ugly bag of mostly voyager

Captain’s personal log, stardate 52113.2.

Quarantine, Day 10.

Despite the inexplicable interference plaguing the Doctor’s program, which Lieutenant Torres is too sick and Seven of Nine is too busy to repair, Lieutenant Paris has made commendable progress in developing a cure for the virus.

Unfortunately, while I was manipulating his crew evaluation record to bust him down to crewman third class, Chakotay woke up from a nap and wanted to know what I was doing. I was forced to resort to devious measures to distract him.

As a result, Paris’ access to the medical database was not revoked and he was able to complete the Doctor’s research. A cure has been synthesised and administered to the entire crew. Our convalescence is expected to be protracted, but Dr Paris estimates full recovery for even the hardest-hit crew members within the next four days.

I anticipate permanently assigning the meddling little pest to plasma maintenance as soon as Ensign Baytart stops hallucinating long enough to take the conn.

Still, it’s not all dismal. I’ve been feeling so much better that I’ve taken up ballet again, which has done wonders for my legs, not to mention my flexibility. Seven of Nine dropped by with a status report, looking particularly haggard, and I swear her eyes had turned a minty shade of green when she remarked on how rested I appear. And Chakotay admires me so much in that shirt I appropriated on New Earth that I’ve managed to convince him it was mine all along.

Four more days. Four glorious, lazy, self-indulgent days until I have to retake my crown.

That is, if the tests show I’m no longer contagious. Which, unless I can somehow sneak into sickbay while Nurse Paris’ back is turned, I suppose they will.