Repair & Resupply
Words flow past the shimmering screen.
...Petty Officer Amamiya...upon U.S.S. Independence, under command of...aboard from Starbase 24...for a duration of...subject to...
Seen before, with only the names altered, the words carry a certain, comforting familiarity.
The young woman ponders opportunities. Multiple ways to get aboard the ship, but the least obtrusive seems to be the shuttles carrying larger supplies. There's the docking port, of course, and the transporters, the swiftest route. But transporters are generally reserved for important equipment and officers; not so much for junior medical bay personnel. And the docking port?
Well, reasons exist not to choose that method of ingress.
Hefting her (small) carry-all, Azami heads for the shuttle pad. It's a bit of a walk, but the carry-all holds little in the way of personal items, and the distance gives her time to study the ship as she slips around the people hurrying to and fro. Miranda-class - primarily scientific study, though potentially patrol duty. The crew-complement is small, and it's likely she's one of only a few in the medical bay. Weapons and tactical capacity...not really terribly important for Azami, and mostly over her head. If pressed, the Petty Officer feels confident she could manage as a 'final choice' of operators.
'Could'. Not would.
Moving into the cargo area, close to the shuttles, she keeps within the safety zones while searching for a supervisor; it wouldn't do to arrive at her new posting with a broken leg, thanks to a poor meeting with a pallet-mover. Spotting someone standing as a hub of frustrated and annoyed workers, all claiming their particular shipments have priority, Azami adroitly slips into the crowd and waits for a lull. It'll happen; she merely requires patience.
The young medic happens to have a surfeit of that particular resource.
Minutes pass, then she sees her chance. Stepping up, Azami offers a casual salute to get the supervisor's attention; without it, it's likely he wouldn't have taken note. "Pardon me. I have orders," she states, with a twitch of her head toward the ship while holding out the datapad. "Medical." Just in case he hasn't noticed the piping on her uniform; 'medical' tends to open doors among the non-commissioned.
Everyone wants to be on the good side of the people who patch them up when accidents happen.
"Would you happen to have a shipment that's underweight by approximately sixty kilos?" Always better to highball estimates than lowball.
This message was last edited by the player at 15:51, Sat 29 May 2021.