The BLTS Archive - A Twist of Fate Episode 02: Private Enterprise by Elessar (elessar54r@gmail.com) --- Disclaimer: Paramount owns Star Trek characters/names/fans' souls/etc. If I owned it, we'd all be a lot happier. Initial Notes: If you're not familiar with this series, it is probably because it has been an //exceedingly// long time since I have updated it. It's kind of like the "swicheroo" series, only I call it AU. It's not set on //Enterprise// so I recommend you read the pilot (00) and second episode (01) As you may recall, an accident during testing has caused the Vulcan High Command to revoke Starfleet's lease of an advanced warp reactor required to test Warp 6+ capable warp coils. With the program defunct and Trip out of a job, he gets home after an awkward bender with coworkers to find a Dear John letter from Natalie. After making things worse by taking a six pack and getting trashed on Starfleet Grounds, Trip is lucky for T'Pol to happen upon him and get him home. T'Pol has decided to take it upon herself to convince her superiors that the testing accident is not sufficient reason to terminate the program. --- Characters: Commander Charles Tucker III - Age 29 - Warp Field Specialist Captain Matthew Frederick Jeffries - Age 46 - 6'3, medium muscular build, black hair, dark eyes, dark complexion - Test pilot, Design Engineer Senior Chief Petty Officer (SCPO) Virgil "Gus" Walters - Age 57 - 6'0, heavy build, gray hair, blue eyes, weathered skin, scars on hands. Like an older, grayer Admiral Adama. - Engine Mechanic, Machinist Ensign Carly Ibanez - Age 23 - 5'2, petite build, Latin complexion, brown hair/eyes - Electrical Engineering, Warp Field EMI Specialist Ensign Anastasia 'Anna' Krycek - Age 26 - 5'5, petite build, blonde hair, blue eyes - Integrated Systems Specialist Lieutenant (Dr.) Franz Obers, Ph.D. - Age 34 - 5'10, thin build, hazel eyes, dark hair. Speaks with German accent. - Plasma Physics Specialist Lieutenant Robert 'Bobby' DeSoto - Age 32 - 5'8, medium build, dark hair, dark eyes. Not fond of Vulcans. - Mechanical Engineering, High Tolerance Materials Specialist Sub-Commander T'Pol - Age 63 - Particle Physics, Subspace Physics Specialist --- NOTES: It's been a little while since I have released an addition to this series but I hope to continue it. It just depends on how much time life affords me. Just to give you an idea of how long it's been, when I first went to release this, it still said "Commander" Adama above in the description of Walters. Enjoy! Thanks to the VLI, Google for local information about Sausalito, CA for directions to the nearest skate park in Napa, CA. --- "Frank?" Chauncey called into the darkened causeway. Chauncey rubbed his fingers against the dark blue maintenance jumpsuit he wore to work every day. Several hours of dirt and flaky valve sealant had caked itself into the grooves of his fingers, refusing to budge onto the material of his sleeve. He grumbled to the darkness, cocking his head and squinting down the darkened corridor. "Goddamned maintenance never telli—FRANK!" he yelled again. His boots clucked one at a time against the floor paneling as he took several steps away from the open conduit where his tools splayed across the floor. Chauncey moved towards the end of the hallway leading to the primary maintenance corridor from which this sub-corridor – Section B, sub-compartment 43 – was connected. The far end of the hall was backlit by the fading creep of a blue-hued veil of stray photons, not quite shining, but lollygagging just enough to cast a dull spectrum of contrast in Chauncey's direction. Perhaps a lantern someone left behind in the corridor, he imagined. Chauncey ground his teeth and lit out in a quicker pace towards the end of the hallway. A loud, rattling clang surprised him as his foot struck something and Chauncey leapt in fright like a track star, turning around at least three times. The tool rolled out of sight. As he cursed the offending instrument, Chauncey briefly caught sight of an amorphous shadow, stretching across sub-junction 1 for his sub-corridor. Chauncey swallowed a lump in his throat and insisted it was a trick of light, for the distant end of the corridor was now dark again. "Chauncey!" A voice called from behind him as he stared towards the muddy darkness. Chauncey spun around to find a tottering plasma lantern between the hands of a short, thinning haired, heavy-set man in dirty blue overalls. "Dammit, Frank! What'd you