ten_fwd | one \\ Ten Forward Lounge

It was beginning again--like clockwork, every month, people getting flung into various parts of the ship. Normally disoriented, suspicious, a few injured, like the man who'd just appeared in a flash, already being surrounded by concerned officers.

He leaves his PADD and tea abandoned on the table, judging the situation as he approaches. He's wary--because he can see the tension fairly radiating off the man, despite the injuries he can see.

"It's alright, you're not in danger," Julian says, trying to be soothing. "I'm a doctor, I can help you."

Khan's focus is divided between attempting to parse his location - the quiet murmur of a warp core under his hands, the obvious but unfamiliar Starfleet uniforms - and the rapid approach of someone claiming to be a doctor.

The last time he woke up on a Starfleet vessel with a doctor claiming to want to help him, he'd ended up in Section 31. It won't happen again.

So he watches, warily, as the other man approaches, makes no effort to move out of the way. One step, two, and the second the doctor is close enough, Khan lunges, faster than a human has any right being, snags the man's forearm, and hurls him towards the wall. The sudden murmur of shock from the witnesses around them give him enough time to get his feet beneath him, back and shoulders one long line of tension.

Try him.

If it was not one thing then it had to be another. Worf had just returned from an unprompted animal control situation to settle himself at the bar, teeth grinding, head down over the inequity of being thrown back in time. He has scarcely a moment to simmer his anger before Khan's arrival and the gathering civilians and officers catches his attention.

Worf is on his feet in time to notice that Doctor Bashir is joining the fray... but that cannot be right. Julian had never worked aboard the Enterprise -- Q's mischief must have extended further than Worf has yet given him credit for. He approaches the crowd in just about enough time for Julian to be thrown back, providing a solid wall of Klingon for the doctor to land against, if push should come to shove. Worf is not wearing a starfleet uniform; he'd been in his ambassadorial robes when Q made the switch, but he greets his old compatriot just the same.

"Doctor," he nods sharply. "This man is causing you trouble." He does not ask what Bashir has said this time. He likes to think he has tact.

That's a mean grimace, Khan. Worf is doing his level best to glare you down.

Julian, enhanced reflexes and all, barely even has a chance to react--he tries to back away, but he's still within range--then grabbed and tossed as if he weighs nothing. Adrenaline is a hell of a drug, but even then he doesn't think someone who looks like they've just had a starship dropped on them should be able to throw someone so forcefully--

--and then his trajectory toward the bulkhead is arrested by a person wearing robes, a person with a very familiar voice, but not one who'd held such familiarity toward him for the last few months.

"Worf?"

If he sounds dazed, it's because he's simply confused--he's nearly never seen Worf not wearing a Starfleet uniform, and that seems like a stupid thing to fixate on in the heat of the moment.

"He's barely just arrived, he's not had the chance to cause anyone trouble yet." Well. Aside from trying to fling him across the room. "He's injured."

Thus why the doctor was doing his job and responding.

The crowd murmurs uneasily, edging back as Khan moves to face the new arrival, eyes immediately narrowing. A Klingon on a Federation vessel? Unheard of, but not an issue - he was fresh off two patrols' worth of kill on Qo'noS. Khan matches the glare with one of his own, unwilling to back down despite his obvious injuries and the crowd around them.

"Where am I?" His words are hoarse, but there's steel in them - he's not a man used to being ignored, even in this state. He can feel his own injuries; the blood caking his hairline and hands, the pain blooming in his lungs. The crash had taken its toll, and he wasn't in any position to fight his way through whatever ship this was. Not yet.

"You are aboard the U.S.S. Enterprise," Worf tells the injured human simply. "Everything will be explained." He has faith in the Captain for that much, at least! He glances at Bashir, who seems to have come to no harm, then back to Khan. "Allow the doctor to inspect your injuries. If you continue to resist you will be restrained."

As far as it comes to Bashir, Worf will have his own questions... but now is clearly not the time for them.

Oh yes, that's helpful, tell the obviously agitated man that he'll be restrained if he makes any trouble--medically, Julian can't even recommend doing so, not until he's sure of his injuries. He returns Worf's look, slightly incredulous.

He holds up a hand, cautious as he steps forward again. Now that he knows how fast this man is--unnaturally so, and if anyone is qualified to say so it's him--fairly sure he can avoid another assault. From what he can see--head wound, impaired breathing, broken ribs, he's taken a beating.

"We'd rather not have to do that. No one is going to hurt you."

Edited 2014-12-15 04:34 (UTC)

"You wouldn't be the first to try," Khan growls, bristling at the threat. That Julian steps forward is the only thing that manages to divert his attention, and the good doctor might find himself under a powerfully suspicious look.

If they had any sense at all, they would have brought him down already - but since they haven't, they must not know about John Harrison and the bounty placed on the 'ex-Starfleet Commander's' head. Coupled with the claim that this was the Enterprise - it most certainly was not - and Khan's certain that something has gone very wrong.

Edited 2014-12-15 04:54 (UTC)

Try to hurt him, or try to restrain him? Worf can see no sense in waiting for trouble to come from this stranger. He looks to other officers in the lounge -- old faces to him now, but so much younger than he remembers -- and gestures for them to remain on guard. As for the onlookers, Worf is in the beginning stages of herding them back. Clearly this human is combative, highly stubborn despite his grievous injuries. Until something occurs between the two, he'll be ensuring that peace is kept in the area -- and he'll be informing whoever is commanding the bridge in very short order, as well.

