S.S. Fawkes - CF-142AC
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Rough Around the Edges with a Gooey Center.

Posted on Saturday October 19th, 2019 @ 15:34 hours by Mayterial Droz & Clinton Westbrooke Jr
Edited on on Thursday October 24th, 2019 @ 15:47 hours

Mission: Short Treks
Location: Deck 2, Clinton Westbrooke Jr's Quarters, S.S. Fawkes


Canaan had unofficially designated himself a member of the Fawkes' welcoming committee which, until that very moment, didn't exist. Sure, the new crew would've met the captain and first mate; otherwise, they wouldn't be on board, but those get-togethers were all so official and, if Canaan were honest, a fair-bit intimidating for both greenhorn and veteran alike. Besides having to square away their communications credentials--a task easily completed remotely from the convenience of the flight deck--it allowed for the chance to meet the new crew before some strange or awkward encounter like in the communal showers or when hallucinating a gigantic, tar-covered, reindeer stag. No, this was much more preferable.

Ares' replacement as quartermaster, a gentleman by the name of Mister Clinton Westbrooke Jr, arrived on board the evening prior and Canaan thought it a good idea to deliver a parcel of goodwill. The metal container, with its rust-flaked rim and bottom, was filled with a few pieces of fresh fruit; snacks to enjoy on the go; a newly formatted data slate with stylus pre-loaded with the specifications of the ship, deck list, crew manifest, and other information to help with the acclimation process; and a desert-colored beanie with the name of the ship and registry embroidered on the worn-pilled fabric. Regardless of its meager offerings, Canaan hoped the gesture was appreciated.

Stopping at Clint's door, Canaan depressed the call-button and waited. When several seconds passed with no answer, he pressed the chime once more, and then again when after several minutes nobody answered. He'd confirmed the new arrival was in his quarters before venturing down from the bridge, perhaps he'd stepped away to the bathroom. Instead of pressing the call-button a fourth time, Canaan lightly rapped his knuckles against the metal-paneled door. "Mr. Westbrooke, Junior sir, are you home?" He asked politely, deciding whether he should leave the gift outside the door or hold on to it until he could hand it to the man personally. No, if he left it, another member of the crew, probably Alexandria, would see the fresh fruit and pilfer the basket clean of anything good. So, instead, he stood in place, questioning whether to stay or go.

"It's Clint," Came the voice from inside, "Hang on, I was takin' a leak," He called. The man's voice was deep and graveling, caught somewhere between mischief and wisdom in it's tone. A moment later and the door opened to a shirtless Clint in his khaki cargo pants and boots, adorn in his array of various port-of-call tattoos. "Yeah, what can I do for you, kid?" He asked, looking down at the slight-framed man before him.

Canaan gawked at the man's state of current undress. His gaze lingered for a second or two longer than what may be considered inappropriate given it was their first time meeting. Canaan had only ever dreamed of muscles as toned and pronounced as the ones which seethed just below the surface of Clint's Adonis-like physique. "Oh, um, sorry to disturb you." Canaan turned his eyes away from Clint's bare upper body long enough to compose himself, "I'm Canaan Serene! I wanted to drop by to welcome you on board the Fawkes officially!" His face reddened with a blush that disappeared down his neck. "I, uh, c-can come back if this is a bad time." He risked stealing another glance without creeping.

Clint couldn't help but chuckle, "Cool your jets, kid. You're not my type," he said, giving Canaan a pat on the shoulder. "What are you, the welcoming committee or something?" He asked, turning back into his quarters and leaving the door open for Canaan to follow.

Mortified at his obviousness, Canaan nodded quickly, thankful for Clint redirecting the awkwardness in a more productive direction. "You betcha! Well, unofficially, that is." He stepped into the room, finding Clint had made short work of settling into the cozy accommodations. "Although, can it really be a committee with a single member?" He laughed, remembering the basket. "Oh, here! This is for you!" He closed the distance between them and before handing the rusty bucket to Clint and then glancing around the cabin to find any hint of who this newcomer was.

