#inorganicc

[getoffmyshipq]

Got No Strings

Life was meant to be fun.  At least, as much as possible.  It was one of Q's driving goals in life.  Though often, he also observed.  Well, was it really observation if you knew?  He was sure there was some philosopher who cared about that question, but it wasn't him today.

Today was all about one particular life form, largely unique in this galaxy.  That was really quite an accomplishment.  Novelty was a rare thing for a being as old as Q, and the android was fairly novel.

But all he seemed to want was to be a real boy, like the humans.  Why humans, of all species in the galaxy?  No doubt, that was a topic that could be hotly debated.  Again, by someone who cared to have the debate--maybe he'd do it if he could play Devil's Advocate.  That was a fun little mortal turn of phrase, wasn't it?

Intent on studying the object of his curiosity further, he decided to give Data a proper opportunity to turn himself into a real boy--with Q in the role of Geppetto, of course.  He'd been waiting and watching, just needing Data to shut down for a routine maintenance so he could bring him here without too much fuss.  Having finally found that opportunity, he waited now for the android's maintenance cycle to finish while he set him up with all the proper trappings of a marionette, strings and squeaky joints included.

@inorganicc

[camillelafaye]

@inorganicc

A heated glare tossed its umpteenth glance to the clock, looking as though the act were meant to incinerate it rather than check its display. Those illuminated numbers sat quietly, hovering above her kitchen counter, and seeming to move all the faster with her will having been for it to slow. How hadn’t she tried this technique before? White hot rage was audaciously outperforming any source of caffeine in keeping her awake. If Camille’d known this, she would have used the technique of recalling instances of her soul-engulfing ire ages ago to have her alert and prepared for her workday.

❝I can see that you are a hard working young woman, Miss Lafaye,❞ the authoritative voice replayed over and over again in her mind, ❝You are a glutton for poor decisions, it seems, but I would not go as far as to count you as a menace to society. It is with this in mind that I have decided not to have you incarcerated.❞

Her nostrils flared. She should have  k n o w n  there was a condition that would immediately follow that up.

❝You are in luck that this court is subcontracted with the Starfleet Academy,❞ he’d added, canting his head downward, and giving a lift to his brow that told of a father rather than a court justice, ❝After consideration, I have ordered you to be enrolled as a candidate for their mandatory community service program.❞

She’d forgotten the official titles and whanot. Camille’d only remembered his gist and terms: an appointed cadet of Starfleet would serve as her shackle of probation--being charged with monitoring both her alcohol intake as well as her behavioral conduct for the court’s records and (untimately, their) deliberation. She would have--for all intents and purposes--a day-to-day babysitter breathing over her shoulder until the end of their community service term. Camille could feel her knuckles tightening again.

❝Ion’t want no-damn-body up unda’ me every day like all’at!❞  She’d protested immediately. She wasn’t a child.

Just then, she was snatched back into the present at the behest of the knock at her unit’s door.

❝ You have no choice, Miss LaFaye. You either agree to this program, or you WILL be incarcerated. That is this court’s decision.❞            

Jaw still locked, and still hearing the knock of the gavel echoing in her mind’s ear, Camille swung her door open, being met with vinegary hued stare against her own sharpened frown.