Tempest
Hammerhead Class Frigate (NC-114)
Cargo Bay, Deck C

Song watched as Andrews and Shran carefully loaded T'Lea onto the Vulcan shuttle. Walking or even standing up was still entirely out of the question for her, but since the shuttle was too large for the Launch Bay and had to be flown right out the loading bay doors…simply relocating her recovery bed directly onto the shuttle was easy enough.

It still didn't take two people to wheel a recovery bed across the bay and into the shuttle. Shran was just being weird again, pitching in to help so she could take the opportunity to say goodbye.

That worried Song. Her behavior over the last couple of days made her seem every bit the overly attached Andorian, trying to replace her lost quad with the crew of the ship. The attraction she had for T'Lea specifically was all the more troubling for what it suggested, as she made absolutely no effort to hide it at all.

This was precisely what Shran was supposed to have been working so hard not to do. And yet both times Song brought it up, Shran had shrugged the matter off as if it weren't a concern. And she really did seem to have found some kind of balance here…

So Song was just left to worry and hope this wasn't exactly the unhealthy state that Shran had been so afraid she'd succumb to. That she'd simply adjusted to the situation with a little help from the Vulcan, as she claimed.

And, really, it may not even matter. They were coming up on the end of their mission here. So at worst Shran was just taking advantage of the fact that she was going to die soon in order to indulge herself. It wasn't as if any sort of long-term repercussions were likely to have to be dealt with.

Song contemplated these things as she watched T'Lea being loaded onto the shuttle. Watching still as Shran lingered inside the shuttle with her for a moment, after Andrews had already stepped outside again.

Whatever was said in there was obviously heart-felt and deeply moving for Shran. The affection she had for the Vulcan was perfectly palpable. And yet it only lasted a few seconds before Shran turned and bounded quite comfortably and happily out of the shuttle again. Stepping clear and turning to watch, not seeming especially upset at all.

So, again…Song just had to face the fact that Andorians were a little inscrutable when it came to relationships. She couldn't make heads or tails of how the woman…or the shen, actually…was able to switch emotional gears so easily and comfortably.

Maybe Song herself could have done that…but only because she never would have gotten all that attached in the first place.

At her side, leaning on his crutches, Tanner spoke suddenly. So Song was forced out of her musing to deal with him.

She knew what she needed to do there, at least. Humans she understood well enough.

"Ma'am." Tanner said, hesitantly. "I don't mean to beat a dead horse here, but there's no reason Jenson can't fly the shuttle. It's not that hard…"

"Jenson's stuck up Carver's butt at the moment, Tanner." Song said. "He's not going anywhere. T'Lea needs a pilot and the Captain was very clear. All wounded on the shuttle. That means you."

"Yes, ma'am. I understand that. But you're going to need a third shift science officer. Especially with…Jennings gone…"

"You can barely walk, Tanner. That isn't going to change overnight."

"I know that, ma'am. But I don't have to run around or anything…"

"Tanner." Song interrupted, speaking softly now. "You've done your part. Stop telling yourself there's more that you should do. This is the more that you should do. We're counting on you and T'Lea to get out of this alive. We need you to tell Earth and Vulcan what happened here, you understand?"

"Yes, ma'am." Tanner said, however reluctantly. "It's just…"

"I know." Song assured. "And I know it's not fair either. Me, Tucker and T'Pol are all wounded and we're staying. So, yes, it's not fair. But it's got to be this way. So just get on the shuttle, Lieutenant, and do your last duty for this ship."

Tanner sighed.

"Yes, ma'am." He said.

But he hesitated a moment longer before limping his way over to the shuttle.

"Ma'am." He said, seriously. "I just want to say…it's been a real honor working with you."

Song grinned.

"Of course it has. I'm pretty amazing. Now get on the shuttle, Lieutenant."

Tanner chuckled. So that was good at least.

"Yes, ma'am."

Shran was there before he could get going good, though. He managed only a single awkward shuffle with the crutches before she appeared in his path.

"Tanner." Shran said, smiling as she approached. "You're sure you can pilot this thing? It's Vulcan, so it might need to flown logically. I wouldn't have the first idea how to do that myself."

