STAR TREK: A Long Road (Voyager Fix It Quest)

Wacoche sighed as he walked with Ensign Tiffany and Tidak, the three of them heading from door to door. "Alright," he said, quietly. "Lets see if this one opens to a vacuum too."

They both squared their shoulders and stepped to either side of the doorway - having worked out a procedure by now. They looked grim, as grim as any Starfleet officer would when facing a doorway that might lead into vacuum. Any spacer, to be honest. But they were ready. Wacoche sighed, quietly, then picked up the tool that they had found was perfect for this. It had taken two iterations - one had been too effective, throwing open a door so wide and so fast that he had nearly been blown straight into space, saved only at the last second by R'lash snagging onto his back with her hand.

The other had been a too flimsy?

This one - modeled on a crowbar from 20th century Earth - pushed into the seam of the door. Wacoche shoved with his weight and his muscles, but the heavy seal on the door didn't part. It didn't need too. He just had to wedge the bit in. Once he had gotten it there, he nodded to Tiffany, who gulped and took hold of the wall console, opening it and touching a few wires together to disengage the autolocks. After she had sparked it together with a flash of sparks, the door released its pressure and Wacoche wedged it open with a wrench of the crowbar...

And rather than a screaming gale rushing past his face, the doors instead opened on Neelix's bar.

"Oh finally!" Wacoche said, laughing, as R'lash walked over - followed by Wildman and Kes, who were both holding their markers. R'lash scowled.

"Great," she said. "We're in the dive bar."

"Hey," Kes said.

"Neelix!" Wacoche called in, walking into the bar and looking around slowly as he did so. "Ne...l..." He trailed off, blinking.

The bar looked entirely normal - tables and walls, chairs and cushions, the small private area for Orions and their partners - but the arch that led back into the bar itself was a shimmering, rippling field of distorted space. Through it, Wacoche could see a wild, verdant green forest. A creature bounded through the distortion, its bright red hooves scuttling on the carpet, scuffing it up. Its haunches slammed into a table, sending it crashing to the ground, then it turned back, leaped, and vanished back into the portal. However, before Wacoche could respond, a voice called out from the upper loft of the club.

"Commander?"

Peeking down from the upper loft of the bar was a bright green face, dark hair, and warm eyes.

"T'are?" Wacoche asked, chuckling quietly as he lowered his crowbar. "How often does that happen?"

"Every few minuets," T'are said, swinging her legs down and dropping.

Ensign Tiffany and Tidak blinked. R'lash smirked. "So, uh, when was that regulation uniform?" she asked, curiously, cocking her head to the side.

T'are frowned. "Since I wasn't on duty at the time, I don't think it matters," she said, her finger going to her throat and adjusting her masker. She didn't even try to adjust the rest of her outfit: A belly-revealing black top with the word BOTTOM stenciled on it in bright white text, with fishnets stretching between her fingertips and her shoulders, her toes and her hips, sprawling along her belly, and leaving her almost more revealed than she would have been if she had been naked. She wore big black gloves and boots. "I'm partaking in a late 20th century fashion - it's called Rave, I believe." She sighed, crossing her arms over her chest and frowning. "The only problem is that my shift got off twenty minuets before everyone else who agreed to come. Neelix was just behind there..." She nodded to the archway. "Getting the methylenedioxymethamphetamine ready!"

"Th...the what?" Tiffany asked.

"It was part of the rituals of the time period," T'are said. "It's part of my earth studies."

"Well, we can get you a uniform replicated," Wacoche said, grinning at her. "So far, we have two doors that actually lead to rooms and here. Since that..." He nodded to the portal. "Doesn't seem like it prevents biomatter from getting through - so, we're going to seal this door off. Last thing we need is some alien pathogen. Or, worse, hunter gatherers getting aboard." He frowned. "We may not be able to preserve the Prime Directive here until we solve the rest of the ship, but we can at least do what we can."

"Got it, sir," T'are said, while she followed R'lash down the corridor.

R'lash's voice echoed up to Wacoche as she went around the bend.

"So, was the fucking before or after the meth?"

"After, obviously!"

Wacoche shook his head, turning to the others.

"Lets keep checking the doors," Wacoche said, sighing quietly. The others nodded and Tiffany snickered.

"If I had known a Rave meant that, I might have come," she said.

"Okay, focus everyone," Wacoche said, firmly. They went to the next door, taking up their positions. Kes and Wildman got their pens out while Tidak and Tiffany got their tools at the ready. Tiffany swung the console open and Wacoche shoved the crowbar in. When the door parted...there was no whistle of air. No scream of displaced atmosphere. Nothing but a faint, chill waft and a hiss of pressure from the other side. Wacoche frowned, then nodded to the two science officers. Tiffany drew her tricorder, while Tidak drew her phaser. He lowered the crowbar, setting it quietly down on the carpet. He pulled his phaser, then stepped forward and used his shoulder to push the door open.

He stood on a catwalk of dark black metal, which looked out into nothingness. He could hear a distant sound of creaking. Groaning. A faint crackle. A subliminal hum - the sound of something like energy, flowing en mass. He frowned, then set his phaser to emit light, low. He turned on the aperture and it shone brightly as he swept it around the darkness - and it fell upon the faces of Borg.

Alcoves, by the dozens. By the hundreds.

By the thousands.

They arched above and to the sides in a receding set of rows, each alcove containing a cybernetic organism - flesh withered and gray, their bodies clad in gleaming black metal and whirring electronics. Cables slid from brains of all shapes and sizes into the walls, and the pulsing thought of the Borg collective consciousness felt like a hammer blow to his chest. Wacoche breathed shallowly, and used every iota of his being to not scream.

"Well," he murmured. "You don't see that every day."

---
MOMENTUM: 2
CURRENT TRAITS: Dimensional Fuckery Of Maximalized Degree (Disadvantage)

[ ] Weld the door shut immediately.
[ ] Investigate - is this a Borg cube or structure?
[ ] Write In