“Rraal, I am so excited.” Ensign Mazev let out a squeal as he and Lieutenant Rraal made their way down to the transporter room, supplies and bags in hand. “Seeing the lens of theatre through other cultures?? Ugh, it’s going to be great!”

“I guess.” Rraal rolled his eyes as his tail flicked side to side, annoyed. “I’ve never once understood theatre. The arts. Singing is fine, but…” The man just shrugged as they rounded the corner to the transporter room. Jetta was there, helping move the final few boxes, alongside a big chunk of the crew.

“I–c’mon! Captain, permission to speak?” Mazev asked.

“Granted.”

“Surely you like the arts, too, right? Theatre, singing, all of the sort?” He pleaded, only earning a heavy sigh from Rraal.

“I do, actually.” She smiled, walking by and patting Mazev on the shoulder. “Doctor Sullivan and I will be down there soon. I’ve given you all orders to set the most important and heavyset things down before the Morro Bay makes its landing. Wait for us to formally introduce yourselves.”

“Yes ma’am!”

“Yes, Captain.”

As Jetta left for the bridge, Hollis grumbled from behind the control monitor for the transporter. He was a bit annoyed–being assigned to transporter duty during second contact is exhausting. Truthfully, he hates it, and this was no exception.

“Well?” Rraal crossed his arms, awaiting the transporter lock. “Whats the hold up, Hollis?”

“It’s Gigi.” He rolled his eyes. “I wish she wouldn’t take so long and then force us to wait on her, when she gets frustrated whenever someone else is late-”

“Apologies! I have returned.” Gigi walked forward with a heavy set of boxes in her hands, each clearly holding something unwieldy inside. “Starfleet command has called upon me, and like a fox, I have delivered.”

“So.” Hollis mumbled as he worked on finalizing the lock. “What the hell is up with this place?”

“I’ve gathered data from the fruits of our labors, if you so wish to let them fall upon hearing ears.” Gigi beamed. The rest either nodded or shrugged.

“Don’t let it take forever, Ampere.” Hollis snapped.

“Alright, alright! I shall be quick.” Gigi reached into her pocket, pulling out her PADD with a smirk. “The Secnil-Varr, as they like to be referred too, are a dramatic species of lizard and dragonic like origin. They hold their performing arts and the stroke of a paintbrush in extremely high regard, going so far as to see someone not at the very least glancing towards their most famous of works as an insult.”

“Great.” Rraal sighed.

“Ambassador Yu’Lopen has expressed how excited the planet is to be making first contact–especially considering they’ve been hidden mostly behind other planets. The plant of Secnil-Varr itself is cold; cold enough that everyone should be wearing layers of warm clothing. The Secnil-Varr are able to easily withstand the climate, being cold blooded, and all.”

“Already done.” Mazev smirked as he adjusted his coat collar. “Anything else we need to know?”

“They’re an overly affectionate group that has hugging and other signs of affection engraved in their culture.” Gigi shrugs, stuffing her PADD away. “Nothing more than that, I suppose.”

“Yeah, yeah, peachy. Love that for you all.” Hollis typed a few more things into the panel, before glancing back up at everyone. “Are you all ready? Good. Energizing.”

. . . . . .

“Huh. Sooo…where is everyone?” Rraal raised a brow as he, and many many others of the Morro Bay’s crew stood at an empty and desolate shipping dockyard. The sky was grey and murky, with a howling wind blowing almost comedically on time with the choking feeling of unease that wrapped itself around the crew’s necks and held them tight.

Captain Dowe frowned as she walked forward, hand on her hip. “Alright…so, something is obviously not right. When’s the last time Starfleet had confirmed contact with this planet?”

“Two days, Captain.” Sylvester spoke as he took a few steps forward, peaking past the metal gates. “The sky is normally like this, from what we’ve been told, but the lack of…anyone is not.”

“Aren’t they a huge, dramatic culture?” The Captain rubbed her temples. “Either we’ve come in during a holiday, or something is seriously wrong. Commander, I want you and your best back here and guarding the meeting point. Doctor, if you could start–”

“Uhm…h-hello…” A voice called. All heads turned to see an older, hunched over lizard man. He had a beautiful wooden cane, and a lavish purple coat that dragged at the end from the size. Oversized glasses laid on his snout, with multiple lens to flick down and adjust. His scales were a dark, wrinkly green, and his claws were long and unkempt. “Are you starfleet?”

“Uh–yes! We are!” Jetta let out a sigh of relief, hastily making her way to the man. “Are you…Mr. Iikl? The Ambassador?”

“The Ambassador–” The older man pulled out a hankerchief and coughed into it. Amira’s eyes narrow as the older lizard man pulls his snout away from the fabric, a deep crimison staining it. “–has…passed, I’m afraid.”

“Passed?” Jetta’s eyes widened. “What happened??”

“W-We’ve been strucken by a plauge. S-Something awful. We called upon you…you…starfleet, but you never showed…” His eyes shifted up to Jetta, glaring. “Distress calls, cries for help…all muck, if you ask me.” The older Lizard man turned and started to walk away.

“Wait! Wait, sir, please.” Jetta gently grabbed his shoulder, turning him back to her. “Surely there’s been a misunderstanding. Starfleet wouldn’t abandon you! That’s why were here now. When did this start? How many people are affected?”

As Amira started to quietly bark orders at her medical staff, she glanced back at Jetta. For some reason, a pit slowly formed in the doctors stomach. Something just. . .wasn’t right.

“Everyone’s infected, now.” He turned back, hobbling further. “It’s only a matter of time. “They all get sick. Then they terrified. Then, they can’t sleep. N’ then…they die.”

“I…sir, this is a pandemic.” Jetta glanced back at Amira, who was already typing into her PADD. “Please, let us get you into our sickbay and help you.”

“Oho, child,” The old lizard coughed once more. He leaned weakly against his cane, craning his neck at an angle to look at Jetta. “it’s far too late.”

“I don’t think it is. We can go get what we need to start the process of curing–” Before Jetta could finish, the man laughed right in her face. He laughed, and laughed, until all that was left was a wet, bloody cough.

“Y’all won’t make it past a week. It’s what y’starfleet type get for l-leavin’ us.” He glares up at Jetta. “The damn thing is airborn. Y’all are breathin’ it in.”