Story [Multi-fandom] random prompt thread- updated 12/8/17! (Stranger Things cont'd)

@WarmNyota_SweetAyesha: Thanks for the review, Nyota. I was working my best steam, but feel hampered a tad by TOS. I haven't ever written smut and I would age these characters up if I did. For now, I'm content with teasing which we all know is frustrating.

@Mira_Jade:
Thank you so much for the mondo drabble review. As I have told you before, it always gives me warm fuzzies to get reviews from you. You are such an encouragement and make me feel like my contributuion means something. You do this for a lot of us and I am eternally grateful.

I am so glad that you enjoyed this small scene's. I certainly enjoy writing them.

The cookie dough one is a favorite because I, too could see Millie's determined look and and the bashfulness of throwing flour.

Of course the poetry was tailor made for you and Nyota. I knew both of you would get a kick out it and fit nicely into a 100 words.

El snuggles with Hop was such a peaceful scene. I'm pleased you liked it.

As for the Spock drama. I was inspired by Sarek admission of his lvoe for Amanada. I wanted to convey that his father's words rocked him, even if he was going down the same road his father had. I am so glad to hear that it landed as I originally hear it in my head. Love Ben Cross' Sarek.

I also really like the simple dynamic of Hopper opening El's door giving a simple question of acknowledgement and getting an affirmative response. That was fun and also, as you said, a step forward in their relationship.

Finally, as I mentioned above, and you touched on as well, these characters, El and Mike are too young, in show, to be dabble in more intense sexual activity. I'll stick to the raging hormones and their path to insanity. for Mike, anyway.


taking flight

El peeked over the top of the book she was supposed to be reading and eyed the ancient model plane that rested on a high shelf near the cabin door. The red and yellow checkered plane suddenly slid closer to the edge of the shelf. The wheels lifted, unsteadily, and the wings wavered side to side, as the young girl gained control.

Hopper was on the couch reading Field and Stream, oblivious to her actions. The plane, now hovering above the shelf, took off toward the kitchen at a determined clip, but not too fast the El couldn’t keep it from hitting something or going through a window. She banked the plastic jet over the kitchen sink, internally making the sound she had heard many times on TV or overhead in the woods.

She grinned as she watched it glide by her diving toward the couch and turning near ground level and pulling straight up back to where it had been resting for years. However, El wasn’t done yet. The plane took one more turn about the small home and as it approached the couch it slowed, rising level with the Chief’s scalp. The plane approached, slowly and carefully as it hovered over his head. Ever so lightly, the planes wheels touched down on his thinning hair.

El’s eyes widened over the top of the book as she anticipated his response. She watched as he casually reached up and took the plane from atop his head and placed it on the back of the couch. Turning to look at her, he grinned.

“Read,” she said in a mock threatening voice, popping his eyes.

“Head hurts,” she answered, weakly.

“Nice try, Little Miss Aviator,” he said. “Not enough stop the flying lessons.”

El grimaced with sparkling eyes and disappeared behind the book.


teacher becomes the student

In the summer of 1988, in the basement of the new Hopper home, six teens and one adult sat around a battered, circular dinner table, listening intently as the Dungeon Master explained the basics to the man in the badge, whom had recently relented and agreed to be a recurring, honorary member of The Party.

“So what do you want your character to be?” Mike asked, to get things going.

“What do you mean?” Hopper asked, cluelessly.

“Like do you want him to be human or orc or Elf or dwarf?” Dustin added to clarify.

“Human, I guess,” the Chief said, squirming in discomfort.

“Okay, Human,” Mike repeated writing it down a piece of paper in front of him.

“What’s that?” Hopper asked, concerned about the writing.

“It’s a character sheet,” Lucas said. “No big deal. It’s where we put the details about your character as you decide. Next is what kind of character do you want to be?”

“How’s that?” Hopper asked again.

“He means do you want your character to be a fighter, a wizard, a druid, monk, or something else?” Will replied, matter of fact.

I don’t know what any of that means, except maybe fighter.”

“Fighter fits you, okay,” Max interjected. “But I think a Ranger would best fit you, Chief.”

“Yes!” Dustin agreed, enthusiastically. “Ranger is perfect. Solitary tracker and protector of those who have no idea of the dangers he has saved them from.”

