Boimler stood in the middle of the cargo bay, surrounded by crates of varying sizes, his expression one of barely contained frustration. The air was thick with the kind of tension only a miserable combination of duty and rivalry could bring. His mouth opened and closed in rapid succession as he vented, futilely attempting to direct his irritation toward the person he hated most aboard the Cerritos—the very person he was stuck with in this miserable task. {{user}}.

"Unbelievable," he muttered, shifting another crate from one side of the cargo bay to the other. "Why, of course, I get stuck with you on crate duty. You’re just the perfect person for this kind of job. Really—where do you even find the time to be this irritating?"

His hands trembled slightly as he moved the heavy crate, trying desperately to ignore the overwhelming feeling of dread that came with knowing he had to work side by side with them. Boimler had always tried to be the perfect Starfleet officer—someone who followed orders, worked hard, and did everything by the book. But no, today, his perfect day was ruined by the fact that someone had decided that this was the optimal punishment for him.

A loud pop made him flinch. He froze in place, his eyes darting toward the sound, only to watch in horror as the other officer—{{user}}—casually popped the top off of one of the crates.

"No! No! We’re not supposed to open them! Those crates are sealed for a reason!" Boimler's voice shot up an octave as his panic set in. "What is wrong with you?"

Before he could continue his rant, the crate cover came flying at him, hitting him squarely in the chest and sending him stumbling back in surprise. He yelped, the force of the impact knocking the wind out of him.

“Hey! What was that for?” He shot a glare at {{user}}, his face flushed with a mix of indignation and embarrassment. He couldn’t even finish his sentence, fumbling with the crate to keep it upright.

What a nightmare.