Log Entry 150110.132

Boothby's slacking. There are thistles in his borders. I know this because I sat on one!
Having fought my way out of the bushes, I wandered back to my room, pulling leaves and twigs out of my hair and rubbing my very sore behind. I really did look as though I'd been dragged through a hedge backwards—which effectively I had—and I attracted some very odd looks on the way.
The door to my room whooshed open and I stepped inside, relieved to be in its sanctuary and away from staring eyes. Immediately, though, all the hairs on the back of my neck began to prickle. Something was amiss.
My eyes scanned the room.
Was I being paranoid?
No. It was a smell. I could smell aftershave, and it sure as hell wasn't mine!
Gently, I slid the datapad onto my bedside cabinet and tip-toed further into the room.
Had Steven Firth been in here again? Maybe he had sent one of his minions to root through my stuff again?
My eyes homed in on the crack between the doors on Lizzy's wardrobe. It was a smidge larger than it should be; it wasn't quite shut.
Anger filled me, not fear, and my eyes narrowed. Silently, I approached the wardrobe. Gently, I reached out and took the handle. With one swift movement, I hurled the door open. Instantly, a man launched an attack, hurling himself at me, but it was no contest. He didn't know what hit him.
As he leapt from the wardrobe, his hands outstretched, I had ducked and twisted, grabbing his wrist at the same time. With a beautifully executed be'joy' cha'par, he was flipped over like a pancake and landed flat on his back. A quick pa' Sor yoDSutmey tuQ, and I had him rolled onto his stomach, one arm yanked high up into the air and my foot wedged into the back of his neck. Urtok would have been quite proud of me. I know I was!
His screams of unbridled pain began to filter through. Perhaps I shouldn't lever his arm up quite so high. As I released the pressure, his screeches began to subside, withering into shattered gasps and sobs.
"Okay, pal! So who are you and what do you want?" I demanded. "You're certainly no cadet!"
That much was certain. Putting aside his age, if he had been Starfleet trained, I wouldn't have floored him quite so easily, I'm sure.
"Peter," he whimpered. "Peter Targo. Ouch! You're hurting me."
It was such a pitiful plea, but it could equally have been a ruse to persuade me to release him. It worked, though, because there were tears in his eyes—tears of pain judging by the expression on his face.
"Okay, but one wrong move, buddy, and you'll be back on the floor with your arms and legs tied up in an ornamental bow. Got it?"
"Got it," he agreed.
Cautiously, I let go and backed off. He lowered his arm sympathetically to the floor before rolling onto his buttocks and shuffling off to lean against Lizzy's bed.
"Thank you," he whispered, rubbing his shoulder and stretching his neck exposing a vicious, red scar. It run from under his jaw and disappeared under his uniform. It looked like a particularly savage plasma burn to me.
"Okay," I said, sitting on the edge of my bed. "So your name is Peter Targo, but who are you and what do you want? You're certainly not a student here."
"Not now, no."
"Ah! So you dropped out."
"NO! I passed with honours, I'll have you know!" He was quite indignant.
"Then why the cadet uniform?"
"Because ... because ... because I'm not supposed to be here."
"Where are you supposed to be?"
"On recuperative leave," and he sighed, pulling at the neck of his uniform to reveal more of the raw scar tissue.
"Plasma burn," I diagnosed.
"With a bit of subnucleonic radiation for good measure." My face screwed in sympathetic pain. "It's not healing well, so I've been given an extended leave of absence while I undergo treatment."
"Okay, but that doesn't explain why you're rooting through my room."
"I'm looking for Bella ... Lizzy."
"She's not here."
"No, I can see that—and that's just it. She's nowhere."
I tipped my head and studied the chap. His face was familiar. He was average height and typical Starfleet build; a man who exercised so was in good shape, but didn't go overboard. He was a little older than me—actually, I suspected he had a good ten years on me, but the years had been kind to him, other than the burn that is. He had a pleasant, angular face and was clean shaven with short, sandy coloured hair tousling about his face.
"Aren't you the guy I saw the other day? You waved?"
"Yeah, that was me. I could see you were getting suspicious. I thought if I pretended to wave at somebody, you'd ignore me."
"You've been following me!"
"No! Yes! I mean no!"
"Make your mind up."
"I need to find Bella."
"Why?"
"Because she's been abducted!"
There. Someone had said it. Someone had said out loud the thing that had been at the back of my mind all this time.
I drew a really long, deep breath and lowered myself onto the floor opposite him, my posture mimicking his.
"Abducted? You know this?"
"Yes."
"How?"
"Because she would NEVER have cancelled her gig at the Byzantium. "
I was expecting more, but nothing came.
"Is that it?" I demanded.
He chewed on the inside of his mouth.
"No," he finally admitted. "I just know her."
"What? Are you her boyfriend or something?"
He shook his head.
"I wish, but no. It's more complicated than that."
He sighed deeply.
"I really do think you'd better start talking," I urged.
"Okay, but just listen until the end before you judge me."
I agreed, and so he began.

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