do, short the EPS taps again?" Chauncey complained. "Don't look at me!" Frank insisted, throwing his hands up innocently, throwing odd shadows about as the lantern swayed. "I didn't do a damn thing, a'right? I was just cuttin' the taps like 'ee old man said ta do, and evy'thing went black on me! I'm lucky I still got all my fingas!" He waved his fingers in front of Chauncey's face. A recent addition to the staff, Frank's accent still confused many West Coasters. "Hey, is Bobby workin' too? Cuz' I'm pretty sure I saw somebody," Chauncey turned and gestured down the hall. "Hell if I know, man. The way we're doin' dis whole thing don't make a bit a' sense. G'damn Vulcans got us tearin' 'is place apart already. I swear to God. . . I swear to God, Chauncey!" he pumped his finger in the air, his voice rising with the second iteration. "Them bastids make me pull one more set'a taps and then re-install 'em, I'm gonna' kill-at-kaleefi on somebody's ass!" "Frank, what are you talkin' about?" Chauncey asked exhaustively. "What the hell is kill-at-ka—" "I'll tell you what it is!" he jutted another finger in the air. "It's where these Vulcans – I swear, they don't want us to know they do this but dey do – they pretend they don't got emotions 'n all 'at shit, chu know?" Chauncey nodded. "Yeah, at's BS! They do it all a' time. It's like back in the day, you know my Uncle Philly used to run the South Bronx. Say somebody disrespects ya sister, er' uh maybe short on some bets a' somethin'. . . " Frank paused for dramatic effect as a satisfied smirk crossed his face. "Well, maybe uh, maybe somethin' happen to 'em you know?" Frank laughed, cocking his chin sideways and shrugging his shoulders. "The Vulcans, dey got their way too, only dey call it this 'kill-at- kaleefi'. It's a fight to da' death. It's how dey take care a' bad bets, so to speak." "What, with particle rifles? That'd last awhile," Chauncey laughed aloud. "Nah, nah, hand-to-hand! Buddy, they don't mess around!" "I think you're fulla' shit, Frank," Chauncey mumbled, but loud enough for Frank to hear. "Yeah, well just you try an' see what happens. You go 'an uh, you call a Vulcan's motha a whore, you try dat, uh?" Frank laughed to himself. "Hey, hey!" Frank slapped Chauncey's arm. "Fuckin' lights are comin' back on down in A-junction, you see dat?" Frank pointed. He started down the hallway, with Chauncey close behind. "'Ey Bobby! You down there? You tell that rat-bastid cousin a' yours ee's gonna' owe me double after da' game tonight!" --- 0540 HRS Saturday, November 28, 2150 Week 5 --- As T'Pol walked the stony path that bisected the rectangular, grassy yard at the front of the Vulcan Consulate, a bristling, cool breeze ruffled the folds of her robe. She recalled the balmy, but preferable warmth of her last assignment to San Francisco – in late April, on the heels of an early summer heat wave. The unfriendly clime only served to reinforce the already-unavoidable realization that occupied her attention like a hostile force as each step carried her closer to territory as uncertain and alien as the very dirt beneath her. She had almost no idea what argument she would use to try and sway Ambassador Soval's position on the humans' capability to run the warp program that hadn't already been used by half the admiralty. She could only hope that her mentor would consider the words of a Vulcan with more care than that of a human – that her efforts would not prove to be in vain after having spent an agonizing half hour in Admiral Forrest's office, trying to find a way to say that she may have been wrong to condemn the program so quickly. But had she? That was the question that occupied her as she climbed the steps. During their discussion, it was clear to T'Pol that, while appreciative, Forrest had low expectations for T'Pol's initiative to speak with Soval and attempt to gain his support to appeal the High Command's decision. With dismay, she realized that when her appeal resounded between her own ears, the absence of some logical assertion or clever revelation of fallacy in their decision was conspicuously missing. To Vulcan minds, the lack thereof stood out like a missing pair of pants. She realized – while watching the frayed gold and brown fibers of her robe's cuffs scrape the steps of the Consulate Hall – that Forrest's doubt was logically founded, and her efforts not. --- "The ambassador is currently unavailable," the rigid-faced, young Vulcan male at the front