Tanner snorted, grinning despite himself. "I got a look at the layout already, ma'am. It's fairly standard. And T'Lea will be there."

"Don't go troubling her." Shran, immediately. "Let her rest. And no barrel rolls or loops. She's hurt and this isn't a joyride."

"Yes, ma'am. I'll take care of her, I promise."

"That's good then. So limp on in there and let's get you on your way."

Tanner finally started moving forward again, once Shran let him pass. And she stepped over beside Song to watch him board the shuttle.

He stood at the door once he boarded, leaning uncomfortably on the crutches and looked back at them.

Then he smiled grimly and nodded, tapping the control panel near the door. And the door closed.

He was practically gone then. As gone as if the shuttle had already disembarked. And as many of the crew as they've left behind and lost in combat so far, it was still a painful sense of bereavement that descended…

"This really sucks." Shran suddenly announced. "I know I could have at least got a kiss or something if I'd had just another day or two."

Song nearly burst out laughing at that. And she did snicker, despite herself.

"Shran," She chuckled. "Isn't that what you were supposed to trying to avoid all this time?"

"I'm not talking about forming a whole quad or anything." Shran frowned. "But a kiss would have been nice. Maybe get my antennae a little action while I was at it."

Song shook her head.

"You really are too much, Talla."

Shran looked over, giving her a quick, critical assessment.

"You know, you're kind of cute, Keyla." She smirked. "I don't suppose you'd be interested?"

"Well, normally I'd be willing to try anything once. But that ovipositor thing still freaks me out."

Shran shrugged. "Your loss. I'll just have to see if I can get my hands on Benning then. And at least he's got a penis."

Song did laugh out loud then.

So Shran grinned and gave her a wink. Clearly pleased with having made her laugh, which was what she'd been about to begin with.

Then she simply turned right around and headed out of the cargo bay without another word. Nearly bouncing with self satisfaction.

Off to track down Benning, presumably.

Song was still chuckling to herself at the completely different person Shran had become. The person much more like the Andorian she'd gotten to know all those many months ago, when she first accepted the position of XO for this ship.

She'd actually kind of missed the old Shran, now that she thought about it. Talla had been such a complete beast for the last six months or so that she'd sort of forgotten how much fun she could be when she had a mind to.

Andrews came alongside then. Standing with her, watching the shuttle prep for launch.

"Talla seems to be getting back to her old self." He remarked. "That's a little scary."

Song grinned. "You prefer the grumpy she-beast she's been up to now?"

"If it means I'm going to have to start watching my back when I'm in the shower, then yes, Commander."

"Relax," Song chuckled. "She just likes messing with people's heads. It's an Andorian thing. She gets a kick out of pushing all the buttons Humans have."

"Think she's really going after Benning?"

"She'll probably flirt with him outrageously now that she said that, but no, I doubt it. And Benning would freak out anyway."

Andrews grinned.

"Well, it really is good to see her getting back to her old self."

Song nodded. "Yeah, it is. I really started getting worried there for a while. Didn't think she'd ever snap out of it."

"So how are you doing, Keyla?" Andrews asked, switching gears suddenly.

Song shrugged easily, though.

"Fine. As long as I keep the patch on and don't lean on the wall, it doesn't even bother me. Brushing my hair left handed this morning was a delightful challenge, though…"

"That's not what I mean." Andrews said, gently.

Oh. Right.

That.

"I'm fine." She said, simply.

And she left it at that.

"You know, I'm not a shrink." Andrews said. "I don't have the training that you do, but I have at least figured out that when someone says, 'I'm fine' in a situation like this…they practically never are."

Song was quiet for a breath or two.

Then she sighed.

"Okay." She said. "If you need to hear it, then okay. I really am fine. Probably the most interesting guy I've met in over a decade, who I jumped right in the sack with before we even had an official second date, got himself killed right in front me. And I'm completely fine with that.

"It sucks but I'm fine with it. And I got my revenge, so I'm even more fine with it. Because I didn't let myself get close to the guy or let any kind of real relationship happen other than just flirting and playing around. Which happens to be great right now because, like I said, I'm fine with it all. It's just that I shouldn't be fine, damn it. And that I am just keeps illustrating how I'm kind of a screwed up person, Daniel."