Well, in this case, one would follow the other. Punctured lungs, perhaps other internal organs, leading to internal bleeding (if that wasn't already happening, it was very likely) and shock.

Or, you know, we could do this like rational beings.

Julian takes another couple steps closer as he speaks, voice calm and as reassuring as he can possibly make it: the man's bristling at Worf, not necessarily him, even with that glare. Even so, he's well within the circle of the man's prior attack now, and he's ready to get out of it in a moment's notice if need be.

"We can explain everything, truly we can, it's a little much but you're not alone in this. And we can help you. You're seriously injured." Obviously.

It's not reassuring, and the way the doctor is speaking to him - like some kind of spooked animal - is grating on his nerves. He's either an excellent liar, or so completely naive as to be pitiable. It's hard to tell.

Still, Khan allows him to approach once more, this time noting the room's exits, the way the Klingon was thinning the crowd, and the notable segment of officers remaining. Like they're preparing to make a scene.

If it's a fight they want, Khan will give it to them. The Vengeance didn't have the power to make it to Starfleet Headquarters, but he could do enough damage here, now. Destroying them like they destroyed his crew would have been fitting, but needs must.

"Then you may start by explaining what ship this really is, because it isn't the Enterprise. I was on that ship not two hours ago. I'll ask again: where am I?"

A little of both, really, though more of the former than the latter anymore. Or so he'd think. It was all mostly an incredibly orchestrated and elaborately maintained pretence on his part anyway, so that no one would suspect him.

"It's the USS Enterprise-D, under Captain Picard. You were on a different one." He's not sure whether it was future or past, at this point all evidence was completely inconclusive.

He knows Worf won't do anything unless it becomes necessary--Julian trusts his judgment. And he hopes that Worf trusts his. He decides it's best to err on the side of telling him more than he asked for.

"You were brought here by an extradimensional being known to us as Q. He's been plucking people from different time periods and realities, and dumping us all here. It's something of a game for him."

Initially, Sam was content to let the doctor handle the new arrival - like they do around here. 'He' was just hanging out, feet up on a table, watching the show. Then came the throw, and Sam was up, knife in hand.

The newcomer wants a fight? Looks like fun...

Then the Klingon got there first, and pulled crowd control.

The new guy is tense, that much is obvious. Also fast. Real fast. And favoring injuries - not that it'd be showing much to most.

Sam lets 'himself' be kept back, finding a table to lean back against, and putting the knife away. But will spectate from as close as current security presence allows for to wait and watch.

Damn security anyway, ruining everyone's good time. At least there's... no, wait, there's not even booze here.

Sam'll have to keep an eye on this one.

At about the point that Sam flashed his knife, the Klingon he'd glimpsed just so happens to be looking his way. Considering the circumstances, not to mention whose ship he is currently aboard, Worf is not about to leap into theatrics. Those have their time and place. His sense of heroism has been tempered by a long, hard war.

Instead of tackling the long-haired human, Worf sidles Sam's way. Purposeful, expression dour, he looms over the semi-reclining spectator when he suggests, "I would not bring more trouble to this situation if I were you."

"That's why I'm staying back here. Looks like it's in hand." Sam agrees, gesturing to the table he's leaning against.

For now.

"Are you a security officer, or have you been contracted into Captain Picard's security personnel?" Worf asks, tone leading.

In truth, he knows so little about how the dynamics of his old post have changed. With Q causing so much sustained mayhem, things might have branched off into an entirely different timeline. He does not know, nor does he care. Unless and until Julian requests assistance -- which ought to be any time, considering the instability of his patient -- Worf does not want untrained outsiders brandishing bladed weapons in the vicinity.

In fact... "weapons are prohibited to non Starfleet personnel." The jig is up, human.

"Just a spectator. Looked like a fight brewing, turned out it wasn't, so now I'm over here while you talk to the new guy."

Sam glances at the sheaths, then redraws the knives, flipping them around to hold by the blades to offer the hilts to Worf. "Guess I better hand these over to Starfleet personnel, huh."

"You would do best not to hide any other weapons on your person, as well." Worf nods to one of the formally uniformed security personnel, and the gold-suited officer stepped forward. "These will be taken to the armoury. They may be returned upon the Captain's approval, but you will have to earn his trust first."

Were this a Klingon vessel, or any other ship in the Federation, Worf would never have interposed himself into the chain of command... but something about the discussion he'd had with the flustered Captain had left him wanting to take up the reins again, if only to show that he was not a stranger, nor was he out of control. The fact that his team all recognized him as though he had never left, nevermind being out of uniform, helped.

"What is your name?"

"Sam, Sam Bowe, and I only have two hands. It'll take a minute or ten to finish disarming."

After Worf takes those, there's the knife at the small of Sam's back. Then the boot knives. then the spare side sheaths. Then under the vest on the left. And the concealed brace of throwing knives at the right. Each handed over two at a time.

Sam likes his knives, ok?

"Just tell me how to go about earning that, then. I don't much like being disarmed long. From the way you hold yourself, you're used enough to a weapon to appreciate that." 'He's' done as asked, and stood down, and handed over the blades so far, after all. Good start.

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