Snippet #1411471

"Pricilla, Pricilla, where are you at?" Brooke murmured, through the glass of the almost non-existent 'star deck' of the Dancer. Her particular star, one which had caught her attention as a child and from then on played a cheeky - and sometimes frustrating - game of hide and seek with her ever since, had caught her eye briefly as she passed one of the many windows scattered across the hull and now she was persistenty searching for the beauty instead of finishing a half-weekly research report.

Tapping her fingers on the floor in an absent rhythm, Brooke rolled onto her stomach and snaked to the far side of the room for a different angle of searching, not caring for any wrinkles that were forming on her work clothes. After all, they were only work clothes. As her eyes continued to rove the ocean of space, a soft chiming of a long-fortgotten-by-most hymm began fleeing her lips. So rapt in her mind and space was she, that the she almost failed to hear the insistent beeping on her waist.

Slightly ruffled, Brooke pushed herself up to sit on the back of her legs, reaching to the pager on her high-waist. It was flashing the word 'deck' repeatedly, and with a sigh she cast a forlorn look towards the high heavens of space and left the 'star deck', heading for the nearest elevator.

Entering the already crowded room, Brooke's quirky smile lit up her face, briefly scattering any longing thoughts of Pricilla from her mind. Studying the crowd, she began to finger her digi-pad with one hand, and pull down the bottom of her soft brown shirt over black office pants. It seemed, as she scanned the silence, she had arrived not a minute too soon to be privy to the orders given by Captain Harwood. The fact that the only reason she was there was because when she had formatted her pager to fit to the ship, she hadn't limited it to the things that actually concerned her, instead leaving the programming to alert her when any call to five or more persons were made, didn't bother her. Brooke simply told herself that if there were any survivors, she would probably know where they were from, or what courses of communication to take with them - and, she was a perfectly capable almost physchiatrist, and any survivors on the ship wreck would most likely require her services as the meds assisted them.

So, as the collection of crew began leaking back through the double doors, Brooke joined them, moving towards her quarters. She would have to collect a different digi pad and an AT - one of the more ingenious devices invented for traveling, as it translated a magnitude of languages with the speakers voice rather than a robotic one.


Having collected the required items, Brooke headed towards Airlock B-17, intending on suiting up and meeting up with either the captain or medical team who were most likely already on the ship wreck. Reaching the Airlock, Brooke made a beeline to the suits, her eye on one of the medium sized. The deck was mostly empty, the mating tube extended, and Brooke grabbed the silvery item and helmet and headed towards the small bench on the far wall, not far from the bulkhead where Brooke spied an interestlingly garbed passenger she vaguely remembered seeing upon boarding the Dancer for departure.

Dropping onto the bench, Brooke began to slip into the suit, eyeing the guarded entry to the mating tube. Her intent staring must have caught the guards attention, because he beckoned a second over to take his place and made his way over to Brooke.

"I hope you don't expect to be boarding the derelict, ma'am."

Brooke, wearing the expression of someone insulted and miffed, stared at the guard a moment before replying indignately. "Of course I intend to board the ship. My qualifications will most likely be needed should there be any survivors, particularly if they're of a drastically culture. Not to mention the medical team will find me useful should there be any survivors, wounded or otherwise."

"And what might those qualifications be, ma'am?" The guard was aiming for a pleasant approach, but there was a steely undertone that suggested he'd already argued with someone about boarding, and he wasn't enjoying having his momentary superiority pushed at.

"Master in Inter-Galactic Communications and Affairs. And, I'm a phychiatrist." As if to emphasize this, Brooke made a flipping motion with official documentation and licencing digi-pad, causing a transparent screen with bold, eye-catching purple writing to pop up listing her credentials and more important licences. She held it open long enough to be read, than closed it and placed it by her side. To the dismay of her attempt to official her way onto the derelict, the guard didn't look impressed.

"The captain hasn't said anything about you joining any of the teams. I'm afraid -" this he said in a way that obviously indicated he wasn't really bothered in the slightest "-that I can't allow you to board until we have the all-clear that the ship is secure. You'll just have to wait like everyone else." The guard turned to return to his post, but added as an afterthought - loud enough for several to hear - "if anyone else has some sort of idea of getting onto the ship before the captain says so, you can return to your posts or quarters." With that, he turned smartly on his heel and resumed his place at the entry to the mating tube.

Brooke stared after the guard, mouth catching flies, for a long minute at the nerve of him refusing her entry onto the derelict before she'd even finished suiting up. However, having decided there were no flies to catch, she slumped back and closing her mouth, opening her note digi-pad and beginning to study the guard intently. She'd do what she did best while she waited - she would disect him.