“Absolutely,” Mike said. “Skilled swordsman and hunter of wild orc and other Enemies of peace.”

“Sounds about right,” Hopper said, nodding to convince himself.

“Okay, next is Alignment,” Will said, taking the sheet proffered by Mike. “Are you good or evil?”

“Good, of course,” Hopper said, shrugging his shoulder at the obvious.

“But do you want your character to be good?” Lucas asked.

“Uh, yeah,” Hopper said, incredulously. “How long is this going to take? Are we going to play or talk about playing all day?”

“Don’t worry, Dad,” El chimed in. “Just a little longer on this character stuff. What do you guys think his alignment should be?”

The table erupted into a passionate argument over Hopper’s moral compass within the game. At one point the Chief scooted his chair back and rose to leave the chaotic scene. El rose as well staring him down, silently reminding him of his promise. After the din lowered and brief explanation was made of morality codes, Hopper and The Party decided he would be Lawful Neutral, acts as law, tradition, or a personal code directs him.

The character creation continued for another fifteen to twenty minute before Mike called the game to order.

“After many long years of failure in seeking the true clerics, separately, the six of you meet up at the Stream of Fire tavern in the town of-”

“When do I smite the dragon?” Hopper interrupted with a growl.

 

"Taking Flight" and "Teacher Becomes Student" -- you've got the logistics of character-sheeting down.

 

There she is! Where have you been all day?

I'm glad you enjoyed these, Nyota!

 

Haha! I can totally hear him saying this.

Great ficlets, both of them. I have to read more when I have more time.

 

Thank you so much for stopping and taking the time to leave a comment, @amidalachick! I hope there is more coming from you soon.

I'd love to hear from you if you ever find the time to look at some of the others.

 

Out On a Limb - ST:2009

The Rigelian Ambassador's question hung in the air like a lead balloon. Spock tilted his head and raised an eyebrow in nonverbal response. The Ambassador's eyes narrowed as each moment of silence ticked by. Spock did not break eye contact, but ever so slightly knitted his brows, which the statesman took as an insult to his intelligence. His face grew pink.

Rigel was known as the Pleasure Planet for as many reasons as one could think of, allowing for the natives to be know as the most pleasant people to be around.

Kirk, who sat the right of the Ambassador, had been all but shushed as the man seemed to take great pains to elicit an emotional response from his first officer. Uhura, Scott, McCoy, and Chekov as well as members of the staff completed the dinner party.

Just as the silence was about to cause a diplomatic incident, Uhura spoke up.

"My apologies, Ambassador," she began. "Mister Spock simply doesn't have the capacity to tell a joke."

"Are you saying he doesn't know any?" replied the diplomat, frowning. "That seems unlikely."

"It's not that at all," Uhura responded, amiably. "Spock's mind is sharp as a tack, like a steel trap, even waterproof. The trouble is that he would either ruin the punchline or deadpan a joke that should rise to it's conclusion. He is a master communicator, but a poor story teller."

"Nyota," Spock whispered in to her ear. "What are you doing?"

"Getting you out of this," she said under her breath.

"I hardly-"

"Let's try a basic joke," Uhura said, again to the Ambassador. "Spock, Knock, Knock."

"As you well know, Nyota, the doors, here, are automatic and made of heavy metal, which would not require knocking, but using the communication system to request entry."

"See what I mean," Nyota said shrugging her shoulders.

The Rigelian remained undeterred. "Mister Spock, what do we call a group of stars that makes an imaginary picture in the sky?”

Spock remains impassive. "I do not know."

“A consternation,” the ambassador replied.*

Muted groans were heard around the table though through broad smiles.

After a moment of silence, Spock said to his host most earnestly: "That, Sir, is what I would call Doctor McCoy."

Nyota almost spit her wine into her plate.

Kirk's eyes popped and McCoy dropped his fork, ready to engage in verbal battle. But before he could get a word out, The Rigelian Ambassador burst into laughter, breaking the tension and allowing everyone else to laugh as well.

Spock kept his right eyebrow firmly raised in defiance as he secretly relished his victory.

