Jason Douglas Hauck, Armory Officer (35 y.o.)

"Star Trek: Pathfinder"

"These Are The Journies..."

Earth Date: Thursday, 3:37 pm, 10 November 2049

Jason walked in the apartment, dropped his belt on the couch and noticed his digital answering machine blinking.
"hmm. Not expecting a call." punching the 'play' button, the message came through.
"This message is for Commander Jason Douglas Hauck. This is Lieutenant Zach Bianco from Starfleet Command Personnel Services in San Francisco. You're being officially notified of duty activation. There will be a shuttlepod arriving to pick you up at your noted place of residence on Friday morning at oh-nine hundred hours pacific standard time. You're to report to the U.S.S. Pathfinder at Starfleet Headquarters as soon as you can. The person you're to report to will be First Officer Vilaaris. I've already notified your current employer of your duty activation. They've assured me they'll credit your bank account and make appropriate arrangements pertaining to your housing and personal effects accordingly. Thank you for your time, Commander. Good afternoon." *click*
He and his friends had just gotten through three quarters of a housing and urban garden complex. The urban garden section was a beautiful new butterfly-wing design meant to feed the populace of the small but growing community. There had been dozens of people trickling into the Rockies looking to escape the decontamination centers, sanctuary districts and cancers. People were lurching into towns with clothing shredded, bloodied and dissheveled from crawling out from under blast debris or escaping corporate slavery in dirt poor towns on the outskirts of radioactive craters on the B.C. / Washington State coast between Vancouver, Victoria and Seattle.
He loved doing these projects as it got him out of the cities. He didn't mind the hustle-bustle of the city in moderation but prefered the outdoors between stints on tin-cans-with-engines. There were Humans shutting themselves in, panicking at the sight of Andorians, Denobulans and a couple of Triaxians. There had been incidents at the food banks, the laundromat and town meetings.
He'd had to fire on a couple of the rednecks suffering from the delusion that the biblical end times had finally come and they'd been left behind to suffer the consequences of not being taken in The Rapture. 'J.D.' (as he was called by most of the locals,) always kept a phase-pistol in his ankle holster and badge ID from Starfleet. One such incident almost caused a 97 year old farmer to try to impale an Andorian that had innocently pulled-up to a vehicle-(solar-charging) station in Dawson Creek, if J.D. hadn't disintegrated the wooden handle of the pitchfork with a level four directed-energy blast.
"Cut it out, Mister Fulford. Go Home. He wasn't doing anything to you."
Coming out of the pool hall, Jason couldn't help but notice the flash mob assembling to watch and decide who to root for. He spread two mild-level warning shots on the pavement, causing many of them to get electrical style shocks, then backed up and disseminated. A few stragglers booed but realized it was neither the time nor the place. The sherriff got there about an hour later to take his statement and warned him not interfere in police matters.
Suffice it to say his Ex-C.O. of the U.S.S. Intrepid ~~wasn't~~ pleased with his peacekeeping-through-superior-firepower methods. But, with the admission of cellphone camera evidence decided that defending a civilian from being murdered or at very least assaulted with a deadly weapon was worth letting his Armory Officer off the hook -- THIS time. After an hour of throat-tearing screaming at him about how close he got to a court-martial or multiple civil-court legal actions Starfleet ~isn't~ legally-immune from. Even in cases of self-defense or imminent threat of significant injury or death to another.
The story got back to the compound the Shira Construction Company (he'd been volunteering with,) had been setting up. One designed to protect non-Terrans while trying to assist naturalization to Earth and several small Denebulan children gathered around him and hugged him tight. One of the young women. Tara, brought him dinner while dressed in a sheer and very form-fitting summer-print dress with a very low u-neck bodice. A bacon cheeseburger accompanied by a very strong citrus iced-tea.
He learned her name was Tara MacNamara . Human, 32 years old. She'd assigned by the United Nations to liaison with the various human-alien social networks, red cross and other diplomatic agencies. She was about five foot eleven, a hundred and seventy pounds, 38 C, red hair and green eyes.
She'd been educated at the University of Scotland as a Social Worker with a minor in Exo-Anthropology. She'd been rejected by Starfleet as the United Nations vetoed her application and conscripted her to the Newcomer Project instead. Her intended place as Communications Officer on the Enterprise had been given to another.
They spent the evening in the compound, sharing histories as the alien guests showed them pictures and videos of their homeworld. She removed his shirt and laid on top of him as she combed her fingers through his chest hair, licked his neck, kissed him and made love together in the hammock in the yard at dusk. He asked her if she'd come with him to Pathfinder after he found out he'd been promoted but she let him go, with the assurance her door was always open.
The next morning, he woke up in his room, set-up like any hotel room you've ever seen that shared a large multi-purpose common area with the other residents. Breakfast was frequently already made for the construction workers by the housekeeping staff, as there were plenty of jobs to go around now since 'The War'. His omelette was cooling on the small writing table in the opposite corner with extra warmed-up yolks in a small cup, for dipping the buttered white toast included on the side. Napkin, utensils and large can of mango juice were included.
Usually, it was required of you to get up, get-dressed, and go have meals in the common area with the rest of the community. His laundry was already done. His duffel bag was neatly packed replete with wallet, ID, baking soda inserts, memory cards and camera. His two holsters (chest and ankle), with phase pistols were hanging on the bathroom knob.
His pistol-ammo units stood on their ends with green-light indicators, charging next to his i-pod. It was pissing rain, really coming down in torrents. Thunder-claps making the floor-to-ceiling windows vibrate slightly from several miles away. He could see through the venetian blinds hanging on his suite's front glass door.
The red LED clock on the wall out in the hall, just to the left of his door read 7:30 AM.
He took his time enjoying his breakfast and getting showered. At that point he noticed the box. At some point during the morning, supplied to him on his chest of drawers, He untied the ribbon, read the cryptic "Welcome Aboard" card, and unfolded the boutique style packaging.
Starfleet-issue overalls with red detailing to indicate command; however,no pips, no mission-insignia patch except his name stitched on the shoulder. A communicator fell out of the folds on the floor, which he reached down and retrieved. After getting out a fresh pair of underwear and undershirt, zipped himself into the overalls and laced up his boots.
Stowing the last of his effects (I-pod, ammo clips, et al.) in the half-filled duffel bag, and strapping on his weapons, he picked-up the communicator he'd left on the unmade bed. Out of curiosity, flipped open the communicator.
"Hauck to Pathfinder. Anyone got their ears on?"
A stoic, hardly-bemused female voice came back over the channel, "As a matter of fact, Mister Hauck, I'm quite attached to mine. Stand by."
He felt himself slightly lifted as though in an elevator and the room dissolved in trippy psychedelic effects as another room appeared from behind it and his body felt settled again. A slightly irked Vulcan stood behind the controls and stared him down.
"Commander Jason Douglas Hauck. Reporting for duty, Ma'am."