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Wasting Time

Posted on 09 Mar 2017 @ 4:47pm by Lieutenant Reginald Hawthorn

Mission: RAWHIDE!
Location: Mars, Bar, Drinkin'
Timeline: Current.

Reggie took a swig from the bottle, winced again at its foul taste, and then looked back to the padd in his off hand. The bar around him had gotten no quieter, nor had it grown noticeably busier around him. Though, given the reception he had been given by the locals, and the warning by the local strong man, he figured this bar was owned by unsavory types.

But the beer was cold, if not pleasant, and the folks respected his privacy. That had been one of the reasons he’d had to get off of Earth. All the old hands from the USS Vanguard all wanting to make sure he was okay, not to mention Starfleet Medical assigning him a ‘grief counselor’. The trip out to Far Far Away had been pleasant time spent in the company of a Vulcan, though who sent a Vulcan to hand over the condolences of a Starfleet Admiral to a family in mourning was anyones guess.

Molly’s folks had been the same breed as he remembered them: convinced that nothing short of physical remains meant the death of their daughter. Given the message he’d received from his mother on the matter, he had to admit that Molly’s folks were the better half.

He tilted the padd back a little, and read through its contents one more time as he mulled over the last few years of his life. Starfleet had shown him the worlds and stars to be sure, and taught him more than he could ever have learnt back home on Montana. First Son’s don’t tend to get much say in what they do, as long as what they do is the family business and living up to the name.

But Starfleet was also writing off a few thousand souls as ‘lost beyond hope of recovery’.
And Montana was a self centred little zit of a world more interested in what happened in its system instead of beyond it.
Which made the missive on the padd a question of usefulness.

‘To Whom It May Concern,

I resign.

Lieutenant Reginald Hawthorn.’

He read the three lines again, and took another sip of the beer. It would certainly free him from a lot of restrictions. But a fast starship and crew were expensive, and an experimentally fast starship was the realm of warp capable nations and the tran stellar corporations. He’d already sent off a resume` to the Resource Development Agency, Deep Core Mining, and Weyland Yutani, just to see if a Fleet trained engineer with a hankering for the faster things in life was something they’d be interested in grabbing.

Maybe offering up the selling point of how many times he’d adverted engineering disaster, and been near their inception, had not been the way to go? Who knew.

He could maybe get a Runabout, maybe one of the old Raven class corvette’s that did the milk runs to Alpha Centauri. Tool it up right, tinker with it some, he could meet Molly in the Delta Quadrant in…

80 plus years, give or take. That number took a lot of drowning in bad, bad, mushroom fermented beer. He hit the delete key, and instead went back to reading an engineering journal. The beer might not make him drunk, but the dense technical manual might not make him care.

OOC-Come arrest Reggie, please for the love of Bob before I begin the Hallmark Movie of his life.


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