*Consternation joke borrowed from astrobob.areavoices.com

 

"Spock's mind is sharp as a tack, like a steel trap, even waterproof. The trouble is that he would either ruin the punchline or deadpan a joke that should rise to it's conclusion. He is a master communicator, but a poor story teller."

Perfect that it is our darling Nyota who sums things up so expertly and accurately all in an attempt to get Spock out of a tight only to find that he is able to make the guests and the Ambassador burst into unexpecrted laughter. He is good with surprises that way.

 

Thank you to @WarmNyota_SweetAyesha: and @Mira_Jade for their lovely reviews of Out on a Limb and the Stranger Things ficlets above.

A/N: Tag to Star Trek: Picard episode 6: The Impossible Box - There are times in this series where I questioned Picard's actions, socially. There a are queues that he missed or moments where he lack the compassion his character is known for. Part of this could be attributed to age, but there is also the fact the even after all he has been through in the lead up to this series, that he has an arrogance regarding his former status that he is not fully aware of, or thinks is gone, but isn't.

No Need for Words

Jean-Luc Picard stood and clapped as Raffi burned her last bridge with Starfleet. It was a bridge she was not happy to burn, but her loyalty outweighed her disdain when it came to JL. If he wanted on that damnable Articfact, then she would hop to like a good little officer and do what he asked. Orders were orders even if neither one of them had been in Starfleet for the last 14 years.

She did not like the clapping, though. She hugged her whiskey close and patted her coat pocket for her snake week vape. As she turned from the console she nearly fell from the chair. Thank the universe for Rios. Even if JL had lost his mind for a moment, or at least his sense of propriety, Rios understood. He had his own pain, but he knew hers very well. She gave Picard a sideways glance as Rios escorted her from the bridge back to her quarters. He was sitting again, smiling in relief. She had been blind to his faults. She had starry eyed with hero worship. She still was, but she was wiser now. The great Captain of the Enterprise was still only a man, imperfect by nature and down right self absorbed in this moment.

She kept watching him as Rios half carried her to the turbolift. His smile faded when he locked eyes with Jurati. Raffi traced the line of sight and saw the glistening eyes of a woman who understood, a woman who knew sacrifice, different and treacherous, but sacrifice all the same. She did't care to look back at JL. She didn't want to see something she might never forget.

She wanted to get high, but she was so tired. Blackmailing a Starfleet admiral, a friend, or, at least, putting her in an impossible position, took all she had. Picard would now be able to board the Romulan held, inactive, Borg Cube. She hoped it was worth it. She was barely conscious when Rios took her whiskey bottle and put it on the bad side table. Damn you, JL...

* * * * *

The door chime intruded on her alcohol induce coma. She didn't want to answer. She wanted to sleep...forever.

"Go away!" she growled, turning and pulling the covers over her head.

The chime continued, incessantly.

"I don't want to talk to anybody," she said in a drunken drawl.

Chime.

"Audio on," she said, repressing tears.

"Raffi," the familiar voice pleaded. "I need to talk to you. I...was-I don't know how to-"

"It is always about what you need, isn't it, JL?" she sobbed. "Your needs and...everyone else can rot. I'm not your officer anymore. I don't want to open the door so I won't. Don't bother asking Rios, either."

"I would...never..." Picard stammered. "Please, Raffi. I was wrong. I want you to see that I know...I was wrong.

Raffi activated the door and it slid open. Picard stood in the doorway, shoulders slumped, a shameful frown on his face. He stepped in and at on the edge of her bed. Her covers were pulled tight around her, but her head protruded enough to see him. Her mop of frizzy golden brown hair partially obscured her face.

He placed a hand where her leg was under cover. “Raffi, I-”

“Don't talk, JL,” she said, softly.

He nodded, gently stroking her leg, then letting his hand rest in place.

 

@Mira_Jade: Thank you, Mira, as always for leaving such a lovely review. This scene, in the show was strange. I hope you have had a change to see some Picard. It turns out to be pretty good. Not great, but pretty good.

I have recently discovered the Netflix show The LAst Kingdom. I have struggled with my must to get anything down, but I hope the items below to tap the well and more will be forthcoming. I hope you enjoy.