desk informed T'Pol. He immediately turned his attention away from T'Pol once the words finished from his lips. "I am the scientific attaché to the Ambassador's Office. It is important that I speak with him," T'Pol inclined her tone to suggest import. The Vulcan looked up in what appeared to be a slowly fading picture of genuine surprise that she had actually spoken to him //again//. It seemed unheard of. "He is unavailable," the Vulcan repeated with an even tone, as if they were speaking over subspace and merely enduring a bad connection. As their nature is empathic, T'Pol sensed for an instant the same condescension that the metaphor conjured in her own mind, and had an emotional reaction to it. She opened her lips to speak, and then paused. "Perhaps you are in error," T'Pol replied calmly. "The Ambassador is not scheduled to leave for Vulcan until tomorrow." The Vulcan opened his mouth to speak, but T'Pol cut him off. "Inform him that Subcommander T'Pol wishes to speak with him," she ordered the clerk, before turning her body away from him and staring blankly into a 4th century Vulcan rock-sculpture several meters away in the atrium of the building. The Vulcan clerk blinked at her for several moments. Then, in a decisive victory for T'Pol, he turned and pressed a series of commands on a voiceless communication terminal. A few minutes later, a young-looking Vulcan not by the name of Ambassador Soval appeared next to the clerk's counter, appraising T'Pol. She turned her attention from the statue to meet his gaze. T'Pol was decidedly disappointed, momentarily betraying her dissatisfaction with a droop of her shoulders and the release of a long breath. She offered the traditional salute, and he returned it. She now recognized the diplomat standing before her as the young protégé of Councilor V'Len and new addition to the Ambassadorial Office – Sublieutenant Tovan. "I believe I called for Ambassador Soval. Perhaps there has been a miscommunication," T'Pol intoned with an elevated eyebrow. She found herself growing disturbingly impatient. "I'm afraid there hasn't been," Tovan replied evenly, with straight-faced languor. T'Pol astutely took note of the young officer's use of the grammatical contraction, and found it distasteful. She resisted the inclination to feel such an emotion, but still found it curious. . . "You see, Ambassador Soval left for Vulcan three hours ago. He is quite unavailable," Tovan replied with a strong inflection. T'Pol sensed his growing satisfaction. She frowned briefly as her eyes fell to the floor, then became mindful of the draw of her brow and relaxed her face. "Thank you," was all T'Pol replied as she turned and left, frustrated by what she had learned. --- Cochrane Warp Flight Facility 1120 HRS --- The Subcommander had to admit a small amount of relief that the civilian eatery and hence the Vulcan restaurant just inside the Cochrane Warp Building's lobby was still open. She was surprised to discover on her second visit to the establishment that their //forikol// stew ran a tight second place with her foremother's recipe. T'Pol hadn't known T'Maz's //forikol// in nearly fifty years since she died, but her recollection of the taste was quite vivid. Although T'Pol had found that what very little human cuisine she had sampled did not agree with her Vulcan digestive system, the aroma of onion stew very closely resembled that of the //forikol// that her foremother used to prepare with home-grown //kastik// weeds and boiled //mashya// noodles. There was an inkling of temptation to try the Humans' onion stew were she ever again afforded the opportunity. In the midst of T'Pol's homegrown reverie, a bustle of noise awakened her back to the present. She turned her head to find the ruckus belonged to a handful of teenagers who had made their way into the lobby and were recreating near the Cochrane statue. Vulcan teenagers were far better behaved, T'Pol thought. The boys weren't breaking any rules as of yet – besides, perhaps, a noise violation – but, finished with her meal, T'Pol was ready to leave. "Check this out!" her acute hearing picked up. A loud clack betrayed the sound of skateboard wheels coming into contact with the corner surface of the welled border that surrounded the Statue and prevented small children from climbing into the fountain at its base. The young boy riding the board as it skid across the concrete was concentrating heavily on the maneuver for the entire 1.3 seconds