WEEK 4, DAY 6
Today was marked out in Beverly's diary as a day to stay inside, so to speak. The thought of Worf being angry was a dangerous one in itself, but Worf with PMS? Images of supernovae sprang to mind. "This could be lethal." Beverly muttered to herself, then after a few moments' reflection added "What do I mean, COULD be lethal? Worf's already short fuse won't even exist today." Thousands of scenarios ran through Bev's mind. The mixture of Worf in this state and being at the weapons computer gave an almost unlimited number of possibilities for disaster. She couldn't think of a way to avoid this - they didn't teach what to do in this scenario at the Academy.
Beverly didn't believe in a God-like entity, but for some bizarre reason she had taken to praying for mercy all of a sudden. Q, the deity worshipped by everyone who enjoys being an annoying bastard, had dropped in a few days ago, but when he saw what was going on he decided things were quite bad enough already, and fled back to the Continuum in fear of catching something or having his immortality put to the test.
Strangely enough, no one on the Enterprise ever thought of Klingon women with regards to menstruality - mainly because it wasn't a pretty thought. Klingons were impatient and temperamental enough, the thought of anything intensifying it grew a great sense of fear and sudden obedience.
Worf did not have a good start to the day. He had, of course been forewarned that this would happen, but he had chosen to ignore it. Worf felt that he could keep his emotions and his temper under control. In response Beverly asked him when he'd learnt to lie to himself so well.
One word could describe Worf's day:
Rampage.
If you loitered in the corridors, Worf 'encouraged' you to move along. If Worf felt you were walking too slowly, he would speed you up - but not tell you to speed up, HE would speed you up, usually with a foot. If you talked too loudly, Worf would make sure you were quiet. If you coughed or sneezed, thereby spreading possibly infectious diseases into the air, Worf would seal your faulty ventilation systems and throw you into quarantine - usually unconscious from having your air supply cut off. If Worf felt you were acting suspiciously, Worf would conduct a standard Klingon interrogation and beat the crap out of you until you confessed to something and everything. If Worf thought you weren't working fast enough he would court-martial you, but usually would skip that part and get straight to the punishment.
And God help you if you tried to argue with him. Unfortunately, God decided that today he'd be a little less interventionist.
But eventually Worf left duty (four hours late), returned to his quarters and went to sleep.
And a great peace descended upon the land.
Until the next day.
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WEEK 4, DAY 7
Worf was ready. He was ready for anything. He could take anything! Having spent the night regathering his thoughts and senses, he was ready to go back into the fray - the stares wouldn't affect him anymore. And as for the period itself, he told himself quite confidently "Something as small as that! It couldn't possibly affect me at all." he reassured himself. Worf kept this up for a solid hour before the moment finally arrived. "How could such a minor thing like that cloud my judgement... Such a thing is typically human, such weakness... I am more than ready for it, in fact I welcome this challenge!" Etcetera.
Worf knew he was ready for it.
It's coming any second now.
It was 0914 ship time.
"I'm ready for it."
It came.
Worf wasn't ready for it.
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WEEK 4, DAY 7, 0914 07secs SHIP TIME
Work on the Enterprise was paralysed. Throughout the entire saucer section there sounded a great agonised cry of suprise and contorted rage. This guttural, almost shrieking sound, reverberated through the decks, as if Hell itself had opened up and the voices of the damned ones bewailing their pain could be heard. For moments no one could move. The only thing that existed was that sound... that scream...
After a few seconds it was replaced by the more familiar sound of Worf's swearing ringing through the decks. As one the crew recognised the by now familiar Klingon words, and got back to work. A few of the more perceptive crewmembers, however, made sudden realisations, and looked suddenly slightly worried. A few harried whispers were exchanged, some nods of assent, and pretty soon the verdict had spread around the entire ship. Worf's day had come.
There was only one thing that they could do.
Panic.
It was if the teacher at pre-school had announced to the children that the boogeyman would be dropping by during sleep-time. The crew abandoned whatever they were doing, and immediately started running in all directions. "FLEE!! RUN FOR YOUR LIVES!!" was the cry that rang through the serried ranks. Eventually the retreat became slightly more organised, and the computer was being asked for Worf's location at an average of seven times every three seconds. The crewmember would check Worf's position, and plot a course to avoid him at ALL costs. The airducts became traffic jams for Ensigns seeking short cuts. People were being beaten up for Jeffries Tubes. Several of the more wily crewmembers made a killing by selling anti-security override chips for doors to quarters. Many turned their stun phasers on themselves. Not even the Borg could generate this level of fear and mass hysteria.
