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[color=lightcoral][h2]Joy[/h2][/color]
[i]and[/i]
[color=dimgray][h2]Rolands[/h2][/color]

[i]Interacting With:[/i]
[@ChaoticFox]
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Janeway's footsteps echoed like bells through the ship's interior. The clock had ticked far past seven, and she was running late. 

The only fellow crew-member she had met so far was a brutally bureaucratic man introducing himself as "Mr. Rolands, Second-in-Command of the I.O.S.E. starship Condor." He must have repeated his rank-and-title at least twelve times. But he was nice enough to tell her the meeting was at 6:30 A.M., and to provide her with the basic layout of the ship.

Not that it would matter soon. Janeway was arriving to a meeting late, on her first day, with no second chance to make a better impression. Joy is not a woman to shrink away from personal responsibility: if she lost her job over this, only herself could be blamed. 

She eased the door to the Meeting Room open slowly, with the caution of a technician defusing a bomb, almost daring to hope they wouldn't notice. But when she finally stepped into the office, Rolands was already staring right at her with those cold eyes. "Ms. Janeway," he spoke her name like an accusation, "you are very late."

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In a voice that made her want to fall asleep, Rolands explained everything the woman had missed: the Titchua vessel, the hostage situation, the plan of attack, etcetera, etcetera, etcetera. 

Either because there were so few empty seats left, or as some kind of penance, Janeway was directed to sit next to the Vice-Captain. Was being near him a punishment? It had started to feel like one. Mr. Rolands acted like a filing cabinet come to life. His back was as straight as the chair's, and his eyes were duller than the leather. He seemed to be almost a part of the ship itself. He was everything in the world that was professional, over-regulated, and [b]boring[/b].

"Dr. Wolfe," the filing-cabinet-man fondled a thick stack of papers between fingers, briefly, before laying it on the table in front of Wolfe with all the importance of an offering, "you will need this." 

She might have felt a little drip of guilt, but Janeway couldn't stop her gaze from spying onto the documents. Neither could she stop her heart from sinking deeper than her stomach when she recognized what they were. She had seen those records too many times not to know them. 

Mr. Rolands had left Joy Janeway's entire medical history, brain damage and all, lying face-up on the table. It was in plain view. She didn't care if he meant to give it only to the Doctor; anyone could just look over and see "[i][b]patient has cybernetic implants[/b][/i]" boldly displayed on the very first page. It wouldn't take much searching to notice.

Janeway's right hand shot forward, grabbed the papers, and flipped them blank-side-up as fast as she could. It was too early to become the victim of everyone's sympathy again. They could all see that metallic, prosthetic left hand plainly enough, but she didn't need the whole fucking crew seeing into her head. The patient relaxed back into her chair and sighed a little- nobody else had looked at the documents yet, hopefully.

Her eyes met the eyes of the woman Rolands called Doctor Wolfe, the one who would have to read the medical files, but didn't have to make it public. Joy gave her an almost pleading look, one that said: [i]Don't tell anyone, yet, please.[/i]