that it lasted before the friction coefficient of the board on the concrete overcame its inertial momentum and catapulted him from the ring onto the pavement a meter below. T'Pol rose. "That is not an acceptable activity in this area," T'Pol said as she approached the group amidst the approving shouts and cheers that followed the young man's spill. Whether she was not heard or simply not heeded, T'Pol looked on confusedly as the teenagers finished exchanging high-fives before any of them paid her attention. "You failed," T'Pol called to the indifferent youth at the center of attention. He turned his sandy blonde head in her direction and after a very obvious once-over, scoffed and turned back at his friends. Her apparent attempt to engage him with a scathing critique of the maneuver failed to produce a reaction as she had hoped. "That is not an appropriate activity for this area," T'Pol repeated, elevating her voice significantly. The teens finally looked up, and the stuntman made his way to the front of them. When he emerged from the crowd, T'Pol spied a long trail of blood from his knee that now trickled into his shoe. The crimson stripe down his leg displayed the source of his friends' amusement and applause. T'Pol's eyes widened in alarm. "You require medical attention," T'Pol said again before he could respond to her prior scolding. "Relax, it's nothin' a dermal regenerator can't fix," the boy replied with a surprisingly deeper voice than one would have expected from a boy his age. When he stepped closer, T'Pol thought he looked familiar. He was tall for the age of sixteen, however. "Most humans do not have access to that kind of technology," T'Pol challenged him. "I'll borrow my dad's," the kid shrugged as his friends began to taper towards the door. One of them turned around, shouted something about 'going for pizza', and then left the Cochrane Building. "This isn't the place for that kind of activity. Someone could have been hurt," T'Pol warned him. He chuckled and stomped his foot against the edge of the board, causing its opposite end to flip up into his hand. "I know. I'm just waitin' for my dad. . . he was supposed to be here soon but. . . " He trailed off, shrugging. "Your father works here?" T'Pol asked inquisitively. "Yeah, but you probably don't know him," the boy shook his head. "He says he'd die before he'd work with another Vulcan again, no offense," the kid laughed. T'Pol raised a steely eyebrow. The boy looked down at his board and spun it idly against the tile. "So what are //you// doin' here?" he asked. A human might have subconsciously noticed the shift in his body weight and dilation of pupils as an expression of attraction in the opposite sex, but T'Pol's attentiveness was absent. Still troubled by the news of Soval's departure, she found herself responding somewhat irritably. "If your father works here, then it is very likely that I //do// know him," T'Pol countered. "Oh yeah? He's a Captain in Starfleet. Jeffries. I'm Carter," the boy said, cracking a smile as he threw a hand forward unashamedly, shaking a few loose strands away from his eyes. "You are unaware that Vulcans do not shake hands?" T'Pol asked icily. Carter laughed and withdrew his hand with a smirk. "Nah, I just wanted to see how you'd react." There was a beat as T'Pol shifted her weight to leave. She tarried for no other logical reason than having not yet cracked the puzzle as to Soval's whereabouts. She required isolated concentration, and turned to leave. "I'm sure your father will return soon. If you will excuse me, I have—" "He was supposed to pick me up here an hour ago, but he called and said he had to meet with the Vulcan ambassador," the kid muttered as if he had little interest in his own words. T'Pol froze. "By the way, if you're not doin' anything later, maybe you can come and see me skate at Rebel Yell," he asked nervously, running a hand through his hair. T'Pol's mind focused on the news about Jeffries meeting with Soval, her eyes unfocused, staring off into the distance. "It's a. . . skate park, down on Clinton. There's a competition there tonight and I'm. . . " Carter trailed off as he looked up and noticed T'Pol completely oblivious to his attempt at a social invitation. Analyzing the clerk's misinformation, Tovan's complicity with it, and Soval's disappearance, T'Pol synthesized all of the available information into a frightening set of possibilities. Assuming that Carter was not lying to her – and though her knowledge of him was far less than necessary to produce a psych. dossier, she found no logical reason for him to lie – the facts required that either Carter was mistaken or Tovan was lying. All things being equal, the former was the simpler and more probable of the suppositions, but prior misgivings about Tovan prevented her from accepting the easy conclusion. She had to consider every possibility, regardless of how unpleasant. Finally, she produced a viable litmus test for her theory without causing trouble should her suspicions be unfounded. Her intelligence training worked away at preparing her plan while her security training had already tensed her muscles, slowed her metabolism and initiated vasoconstriction to limit blood loss in the event of combat with an edged weapon. Human bodies reacted similarly under high stress, but only as a mere parasympathetic reaction when the particle beams started to fly. Only those of honed mental discipline could initiate these functions at will. "Mr. Jeffries, would you be willing to assist me?" T'Pol asked suddenly. Carter balked at the official surname and continued spinning his skateboard. He took advantage of her request. "Only if you never call me Mr. Jefferies again, if you and come see me skate tonight." T'Pol made a tactical decision for the sake of the greater good, and decided to accede. "Perhaps." "Alright, I guess that's good enough," Carter said as he nodded slightly, curiously eying her. "What's up?" "I would like you to go request your father's whereabouts from the human station agent at the front desk," T'Pol resisted making a subtle gesture at her target to avoid drawing attention, instead drawing her eyes towards it briefly. Carter turned and spotted the desk with the same steely Vulcan who had bested T'Pol's inquiry. "But there's a Vulcan up there," he replied. "You must //insist// to see your father. Become irrational and argumentative." "Irrational and argumentative I can do," he grinned proudly. T'Pol responded with a single brow and recollection of a certain someone else proudly capable of the same traits. "You must demand to see your father at once." "But he's probably not even here," he waved his arm towards the south exit. "I'm pretty sure when he meets with ambassadors it's over at the Diplomatic Corps Office, but he knows I hang out here." "I have reason to believe he is within the building," was all T'Pol responded. She decided it was unnecessary to alert him to the possibility that his father's life was in danger. "Ok. I can do that," Carter grinned, relishing the thought of giving hell to one Vulcan on the orders of another. "Also," T'Pol amended, as Carter stepped away. T'Pol's glance flitted to the front desk to ensure their exchange had not been noticed. The Vulcan clerk dutifully punched away at a computer screen. The corner of his mouth flinched as Carter watched T'Pol's instinctively cautious and insurgent demeanor. He was enjoying their little hunt. "Listen, be straight with me, alright? I can handle it, what the hell's goin' on?" Carter interrupted, lowering his voice and turning away from the front desk. T'Pol blinked her gaze away from the Vulcan and settled a heavy, contemplative look on the boy, pursing her lips. She decided that enlisting his assistance might necessitate some transparency of operational details in order to reap full benefit of his cooperation, as well as elicit any additional information pertinent to her suspicions. "I work with your father. There may be a reason to believe that Ambassador Soval is in danger. If the information you have given me about your father's meeting with the ambassador is true, then your father may be as well." An instant later, T'Pol regretted the degree of divulgence. She watched his reaction expectantly. "Was it true?" T'Pol asked. Carter squinted, shifting his weight. "Yeah, it's true," he said simply, nodding stiffly. "So you're serious, you're not jerkin' me around?" Carter asked seriously. "No." T'Pol answered simply after deducing from the structure of the sentence that 'jerking him around' was necessarily the opposite of 'you're serious'. Her answer seemed to satisfy him. "Take this," T'Pol pulled a pocket communicator from her uniform. She ushered Carter along the path of the fountain until their position was completely obscured from view of the desk by the Cochrane statue. T'Pol pried open the access port on the back of the communicator and started prodding