Summary: The terrible trials of a captain in quarantine.
Disclaimer: Paramount/CBS own all rights to the Voyager universe and its characters, which I am borrowing without permission or intent to profit, only to amuse.
Notes: Written for the Lock Down Fest 2020, and hey fuck the coronavirus.
Captain’s personal log, stardate 52108.4.
Quarantine, Day 8.
Lieutenant Paris, who is on the road to recovery from the virus, reported from sickbay that he is still unable to reactivate the Doctor’s program. I made appropriately soothing and encouraging noises, got him off the com line as soon as I could and wheedled Chakotay into another of his infamous shoulder massages.
68 percent of the crew is still bedridden. The virus, which at first we thought only afflicted humans, knows no boundary between species, and does not - as we assumed - run its course in a few days. It mutates rapidly - hence the ship-wide quarantine measures, as the strain that Chakotay and I contracted is substantially different to the one I’m told Tuvok finally succumbed to three days ago.
It’s very unfortunate that we’re still contagious, and can’t go to the bridge, or engineering, or even leave our, I mean my, quarters. Poor Seven sounded close to tears at her last status update.
I should reactivate the Doctor to give her a hand maintaining ship’s systems, if nothing else. In fact, yes, I’ll do that.
Right after this massage.