Worf, however, was blissfully unaware of this. The hum of the engines and the echo of his footsteps was the only sound he could hear. The halls were barren. Not a soul. Quite confusing for him. "Still, no matter. Obviously the crew are no longer loitering around the corridors as they did before." he told himself as he did his rounds.
An hour passed uneventfully, and very alone. He still hadn't seen anyone yet - by now he was getting suspicious. He had walked through Engineering not long ago, and nobody was there. No one in Engineering? Ridiculous!
Just then, he heard footsteps. Heavy. Fast. Ragged breathing. Getting closer. At last! Someone to talk to, to find out what's going on!
Ensign Walker was hopelessly lost. That in itself wasn't so bad - on the Enterprise it was easy to get from place to place with a computer happy to direct you every step of the way. The problem was Walker didn't know he was lost. Worse still, he thought he WASN'T lost.
Being lost is bad enough. You have no idea of where you are, and the worst part is you have no idea of how to get to either a) where you're going, or b) anywhere where you have an idea of where you are. The blind wandering can lead you anywhere - sometimes to safer ground, but usually not. But when you don't know that you're lost things get difficult. The confidence you have when you think you know where you are makes you move a bit faster - leading you further and further off course. But when you think you AREN'T lost, you are guaranteed to end up on the wrong side of the continent.
Walker was totally convinced that he was on Deck 14 heading towards his quarters. He was regularly checking the computers to see where Worf was, and it was telling him Worf was on Deck 17. "Fine! Almost there!" he told himself happily as he rounded a corner. "I got home without running into--"
There he was.
There HE was.
Not five metres in front of Walker was the Klingon Pepe le Pew that any living being with a self-preservation instinct was avoiding - Worf. Walker suddenly found his legs had gone on strike from all this panicking, and refused to move any more. His jaw was hanging loose, and would have swung in the breeze if there was one.
"Ensign Walker?" inquired Worf in his usual tones.
Walker had temporarily lost the use of the English language. "Huuuuhhh... wheeiiiii... bbbbrrrrraaaaahhhh..." he moaned out, still not moving his jaw. What Walker couldn't know was he had actually spoken an as yet unencountered dialect known as Si'rith, and he had just asked Worf if the fire was put out yet. In the meantime his legs were starting negotiations with the Jello Corporation as a new flavour - Panic Passionfruit.
"Is there something wrong?" Worf continued, the most idiotic of questions. Walker had just lost a pound in weight with a method which normally required a bilge pump, a shower and a change of underwear. He blinked, lifted his head slightly, and his face formed a look of recognition. Everything that had happened before was purely instinctive. Now Walker was hit by the full realisation that Worf was standing in front of him, and he immediately passed out, landing with a wet thud.
Worf simply couldn't understand it. Not only did it seem that nobody was going near him, but Picard had just excused him from duty on the bridge without giving a reason (in reality, Picard had foreseen this weeks earlier). When word of this spread the Enterprise let out a collective sigh of relief.
By now Worf was getting annoyed. He could not understand why everyone was avoiding him, and whenever he tried to find someone to ask about it, he couldn't find them. He couldn't find anybody for that matter. No one was responding to his communicator hails, when he tried to get onto the bridge he was ordered off without even getting a word in. In desperation he tried to talk to Guinan, but she wasn't in 10 Forward as expected, although Worf swore he saw a teardrop-shaped hat behind the bar move.
As it happened, the isolation was irritating him far more than anything else he could have encountered (apart from a few alien diplomats). By now Worf was stomping around the ship, searching for signs of life. None came - no one else was sill enough to repeat Walker's mistake, Worf thought.
Walker!
Of course! I'll go and talk to Walker - doesn't look like he'll be doing much. "Computer, give position of Ensign Walker."
"Ensign Walker is in Sickbay."
"Excellent."
Worf came storming into Sickbay like a Visigoth on the warpath. Ignoring the seven crewmembers who ran out before he had come in, he strode over to Walker, who lay in a med-sarcophagus, still unconscious.
A medical orderly approached him, looking like he was in an advanced state of Parkinson's Disease. "Can I help you with anything, sir?" Medical Officer Patrice said in a voice of a McDonalds drive-thru worker.
"I want to talk to Ensign Walker." Worf stated in a voice that combined demand, threat and just-try-and-say-no.