with a thin metal pin clasped to the inside cover. She spared a look at Carter when he took a step and peered around the statue at the front desk. His demeanor struck T'Pol as surprisingly calm and collected. Carter unconsciously chewed his lip as he eyed the Vulcan clerk. His eyes moved from the desk to the security checkpoint, to the East exit, to the South entrance, and back to the clerk. T'Pol raised an eyebrow, suspecting he might be enjoying this, and suspecting as a result that he may not fully understand the danger. Regardless, she needed assistance, and, as Jeffries' son, he was in a unique position to provide it. With a click, T'Pol sealed the hatch on the device and handed it to Carter. "Keep this concealed. It will give away your position. . . " T'Pol told him. Carter pocketed it, squinted as he chewed his lip again, watching the front desk. A realization hit him and he snapped his attention to T'Pol once more. "I'm bait," he said almost jovially. The amusement passed and his jaw hardened. He gave a slight nod, indicating his continued cooperation. --- The clamorous youth in the background, rudely and loudly haranguing the Vulcan clerk should have been plenty of explanation to his associate as to the nature of his quandary, but somehow he needed greater clarification. --- "Commander Tucker." Commander Tucker's body lay stubbornly immobile even as T'Pol ventured a hand to lift his face from the covers and incline it to her own. She had let herself in. "Commander Tucker," she called louder. She was rewarded with naught but a grunt. Sitting on the bed in his apartment a few minutes after seven, she leaned in closer to him, picking up the smell of alcohol still potently emanating. The unappealing aroma and somewhat unflattering dishevelment of the room around him after what was likely an unpleasant drunken stupor after she helped him return home the previous evening was doing wonders presently for her impartiality and professionalism. She wasn't at all distracted by the fact that he was laying only in boxer shorts. Well, almost not at all. "Commander Tucker!" she shouted, finally, surprised by her own volume. Surprised all the more greatly she was, however, when he did in fact awaken and look up with a mild grin. It quickly spread through the alcoholic haze of favorable perceptions when he somehow saw the face of Natalie between the impressions and contours of T'Pol's face. Convinced his girlfriend had seen the error of her ways and returned to him, he sat up and habitually pulled closer to her by planting his hand at the small of her back. Before the clouds could clear from his corneas, Trip pulled T'Pol closer to him and tilted his jaw slightly, planting his lips warmly against hers. T'Pol froze, instantaneously confused by the mixed impulses – one indicating an extremely violent response, the other – not so much. In any case, inaction itself was enough to encourage a slight whimper to exit her lips, the nature of which she would have to deduce at a later occasion. When Trip pulled away and found //Subcommander T'Pol// looking down at him with a mix of shock and. . . well the other fomenting substance in the air he was quite sure would shortly be the scent of his own blood. His eyes widened and his body chemistry rocked into proper sober harmony in the space of a microsecond as he predicted his death to come quickly. "T-T'Pol, Jesus Christ! What're you doin' here!" he found himself shifting blame. "I-I thought you were Natalie!" he said, throwing his arms to an open motion at the door. It was the first time he removed his hand from the small of her back. T'Pol blinked several times and took a sudden, deep breath, finding herself resisting the urge to lick her lips. "Commander Tucker, your confusion is quite understandable. I observed a photograph of your significant other on my way in, and there is a. . . slight resemblance, that. . . under your current alcoholically- reduced state of consciousness could—" Trip was almost smiling, watching T'Pol try to excuse him. He was happy enough to be alive. "Look, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to snap at you, and I definitely didn't mean to. . . " he rolled his eyes, gesticulating with his hands. T'Pol's eyes widened slightly, turning innocently downward at him as she suddenly resembled a doe more than anything else. "Kiss me?" she asked. Trip instinctively winced, chewing his lip as he suddenly realized T'Pol mig— "I have come