Clint took the bucket and looked at it, grinning a bit. He pulled out the slate and stylus and looked over the data with an approving nod, then snatched out the hat and pulled it on before popping a piece of fruit in his mouth, "You put all this together?" He asked, swiping through the data.

Canaan nodded, glancing around the room at what Clint had unpacked thus far. "Does it fit?" He asked, gesturing to the adjustable hat, thinking that an embroidered shirt may have been more appropriate given the circumstances. "I thought it was a nice color." Although the rugged quartermaster looked to have settled in, there wasn't a lot that offered immediate insight. A pocket knife lay on the nearby desk. Canaan's fingers brushed the textured grip of the knifes' hilt, causing the heavy item to twirl in place. "Where'd you come from?" He wondered, picking up a discarded shirt from the floor before folding it nicely and placing it on the desktop.

"Yeah, it fits," Clint said, rummaging through his dresser and pulling out a tie-front linen shirt and throwing it over his tattooed torso, then grabbing some bracelets and bands from the top and sliding them on his wrist. They were all rugged and well worn, each of them distinct and different, some of them looked to be religious items, others discarded ship parts, and others just simple engraved leather bands. Lastly, two necklaces went on, a Thor's hammer and a celctic cross, both on a leather cord. "Earth, originally," He said, moving on to the question at hand, "Detroit, Michigan." He said.

Another nod from the wiry greenhorn, "Do you miss it? Earth I mean?" Canaan enquired. He'd had some tough talks with his mother and father, they demanded he returned home, May had convinced him to be his own man, independant, free out here. But the truth was he missed it, he missed Earth, his family. It seemed like everyone and everything out here was so intense.

Clint sniffed and pondered the question for a minute, "Yeah... sometimes. I miss... Dirt?" He said, laughing. "You stay on a starship for a while and you start losing sight of how... flimsy it feels. Compared to a planet, I mean. I miss real gravity, and dirt. Detroit could go to hell, but Canada had some nice places I liked," He explained. He liked the kid. Something about him seemed earnest, innocent, even though Clint was sure he'd already seen his fair share of no good.

Canaan nodded, "My parents don't want me to be here. They want me to come back to Earth. Join some university." he averted his eyes, knowing how that must've sounded to someone like Clint. These were very much core planet problems, 'oh no, my parents want the best for me and are a bit overprotective', still, it felt like a huge stone in his stomach whenever he thought about it.

"Parents suck," Clint replied, chuckling a bit. "You don't know who I am, do you?" He asked, sounding almost relieved.

Canaan blushed a bit at the question, he had not had time to do his usual background sniffing before going out and meeting with the new Quartermaster, "I'm sorry. No." The blush intensified.

Clint grinned a bit, "I'm the son of a high ranking Starfleet Admiral. He'd rather die than admit he knows me because I'm doing all of this," He said, grinning. "So I know what parental disapproval sounds like," He admitted. "It's sort of nice to have someone *not* recognize the name, though," He said, laughing.

Letting out a huge sigh of relief Canaan his blush started to fade away a bit. He had enjoyed a fairly secluded upbringing, since he had been stuck on Earth he also had very little need for Starfleet Admirals in his life, "Glad to be of service." He added sheepishly.

Clint reached out and mussed the young man's hair, playfully, and grinned, "Yeah, thanks kid. I gotta get to work, yeah? Think you can stay outa trouble?" He asked with a smirk.

"The whole point of me being here is to experience some trouble in the first place." Canaan winked at the man in what he wanted to come off as a seductive wink but probably looked more like he had something in his eye. He quickly turned and walked out of the room, hoping he wouldn't embarrass himself even more.


Clinton Westbrooke Jr.


Canaan Serene
Signaller (former, as written by Mayterial)

S.S. Fawkes
"Have a strong mind and a soft heart."


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