a leisure pace along with the crowd for several blocks, looking up at the buildings, before finally stopping in front of a modern skyscraper. He took a deep breath, unconsciously clutching his folder closer to his side, before walking up the steps and through the tall glass doors of the Federation News Service.
4.5 hours earlier:
Captain Kirk started awake and jumped out of bed at the sound of klaxons blaring through his quarters. He managed to blearily stumble about a meter before his feet tangled in the sheets and almost sent him falling to the floor, but by bracing himself against the wall he was able to free one foot and catch his balance.
The resulting adrenaline rush from his near-faceplant woke the Captain up enough to take stock of his surroundings. Yes, the klaxons were blaring, but the alert lights were not flashing and no one had commed his quarters to inform him of an emergency.
He was also somewhat bewildered to discover that the sirens' sound was interspersed with Klingon opera and what sounded like cows mooing.
His eyes narrowed when his comm pinged and another sound reached his ears: laughter.
"Good morning, Kapitan" he heard after a moment from a suspiciously choked-sounding Chekov, who immediately dissolved into giggles and was unable to continue. The background laughter grew more pronounced, now distinguishable as what sounded like most of the command staff.
Muttering curses, Kirk made his way over to his desk, grabbed a datapad, and typed in a code to stop the alarms. Blessed silence followed, apart from the merry noises still emitting from the comm.
Then the chicken dance started playing. Laughter over the comm reached an entirely new level of hysteria.
"Chekov!" Kirk shouted, and began typing even more furiously into his datapad. Between laughs, Uhura said "You know, Captain, you should really consider basing your coding system on a language more complex than Ferengi."
Still cursing his crew's insubordinate behavior, Kirk finally broke through Chekov's coding overwrite ("Seriously, guys? You used Pig Latin?") and shut down the program, putting a little addition at the end that would turn off all the lights on the bridge.
The resulting shocked exclamations and thumps as several people tripped were very satisfying.
Kirk shut down the comm and set his datapad back on the desk. Despite himself, he smiled and shook his head at his friends' antics, grateful that they felt comfortable enough with him to play pranks. Where another captain might have chosen to formally discipline such a blatant disregard for decorum, Kirk preferred poetic justice. Thus, the ongoing prank war.
With an absent order of "Computer, lights," Kirk began preparing for his shift on the bridge. First he straightened the rumpled bedsheets out - despite his reputation, he kept his quarters rather neat - then showered and dressed. He noticed that Spock was already gone, probably to assist with the captain's personal wakeup call, and resolved to come up with a brilliant retribution plan involving hair dye for all of the perpetrators.
He grinned at the thought of Spock with green hair.
Before leaving his quarters, Kirk grabbed an apple from his food stash and munched on it as he walked toward the bridge. Officers and ensigns alike greeted him warmly in the corridors, and he had a friendly chat with a particularly pretty lieutenant in the turbolift.
Meanwhile, the command crew was still trying to figure out how to turn the lights back on.