because," she interrupted his thoughts. "We have a vital matter to discuss. I need your assistance." "In. . . what way?" Trip asked. "I need access to a transporter." "W. . . Why?" Trip asked in utter confusion. --- T'Pol related the events of the morning. "Wait, wait, wait. . . " Trip narrowed his eyes doubtfully. "You think somebody's like. . . holding Soval and Jeffries hostage because his sixteen year old son has the hots for you and told you whatever you wanted to hear?" T'Pol glared at him. "I believe Tovan is lying and that Ambassador Soval has not returned to Vulcan. If this is true, at minimum the Ambassador could be in danger, and perhaps Jeffries' as well." Trip seemed to consider her story and his options while an anvil of cartoonish proportions began to sift down squarely over his eyeballs. "Ok, so," he said, rubbing his eyes. T'Pol rose from the bed and instinctively went to the medicine cabinet in the bathroom immediately off her right from the bed. Trip looked up at first in confusion at her departure, then when she returned with a bottle of aspirin, looked on as if she had just handed him a severed head. "Thanks," he said, after several moments, tossing them back. "So you have coordinates on Carter Jeffries' position, and—" "I confirmed with internal sensors in the Cochrane Building that there are other life signs in the room with him. One human, and three Vulcan." Trip frowned as his eyes narrowed. "How'd you check the internal sensors? The only console with access to lab systems outside the Engineering section is in Maintenance, and that's locked." "I was forced to circumvent the security system," she replied matter- of-factly. After a long pause, she continued. "If you insist on having me brought up on formal charges once we ascertain the safety of the Ambassador and Captain Jeffries, I understand." She was completely serious. "No, no, T'Pol," Trip tried to allay her fears as he waved a hand. "Are you serious?" There was a long pause in which T'Pol's eyes narrowed at him. "You think I'd do that?" "I am. . . a foreign agent. I gained unauthorized access to a secure area in a highly classified installation; it is not—" "It ain't Area 51, T'Pol!" Trip laughed. "It's practically a tourist spot." T'Pol looked confused. "Area 51 //is// a tourist spot." Trip rolled his eyes. "Anyway, it wouldn't matter. We don't always do things by the book, you oughta' know that." He nodded. "Maybe now you know why," he chuckled. "Arright," Trip began. "So we get to a transporter, we beam in there and then what?" "We ascertain the safety of the Ambassador and the Captain." Trip challenged her with a raised brow. "And that's it? If they're all sittin' around havin' a pizza and a milkshake how do we explain what the hell we're doin' there?" T'Pol paused contemplatively, then met Tucker's blue stare when she had the answer. "I do not believe Vulcans would be consuming these products, as they both contain animal proteins that Vulcans do not include in our diets." "Ya gotta be kiddin' me, T'Pol. I mean. . . Nevermind." Trip sighed. "What I mean is, why just the two of us? Why didn't you go to Starfleet Security or talk to your people?" T'Pol stood rigidly as her lips quivered hesitantly, and turned her eyes squarely on Mr. Tucker. "If Tovan, and possibly Councilor V'Len, have been compromised, there is no way to know who can be trusted inside the Security Ministry." "Well there's no reason to believe Starfleet can't be trusted," Trip responded, trying not to sound harsh. T'Pol cocked her jaw professorially. "They may very well be monitoring communications, and a frontal assault is likely to endanger the lives of Ambassador Soval, Captain Jefferies, and Carter Jefferies." "Is there... an adjoining room or somethin' we could beam into and check things out?" Trip asked, rubbing his chin. "I am unfamiliar with the schematics of that part of the building. Altering the coordinates of Mr. Jeffries' transmitter may have deleterious effects on our rematerialization." Tucker chortled and chewed his lip, watching her. "You mean we might become Wall People?" T'Pol analyzed the phrase and then nodded. "Well I can do you one better'n that," he said, rising from the bed. T'Pol looked away as he dressed quickly and then left the room. T'Pol followed. "I've got blueprints for the building on a pad somewhere around here," Trip called after her as she followed him out of the bedroom and into the dining room. As she walked in, T'Pol