Uthred

I am Uthred, son of Uthred, the heir of Bebbanburg, the Dane Killer. I have many names, many reputations, but it was slavery that brought me to an end and to new beginning. Being a slave, like being in a grand army can rip a man's identity from him, make him forget who he was, why he was, how he loved. Slavery show's a man or woman a different view of atrocities than what one would know as a victor in war.

Halig, my loyal man, could not survive, his will was just not strong enough. For him to perish tied to the keel of the ship on which we row, as a lesson for me, will never be forgotten. But even as Halig was lost, Finan, my new brother was found. Thank the gods for him. Even as my formidable will falters, his voice is in my ear reminds me that this is not the end.

Aldheim

A change of heart does not often come easy, a change in your way of thinking that can alter the course of one's life. Aldheim, senior adviser to King Ethelred, was now face with a quandary: Continue to serve his King, a man of poor taste, and even less regard for his kingdom and its inhabitants or confide in the lady Aethelfled, the King's estranged wife, and seek to save Mercia from his disastrous rule. What had caused the need for such a change? Was it how he saw the Lady treated by her husband, ridiculed and verbally abused and accused. Etherlred's disdain was palpable, as had been Aldheim's before he saw her as more than a bargaining chip, more than a King's daughter, worth more than his own life. Ah, Aldheim, your love for Mercia has now grown to a love for the only woman who can save it.

Thyra

The wedding was supposed to be a joyous occasion, but the tension in the hall was tight. Thyra watched watched her husband who stood near the king with a wistful smile. She never imagined such happiness after years abuse at the hands of her father's enemy. It was still unpleasant, at times, living among Saxons, being the receiving end of their glares, slurs, and hatred for her Danish blood. Se had hoped that marrying Beacca would soften such prejudice, but it had not.

She felt hot breath on her neck, a sudden intrusion.

“Dane Witch!” came the hissed slur from behind her. It was her tormentor from before, here in the palace. She looked at Beacca. His gaze was on the Prince. She sought her brother, Uthred. He watched intently the father of the bride. What could she do? Who could she turn to? It was a marriage ceremony. She could not make a scene. She could call down more insults for interrupting a royal proceeding. But, this man, this Saxon bastard, would not leave her in peace.

He touched her arm, causing her to jerk away. Thyra's anxiety rose. The walls were closing in. She had to get out! She had to get home. She would be safe there. She could breath there. This savage would not get to her there. He would not dare to enter her home. She left the palace quietly, thinking she had evaded her tormentor.

 

@WarmNyota_SweetAyesha: Thank you for that last comment.

A/N: I have not updated this thread in a while. However, I am back with a couple of Star Trek Lower Decks drabbles. The show takes place after Voyager, but before Picard. I'm not sure of the exact timeframe. It is also animated and has an absurdist comedic tone and content. I hope you enjoy.

Wild Stallion

There were times when Beckett Mariner resented being on the Cerritos. Her mother and father continued to kick her back and forth like a football, each hoping to break her like a wild stallion. Their problem was that the stallion didn't want to be broken and yet she didn't want to be thrown off the proverbial ranch either. When she would become too disruptive on one ship, she would be sent off to the other. Her mom was an battle axe. That's old Earth language for difficult and unpleasant due a fierce and determined attitude. She was all of that. On the other hand, her father was a big softy bundled up in a Starfleet Admiral's uniform. At least he was a softy with her. She guessed he was a soft with mom was well. Ewww!



Much Ado About Boimier

“You've got to loosen up, Man,” Beckett said, leaning back against her chair in the lounge. “I can see that your collar is so tight that no oxygen is getting to that brain of yours. You're white as a ghost!”

Boimier stared at her with dull, beleaguered eyes. “That is my normal skin color, Mariner. My complexion is fairer than most.”

“Well that's not fair, is it?” Beckett said, leaning forward and slamming her half full cup on the table. “Perhaps you should try the tanning salon on Deck 8 or start drinking more carrot juice, or My God, Man, talk to Doctor T'Ana about darkening the pigment of your skin!”

“I'm not going to do that, Beckett and you know it,” Boimier said, blandly.