"I'm... uh..." Patrice didn't want to refuse his request (for self-preservation reasons), and there was only one thing that stopped him from allowing it. Namely, the laws of nature. Walker was in shock, and wasn't taking any calls.
"Well?"
"He... uh... cannot be disturbed right now." Patrice tried to sound like someone with authority. It came out sounding like a kid that Urkel would bully.
Worf looked down at Walker. "He looks alright to me."
"He's in an advanced state of shock. It is best th--"
Worf ignored him completely, and decided that Walker could be woken up, with a little encouragement. To that end, he started slapping Walker's face about a bit. Only gentle, swaying strokes, lightly knocking Walker about the sarcophagus.
"Ahhh... you can't do..." Patrice tried to object, until he remembered who he was dealing with, realised that it was completely futile, and joined the rest of the crew by fleeing to his quarters.
Worf paid him no heed. With a little more of Worf's persuasion Walker was starting to wake up. He looked up, saw Worf, and had a heart attack.
At least, it felt like one. He felt a sudden pain, and then it was as if his entire body was being drained of blood. In actual fact, he had just repeated the weight loss technique he'd done earlier. His panic caused him to kick wildly, damaging the equipment and sending sparks flying. He felt an amazing electrical current flow into his nether regions, and he jumped out of the sarcophagus out of instinct.
The combined panic and shock had now woken him up completely, and he got his wits back about him.
He saw Worf again.
He lost his wits again.
"Walker, I'd like to talk to you."
"Ha...huu dan hu ee!" Walker jabbered out.
"What's your problem!?" Worf asked in his interrogation voice.
"Hook, hut dan hu ee! Ees!" In waking him up, Worf had broken Walker's jaw, which was locked permanently open. Communication was difficult. This did not please Worf.
"Why were you running away from me!?"
"Hee er aird!"
"WHAT!!?"
"Aird!! Oh ees!"
"Dammit, answer me!!!!"
"I hyin!"
The interrogation moved on, in traditional Klingon fashion.
By the end of it, Walker had four cracked ribs, fractured both his femurs, bruises to thirty percent of his body, and his weight loss program had allowed him to lose a further three kilos. And Worf still didn't have any answers. In the end, he gave up, went back to his quarters and got some sleep. He was in there two hours before anyone had the guts to leave their quarters.
Today was marked out in Beverly's diary as a day to stay inside, so to speak. The thought of Worf being angry was a dangerous one in itself, but Worf with PMS? Images of supernovae sprang to mind. "This could be lethal." Beverly muttered to herself, then after a few moments' reflection added "What do I mean, COULD be lethal? Worf's already short fuse won't even exist today." Thousands of scenarios ran through Bev's mind. The mixture of Worf in this state and being at the weapons computer gave an almost unlimited number of possibilities for disaster. She couldn't think of a way to avoid this - they didn't teach what to do in this scenario at the Academy.
Beverly didn't believe in a God-like entity, but for some bizarre reason she had taken to praying for mercy all of a sudden. Q, the deity worshipped by everyone who enjoys being an annoying bastard, had dropped in a few days ago, but when he saw what was going on he decided things were quite bad enough already, and fled back to the Continuum in fear of catching something or having his immortality put to the test.
Strangely enough, no one on the Enterprise ever thought of Klingon women with regards to menstruality - mainly because it wasn't a pretty thought. Klingons were impatient and temperamental enough, the thought of anything intensifying it grew a great sense of fear and sudden obedience.
Worf did not have a good start to the day. He had, of course been forewarned that this would happen, but he had chosen to ignore it. Worf felt that he could keep his emotions and his temper under control. In response Beverly asked him when he'd learnt to lie to himself so well.
One word could describe Worf's day:
Rampage.
If you loitered in the corridors, Worf 'encouraged' you to move along. If Worf felt you were walking too slowly, he would speed you up - but not tell you to speed up, HE would speed you up, usually with a foot. If you talked too loudly, Worf would make sure you were quiet. If you coughed or sneezed, thereby spreading possibly infectious diseases into the air, Worf would seal your faulty ventilation systems and throw you into quarantine - usually unconscious from having your air supply cut off. If Worf felt you were acting suspiciously, Worf would conduct a standard Klingon interrogation and beat the crap out of you until you confessed to something and everything. If Worf thought you weren't working fast enough he would court-martial you, but usually would skip that part and get straight to the punishment.
And God help you if you tried to argue with him. Unfortunately, God decided that today he'd be a little less interventionist.