once again observed the infamous note, unobtrusively sitting folded up on the counter. She found her eyes falling on it, remaining there as the din of Trip's voice faded away for a few moments. "T'Pol?" Trip asked. He followed her gaze to the note and his eyes became steely. "Yeah," he forced a chuckle. "I know, my place is kinda dirty," he sniffled, forcing a grin and reaching over the counter to palm the note. "I guess it's kinda hard to get used to bein' around us. I mean you don't have emotions right?" he asked rhetorically, his eyes locked on the floor as he opened the waste bin and dropped the note in as if it were any other piece of trash. "Yes I do. We do," T'Pol responded. Trip turned and looked on her again, nodding. "You just suppress 'em," he said knowingly. T'Pol nodded. "Yes." Trip's eyes fell to the floor as he took a breath. "I bet that comes in handy," he said, as he turned away from her and bit his lip. Searching for the PADD with the building schematics, he looked through the drawers of the desk near the rear of his apartment. --- //Flashback// //"Close, close your eyes! Go on." // //// //"I said close 'em. They're not closed!"// //"Uh, huh!" // //"Alright, baby, you can open 'em."// //Trip opened his eyes to find an apartment around him.// //"This is it?" he asked, grinning as Natalie nodded, circling the place and spinning her arms wildly. The red and white in the scarf around her neck twirled through the air like a candy-cane, trailed by her long dark brown hair.// //"There's no furniture yet, but we can get some. What do you think?!" she demanded, standing in the middle of the room. She took two steps towards him and wrapped her arms around him before he could respond. The plush cushion of their coats put a soft barrier between them as she held her arms around his neck, looking up into his eyes.// //"You don't like it. . . " she said. "Is it too fast? It's too fast. . . " she declared, beginning to step back.// //"No! No. . . It's not, it's just. . . " Trip paused as he pulled her tighter and blinked, watching her. It seemed that with each passing moment her eyes grew brighter and more beautiful. // //"This is OUR first apartment," he said definitively, smiling. Her lips erupted into a smile like a holocam flash and she kissed him.// //She withdrew from him, pulling him in tow as she walked through the kitchen. "Oh, look. Someone left a desk behind. How convenient, for my little workaholic!" she teased him.// //"Ah, c'mon, Nat," Trip grinned, shaking his head. "I tell you what though," he said, taking hold of her waist. He pulled her to face him and slowly pushed her back against the desk until they came to a halt against it. A mischievous light in his eyes ignited a powder keg behind hers, and she reached behind her, lifting herself onto the desk. Her legs fell in around to his sides.// //"I'm not gonna' be a workaholic anymore," he said with a smile, looking up at her.// //"Better not," she cooed, slithering into him as her arms reached around behind him and pulled at the bottom of his shirt.// //"I love you," she whispered into his ear.// //"I love you," he replied.// --- Trip blinked in front of the desk and then took a seat at his console. Punching through a few screens, he soon found his way to the Cochrane Building's schematics. "So, they are. . . " Trip used the touch interface to flip through a few screens while T'Pol stood over him, watching from behind. "There," she said, leaning over his shoulder and indicating the coordinate position. "Ok," Trip mumbled to himself. "Looks like they're in the second floor Ambassador's Quarters so if we beam into the. . . " he paused, staring at the display. The Ambassador's Quarters were composed of one big room, without any adjoining rooms to conceal their entry. T'Pol, too, was at a loss. "There's a door here to a corridor leading to the Command Center but. . . " Trip said doubtfully, shaking his head. "If they //have// taken them hostage there it is unlikely they would leave an obvious entrance accessible," T'Pol finished. "Exactly," Trip groaned. "Well. . . there is the bathroom," Trip noted. T'Pol cocked her head curiously, looking closely at the schematics on the isogrid. "See, right here. We could beam in there. It's not a very big space," he said, turning round in the chair as she leaned over him to look. "Might be kinda. . . confined," he warned her. "This is acceptable," T'Pol ruled. Trip stood. "Let's get goin'." --- tbc?