Andrews considered that for a moment. More just to give Song time to adjust to having said what she did than actually contemplating his response. He already knew what to say here.

"You know what I'm going to ask you now, right?" He grinned.

Song snorted.

"'How does that make you feel, Song?'" She said, mockingly.

Andrews nodded, grinning.

"So how does that make you feel?"

"Irritated." She said, immediately. "Because it forces me to confront some things about myself that really need to be dealt with. And how that isn't going to happen because we're all probably going to die soon, so why the hell does it insist on bothering me?"

Song reached and flipped her hair violently to one side. A clear gesture of how frustrated she was at the moment.

And she changed the subject.

"What about you?" She asked. "I got the impression you were looking forward to working out with Commander Hess. And how that might not be exclusively a reference to hanging out at the gym."

Andrews winced a bit at that. But it wasn't unexpected that she'd turn the tables on him. She did tend to get a bit aggressive when you broached certain subjects.

"I guess…sort of the same situation." He said. "Except that I didn't have time to get close enough to her that her death had a big impact on me. And so I'm left frustrated with how I feel like I did something wrong by not getting close enough that I would be completely devastated. And how that's a really weird way to feel right now."

Song snorted again at that.

"Now you see why I got into psychology." She said. "It's amazing how screwed up we all are and yet still manage to get through a whole day being generally productive."

"Well, I'll stick to the physical side of medicine and leave the rest to you, Keyla. That stuff just makes my head hurt."

"Because you've got that chip in your head." She said. "And how come we never got together, anyway? I always got the impression you found me attractive. If you'd made your move sometime before six months ago, I might have let you buy me a drink."

Andrews grinned at that. Because, yes, he almost had a few times. It's just that…

"Well, you're kind of a screwed up person, Keyla."

"Yeah." Song shrugged. "I guess I wouldn't date me either."

The shuttle was prepped and ready to go by then. The only thing really holding it up being the two officers standing around chit chatting in the cargo bay that needed to be evacuated before it could do that.

"Alright, let's clear out of here." She said. "This is about as 'goodbye' as it's going to get. I'm going to head over to Science and make sure Eckerd's got everything ready there. What about you?"

"I've got something to talk to the Captain about." Andrews said, vaguely. "After that…I guess I'll head to sickbay and makes sure everything's ready there."

"Okay. And here's hoping we don't give you too much work to do, Daniel."

They left the cargo bay then, and Lieutenant Crowley in the control room wasted no time evacuating atmosphere from the bay. Going through the final preparations, confirming everything was green and good to go with the shuttle.

Opening the loading bay doors, for the shuttle to rise slightly and slip gracefully out into open space. Leaving the Tempest and going to warp with little delay.

And Song stayed on in the corridor outside for a moment. Watching through the small, circular window in the door even after the shuttle was gone. Watching until the loading bay doors closed once again.

Before she moved on, back to the dreadful matters that lay ahead.


In the ready room, standing over the same display table that T'Pol had recently examined so carefully, Trip wrestled with the patch of synthetic skin covering the stump where his right hand used to be.

And his hand had done a much nicer job of covering up that whole area than this spray-on patch of synthetic skin cells and…whatever the heck else that stuff was made of. So he was missing his hand…his right hand…in a whole new way now. Which was just delightful.

It itched under there, which it wasn't supposed to do. And it was time to apply that smelly paste Andrews had given him. So he had two really great reasons to get that crap off of there. A good, solid bit of scratching and the begrudging smearing of stinky paste.

But first he had to get that stuff off. And he couldn't find the damned scraper thing the doc had given him to do that with.

Behind him, at his desk, T'Pol was going over all the intelligence they had on the Romulan ships. Both the Bird of Prey and the Warbird.

"Consider the way the ships are armed." She was saying. "The Bird of Prey having only missile launchers. No other method of attack is available to them. In addition to this, both class of ship utilize a cheap and dangerous magnetic bottle to contain an artificial singularity of some kind. This powers the ship, including the cloaking shield, as well as allowing a rather unique form of warp travel. But that limits their ability to manage power between these separate technologies, each possessing high power demands."