Raising her cup in the air she said: “I do? How do I know what you're going to do? How do I know what anyone is going to do? Did I know that Kirk would destroy the Enterprise on Genesis? Did I know that Tasha Yar never died, but had a Romulan baby? How could I know that Benjamin Sisko was part god, but it took him FOREVER to figure it out? Oh, and for all the Dilitium, IN THE GALAXY, how could I know that after seven years and multiple acts of heroism that Harry Kim, of The USS Voyager, would NEVER BE PROMOTED! So, tell me, Boimier, how in the universe am I supposed to know that you won't get a tan?”

The young lieutenant buried his face in his hands.


Taken for Ransom

At the end of the day, Beckett lay on her bunk exhausted, but not too exhausted to fantasize about Commander Ransom. It was an action that disgusted and excited her. The man was most times an idiot and a few times insanely brave and effective. As an ensign, she really had no grounds on which to judge him, but as a woman, she was attracted to his bold displays of machismo. She considered banging her head again the bulkhead just to rid of these lurid and debasing thoughts, but figured her head would hurt far more than her pride when it was over. She did not know the man, but it was enough for him to wound her in order end their dispute over whom would face the gargantuan Gelraki in combat. He had not only taken responsibility, as first officer should, but he shirtlessly, and easily, dispatched the warrior. It was kind of hot. Not. Yes it was. No, it wasn't.

 

Oh the attraction that occurs despite oneself ... It seems to transcend time and space and fandom

 

@Mira_Jade: Thank you for taking the time to do a primer for this new fandom. I really appreciate it. It is a crazy show, both fun and annoying at times. But, if you go into it knowing it manic parody, you'll enjoy it. Like I hope you enjoy this new set. I took the prompt words from one of the 50 Sentence sets.


Wait

“Wait a minute?” Mariner yelled into D'Vana's face. “You better be freaking kidding me! Boimier left the Cerritos without telling me? Just vanished into the rarified air of The USS Titan, captained by none other than Jean Luc Picard's Number One, William T. Riker and his wife Deanna Troi, also late of the Enterprise-E?”

“Yes?” D'Vana whispered, wincing in preparation for another tirade. “But I don't think Troi is his co-captain.”

“What matters is that that little Cheese Whizzler did exactly what I would expect him to do right after telling me I was his best friend. Do you know what means?”

D'Vana gulped, unsure how to answer. “No?”

“Is that a question or a statement D'Vana?” Becket said, throwing her hands in the air. “It means I'm pissed and that Brad Boimier is in for a Beckett Beat Down next time I see him.”


Barb

“Hey, Mariner!” Jack Ransom called when he caught sight of her exiting Sick Bay. “Got a sec?”

She turned and shot him a mild, incredulous glare. “You're a senior officer, Commander. It's my job to have a sec for you.”

“Oooh, still mad, huh?” Ransom asked, gritting his teeth and cinching his eyebrows. “I just wanted to say that that thing in your mo-the captain's office was not what it sounded like. I do not get ha-”

“Let me stop you right, Jack,” Mariner interjected. “Before you pile more on the mountain of evidence against you.”

“You wouldn't,” Ransom said, fear lacing his words.

“No Jack, I wouldn't. But I'm not in the mood to trade barbs with you today.”


Awash

By the time Beckett had sent her 125th unanswered message, she was awash in frustration, anger, guilt, and, as much as she hated to admit, sadness. She would not cry. She could feel the emotion rising in her throat and tears welling in her eyes.

You will not cry, Beckett. This kind of soppy emotion is not what we're made of. This kind of softness is for people like Brad, not to be shown because of him. If you start crying, Beckett, they will hear you. They will wonder about you. They will think you are weak. Vincdicta is not weak!

Turning over in her bunk, she moved her head into the corner as far as she could and allowed the tears to roll down her cheeks. She cried silently wondering why Brad would leave without saying goodbye.


Heaven

Beckett found herself on a beach, blue skies and sunshine. The waves crashed at her feet. Looking down the beach, she saw a figure. She could not make out who it was. He wore a white linen suit and wind caused the coat and shirt and pants to ripple around him. It had to be a him. His dark hair was short, but long enough to blown about in the wind. Brad? What was Brad doing in a white suit down the beach from her. Suddenly aware of herself, she was also in a white dress, which billowed in the wind.