But eventually Worf left duty (four hours late), returned to his quarters and went to sleep.
And a great peace descended upon the land.
Until the next day.
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WEEK 4, DAY 7
Worf was ready. He was ready for anything. He could take anything! Having spent the night regathering his thoughts and senses, he was ready to go back into the fray - the stares wouldn't affect him anymore. And as for the period itself, he told himself quite confidently "Something as small as that! It couldn't possibly affect me at all." he reassured himself. Worf kept this up for a solid hour before the moment finally arrived. "How could such a minor thing like that cloud my judgement... Such a thing is typically human, such weakness... I am more than ready for it, in fact I welcome this challenge!" Etcetera.
Worf knew he was ready for it.
It's coming any second now.
It was 0914 ship time.
"I'm ready for it."
It came.
Worf wasn't ready for it.
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WEEK 4, DAY 7, 0914 07secs SHIP TIME
Work on the Enterprise was paralysed. Throughout the entire saucer section there sounded a great agonised cry of suprise and contorted rage. This guttural, almost shrieking sound, reverberated through the decks, as if Hell itself had opened up and the voices of the damned ones bewailing their pain could be heard. For moments no one could move. The only thing that existed was that sound... that scream...
After a few seconds it was replaced by the more familiar sound of Worf's swearing ringing through the decks. As one the crew recognised the by now familiar Klingon words, and got back to work. A few of the more perceptive crewmembers, however, made sudden realisations, and looked suddenly slightly worried. A few harried whispers were exchanged, some nods of assent, and pretty soon the verdict had spread around the entire ship. Worf's day had come.
There was only one thing that they could do.
Panic.
It was if the teacher at pre-school had announced to the children that the boogeyman would be dropping by during sleep-time. The crew abandoned whatever they were doing, and immediately started running in all directions. "FLEE!! RUN FOR YOUR LIVES!!" was the cry that rang through the serried ranks. Eventually the retreat became slightly more organised, and the computer was being asked for Worf's location at an average of seven times every three seconds. The crewmember would check Worf's position, and plot a course to avoid him at ALL costs. The airducts became traffic jams for Ensigns seeking short cuts. People were being beaten up for Jeffries Tubes. Several of the more wily crewmembers made a killing by selling anti-security override chips for doors to quarters. Many turned their stun phasers on themselves. Not even the Borg could generate this level of fear and mass hysteria.
Worf, however, was blissfully unaware of this. The hum of the engines and the echo of his footsteps was the only sound he could hear. The halls were barren. Not a soul. Quite confusing for him. "Still, no matter. Obviously the crew are no longer loitering around the corridors as they did before." he told himself as he did his rounds.
An hour passed uneventfully, and very alone. He still hadn't seen anyone yet - by now he was getting suspicious. He had walked through Engineering not long ago, and nobody was there. No one in Engineering? Ridiculous!
Just then, he heard footsteps. Heavy. Fast. Ragged breathing. Getting closer. At last! Someone to talk to, to find out what's going on!
Ensign Walker was hopelessly lost. That in itself wasn't so bad - on the Enterprise it was easy to get from place to place with a computer happy to direct you every step of the way. The problem was Walker didn't know he was lost. Worse still, he thought he WASN'T lost.
Being lost is bad enough. You have no idea of where you are, and the worst part is you have no idea of how to get to either a) where you're going, or b) anywhere where you have an idea of where you are. The blind wandering can lead you anywhere - sometimes to safer ground, but usually not. But when you don't know that you're lost things get difficult. The confidence you have when you think you know where you are makes you move a bit faster - leading you further and further off course. But when you think you AREN'T lost, you are guaranteed to end up on the wrong side of the continent.
Walker was totally convinced that he was on Deck 14 heading towards his quarters. He was regularly checking the computers to see where Worf was, and it was telling him Worf was on Deck 17. "Fine! Almost there!" he told himself happily as he rounded a corner. "I got home without running into--"
There he was.
There HE was.
Not five metres in front of Walker was the Klingon Pepe le Pew that any living being with a self-preservation instinct was avoiding - Worf. Walker suddenly found his legs had gone on strike from all this panicking, and refused to move any more. His jaw was hanging loose, and would have swung in the breeze if there was one.
"Ensign Walker?" inquired Worf in his usual tones.
Walker had temporarily lost the use of the English language. "Huuuuhhh... wheeiiiii... bbbbrrrrraaaaahhhh..." he moaned out, still not moving his jaw. What Walker couldn't know was he had actually spoken an as yet unencountered dialect known as Si'rith, and he had just asked Worf if the fire was put out yet. In the meantime his legs were starting negotiations with the Jello Corporation as a new flavour - Panic Passionfruit.