Trip sighed. Because he wasn't getting anywhere with this damned synthetic skin patch thing.

"So what's that mean?" He asked, grumpily. Still wrestling with the patch.

"Their starships are built to be cheap and expendable." T'Pol said. "While Starfleet utilizes cutting edge technology and works constantly to improve that, as well as crewing their ships with only the most capable and highly trained individuals available, the Romulans employ the opposite strategy. Fielding large numbers of mass-produced starships and crewing them with common crewmen. Their technology only advanced to the point that it can be used somewhat effectively before immediately being utilized. Rather than devoting significant time and resources to fully pursuing that technology's potential."

Trip was growing frustrated.

He had the edge of that patch pulled just exactly almost free enough that he could get a nice pinch on it to pull with. But he couldn't quite get it.

He gave up, huffing angrily. And reached for the closest approximation to that damned scraper thing that he hadn't been able to find anywhere.

"Crap ships crewed by conscripted officers." Trip said, irritably. "And their technology's crap, too."

He began digging at the edge of that patch with the small, hand-sized model of the Tempest he'd snatched off the display table. The nacelles on the thing offering the only available tool that might get under there enough…

And it itched.

"Yes, Romulans vessels are inferior taken individually." T'Pol said. "But if they are able to field great enough numbers, that would make them a threat nonetheless overall. And they must at least believe they do or they would not have launched this attack in the first place. An attack across two entire sectors. This suggests a large reserve force being held back until the lines are drawn."

Trip was getting angry.

The constant digging and picking around the stump had aggravated every nerve in there. It was beginning to hurt. And it itched even more now than before.

So he dug a little too hard with the model as a result of that.

The nacelle suddenly snapping off, flying away over his shoulder. Leaving a sharp exposed point to dig into this skin…

…running right under the patch he'd been digging at, accomplished more or less what he'd been trying to accomplish. Except that a sickening wave of horrific pain accompanied that success because he'd jabbed too forcefully, too deeply and far more effectively than he'd intended.

He tensed and hissed as a wave of agony flashed through him. His left hand snatching over to grip his right forearm forcefully, trying in vain to stem the tide. Shaking and trembling with the incredible effort of absorbing that pain.

He wanted to scream. He needed to scream.

To kick something and curse. And more than that, just to take a damned breath. Because he couldn't breathe for a moment.

He couldn't do anything but grip his arm forcefully and shake, because the pain wouldn't let him. And when he finally was able to breathe again, he found himself driving the fist of his free hand into the wall instead.

Driving it there with all the rage and dismay that suddenly poured through him.

Striking the star chart there, upsetting it from the simple connector attaching it to the wall. It falling immediately, startled at his outburst, to seek shelter on the display table somewhere.

Knocking damned near everything on there right off and out of the way. To fall and tumble and clatter to the floor all around his feet.

He had tears in his eyes.

Whether from the pain or from everything he was suddenly feeling that he wasn't prepared to feel. But whatever the case, that only made him all the more psychotically furious.

He was stomping all the crap that had fallen off the table before he knew it. Stomping it all furiously, to punish it for not doing what the hell it was supposed to be doing. Rapidly, repeatedly stomping it all, with all of his rage.

Stomping and cursing loudly. In a way he hadn't cursed in a good long time.

Until that wasn't enough. Not nearly enough.

So he grabbed the display table with the only hand he had left, to prove to the universe that he could damned well destroy something even with only one hand. Lifting it and throwing it over with all the power that the rage burning in his veins had unlocked in him. To throw the table as far across the room as he could.

It wasn't very far.

He managed to turn the table over and spill the few things that had been dutiful enough to stay on top of the thing like they should. But the table was pretty heavy. So it only, merely flipped over.

He was leaning into the wall then. Head against the surface, supporting his weight. His one good hand balled into a fist, shaking even still with the desperate attempt to keep the tears at bay.

And his arm still hurt, still itched.

T'Pol had approached at some point. Standing a respectable distance from the outburst going on, but close enough to attempt some measure of support.

Waiting a moment, to be sure he'd collected himself a little. Before making her attempt.

"Trip?" She asked, carefully.

He lashed out instantly.

"Can you just find me the God damned scraper, T'Pol?!"

She paused at that.

And waited, to see if there would be further aggression. But nothing else followed.

"I have it." She said, after a moment. "It was on the desk, beside the…"

His left hand leapt out behind him, still not turning from the wall.

"Just give me the damned thing!"

She hesitated again. Unsure at first what to do here.

She found that she was not as prepared for this behavior as she'd thought. And Trip was Human, capable of significant and uncontrolled violence under the right conditions. Which it seemed may be at work here.

The prospect of being forced to defend herself against Trip was…daunting.

And in his current state, he would surely injure himself further attempting to remove the synthetic patch, if she allowed him to have the scraper.

But…she didn't know what else to do…

She went to him. Touching him gently, carefully on the shoulder. Both announcing her presence and attempting to connect.

And she knew that this was the moment he would strike out at her, if he were going to. She found herself surprisingly prepared to accept that, if it happened. She would do what was required then but she would allow that moment of vulnerability to occur nonetheless.

He didn't strike out. He…released somehow instead. His shoulders slumping, hand coming back to rest on the wall near his head. And he whimpered, audibly.

She pulled gently at his shoulder, stepping closer. Only a little and perhaps only barely perceptibly. To encourage him to turn to her.

"Give me your arm, t'hy'la." She said, gently.

He turned away from the wall. Head bowed, eyes low. And there were tears there. Something she'd witnessed twice now already. Once not at all in person, but in the holographic chamber with Lynn. Once in this very room, when he intentionally opened himself to her. To repay the honor that she'd paid him before.

She took his arm gently, bringing it up between them. scraper in her hand.

"I'm sorry." He said, quietly. "I'll…do it. Just give me the thing and…"

"I will do it." She said, softly. "You are too emotional at the moment. Calm yourself and allow me to help you."

He said nothing further. Allowing her to work carefully and precisely, removing the synthetic patch. And she didn't hurt him a bit in the process.

While he regained control of himself again. Breath still hitching, still trembling slightly. Until he was eventually calm again.

She removed the last of the patch easily. And knelt to retrieve the can of paste from the floor nearby to apply that as well.

"I'm sorry." He said, meekly. "I shouldn't have done that. You didn't deserve that."

"It is understandable." She said. "You are an emotional person. You have suffered a deeply traumatic event, not allowing yourself to express your emotions regarding that. So they expressed themselves. I expected this to occur at some point."

Trip just shook his head, denying that.

"That's no excuse." He said. "What the hell kind of t'hy'la am I gonna be for you if I do that every damned time something bad happens?"

"I doubt you will lose a limb very often. And I will of course use this incident to coerce you into learning to meditate. You will likely not require it as often as I do but I am certain you will benefit from it regardless."

He didn't argue. Nor so much as attempt humor, as she would have preferred. He simply accepted that instead and said nothing further to it.

So she took the next step.

"Trip, I am unprepared to deal with your emotional needs." She said. "As your t'hy'la it would have been better if I had not only foreseen this behavior but moved to help you resolve it before you suffered an outburst. But I do not know how to do that. I will learn, and you will learn as well. And that is how we become greater than the sum of both of us. Do you understand?"

Trip nodded.

"Yeah."

T'Pol nodded as well, applying the last of the paste.

"You will learn to meditate, so that your emotional ranges are not as extreme." She continued. "I will adapt to what remains. I think this will not be difficult for me, as I already find your emotionality agreeable. So I will embrace greater comfort with sharing my own emotions with you as well. And so we have already begun our journey."

She resealed the can of paste, moving to place it on the desk along with the scraper. And she returned to him, finding him still humbled and ashamed.

She took his hand then. And she led him to the center of the room.

"I will help you to heal from your injury again." She said. "Stimulating the nodes associated with that. Then I will teach how to do the same for me."

And they did. T'Pol helping him to heal, reminding his body not to fight the wound but to accept and repair it. Trip doing the same, once she guided him through the process. And he was remarkably intuitive in doing so. Mastering the basics of the practice easily.