"Is there something wrong?" Worf continued, the most idiotic of questions. Walker had just lost a pound in weight with a method which normally required a bilge pump, a shower and a change of underwear. He blinked, lifted his head slightly, and his face formed a look of recognition. Everything that had happened before was purely instinctive. Now Walker was hit by the full realisation that Worf was standing in front of him, and he immediately passed out, landing with a wet thud.
Worf simply couldn't understand it. Not only did it seem that nobody was going near him, but Picard had just excused him from duty on the bridge without giving a reason (in reality, Picard had foreseen this weeks earlier). When word of this spread the Enterprise let out a collective sigh of relief.
By now Worf was getting annoyed. He could not understand why everyone was avoiding him, and whenever he tried to find someone to ask about it, he couldn't find them. He couldn't find anybody for that matter. No one was responding to his communicator hails, when he tried to get onto the bridge he was ordered off without even getting a word in. In desperation he tried to talk to Guinan, but she wasn't in 10 Forward as expected, although Worf swore he saw a teardrop-shaped hat behind the bar move.
As it happened, the isolation was irritating him far more than anything else he could have encountered (apart from a few alien diplomats). By now Worf was stomping around the ship, searching for signs of life. None came - no one else was sill enough to repeat Walker's mistake, Worf thought.
Walker!
Of course! I'll go and talk to Walker - doesn't look like he'll be doing much. "Computer, give position of Ensign Walker."
"Ensign Walker is in Sickbay."
"Excellent."
Worf came storming into Sickbay like a Visigoth on the warpath. Ignoring the seven crewmembers who ran out before he had come in, he strode over to Walker, who lay in a med-sarcophagus, still unconscious.
A medical orderly approached him, looking like he was in an advanced state of Parkinson's Disease. "Can I help you with anything, sir?" Medical Officer Patrice said in a voice of a McDonalds drive-thru worker.
"I want to talk to Ensign Walker." Worf stated in a voice that combined demand, threat and just-try-and-say-no.
"I'm... uh..." Patrice didn't want to refuse his request (for self-preservation reasons), and there was only one thing that stopped him from allowing it. Namely, the laws of nature. Walker was in shock, and wasn't taking any calls.
"Well?"
"He... uh... cannot be disturbed right now." Patrice tried to sound like someone with authority. It came out sounding like a kid that Urkel would bully.
Worf looked down at Walker. "He looks alright to me."
"He's in an advanced state of shock. It is best th--"
Worf ignored him completely, and decided that Walker could be woken up, with a little encouragement. To that end, he started slapping Walker's face about a bit. Only gentle, swaying strokes, lightly knocking Walker about the sarcophagus.
"Ahhh... you can't do..." Patrice tried to object, until he remembered who he was dealing with, realised that it was completely futile, and joined the rest of the crew by fleeing to his quarters.
Worf paid him no heed. With a little more of Worf's persuasion Walker was starting to wake up. He looked up, saw Worf, and had a heart attack.
At least, it felt like one. He felt a sudden pain, and then it was as if his entire body was being drained of blood. In actual fact, he had just repeated the weight loss technique he'd done earlier. His panic caused him to kick wildly, damaging the equipment and sending sparks flying. He felt an amazing electrical current flow into his nether regions, and he jumped out of the sarcophagus out of instinct.
The combined panic and shock had now woken him up completely, and he got his wits back about him.
He saw Worf again.
He lost his wits again.
"Walker, I'd like to talk to you."
"Ha...huu dan hu ee!" Walker jabbered out.
"What's your problem!?" Worf asked in his interrogation voice.
"Hook, hut dan hu ee! Ees!" In waking him up, Worf had broken Walker's jaw, which was locked permanently open. Communication was difficult. This did not please Worf.
"Why were you running away from me!?"
"Hee er aird!"
"WHAT!!?"
"Aird!! Oh ees!"
"Dammit, answer me!!!!"
"I hyin!"
The interrogation moved on, in traditional Klingon fashion.
By the end of it, Walker had four cracked ribs, fractured both his femurs, bruises to thirty percent of his body, and his weight loss program had allowed him to lose a further three kilos. And Worf still didn't have any answers. In the end, he gave up, went back to his quarters and got some sleep. He was in there two hours before anyone had the guts to leave their quarters.