Involuntarily, a swell rose in her chest and she started running toward him. What was happening? She could see that he was running toward her as well, with open arms and big fat grin on his face. She was running hard now, pumping her arms, while he still seemed to be moving slow motion. When they collided, it was not a warm loving embrace. Beckett threw a hard right cross that sent slow motion Boimier backwards in to the frothy sea.

Mariner awoke with a start. “Oh, Hell no!” she barked into the silence.


Haven

Brad Boimier loved his new quarters. They were small, but it was all his. No more bunking with the lower decks. No more snoring, or sleep walkers or late night chats that kept him awake. Best of all no Beckett Mariner talking incessantly about Starfleet history and bucking protocol. No more Beckett Mariner, stealing his thunder every time he tried to show initiative to his superior officers. No more Beckett Mariner putting him in a head lock and giving him a friendly, if painful nuggie. No more Beckett Mariner telling him that he was her best friend and that she was learning to take her job as a Starfleet officer more seriously. No...No more Beckett Mariner. He sat on his bed and stared at the blank walls.

Had he made a mistake? Anxious desperation spread across his chest and to his extremities. What would he do with out Beckett? She was his confidence. She was his bravery. She held him back when he pushed himself too hard. She was his sounding board. She told him when his ideas were trash and when when they were good. What had he done? He had taken a golden opportunity. But at what cost? His best friend?

 

Pump

“It's all fun and games until a warp core coolant pump fails, on Beta shift, and and they have to call the 'A-Team' to the rescue,” Sam Rutherford said, with no small level of prideful sarcasm. Switching off his heads up display, he turned to Beckett, who leaned casually against the core which had nearly melted down.

“Not bad, Sam,” Beckett said in a complimentary tone. “There might be a commendation in it for you.”

“Do you really think so?” Sam replied, excitedly, placing his hands to his face. “Maybe with a commendation, Commander Billups will notice me.”

“I think his scanners have already picked you up, Sammy,” Beckett said. “You're like a cyborg Wesley Crusher. How many times have you saved the ship?”

“Shhh!” Sam said, raising a finger to his lips. “Speaking the name of the Traveler formerly known as you know who could summon him to the ship. He usually brings bad news.”

“WESLEY CRUSHER! WESLEY CRUSHER! WESLEY CRUSHER!” Beckett chanted loudly, drawing the name out.

“Your funeral,” Rutherford said as he rolled his eye and left Main Engineering.


Fence

When D'Vana entered the forward cantina, she saw Beckett staring out a port window at the passing stars. Her friend looked lost in thought.

“What's on your mind, Beckett?” D'Vana said. “You look stumped. Not a normal state for you.”

“Hey D'Vana,” Beckett said, absently. “Just thinking about Shaxs. I want to have a memorial, but I'm on the fence about a high kill count holo simulation, with no safety protocols or a live action Bat'leth tournament. All would be welcome as spectators, of course, but only Shaxs level bad asses need apply to compete.”

“That sounds dangerous, Beckett,” D'ava observed. “Do you think the captain would allow it?”

Beckett chuckled at that. “The Captain doesn't need to know anything. Ransom is already interested.”


Beach

The beach dream was starting to recur and as much as Brad deserved a good punch in the face, Beckett was getting tire of abusing him night after night. She had talked to Dr. T'Ana and asked if there was a way to disrupt the recurring cycle. Her response had been way to complicated for Beckett to want to implement. She backed away from the feline physician slowly and bolted out the sickbay doors.

There had to be a way to change to dream or end it altogether. She wondered if creating a holo program of the dream and changing the sequence of events might somehow seep into her subconscious. The following night, the dream ended just as she had programmed it, with her hugging Brad tightly...and then then headbutting him and watching him stagger back in to a large wave. The night after that was blissful absent of any Boimier on the beach.



Ramble

D'Vana, Sam, and Brad sat with their chins in their hands listening the Beckett go on and on about the news of her mother being captain getting out.

"This thing is going to blow over in no time. I've already had plenty of folks approaching me asking to influence this or that, to ask about the Captains favorite this or that, even what size her uniform is? Weird, right? I mean who am I to have senior officers coming to me in secret to ask what they could very well ask her in the open. I mean, on one hand, it's kind of cool to be in such demand. I have been trying to keep a low profile on this ship. Under the radar as they used to say back in the day. Now that the cat, not T'Ana, is out of the bag, I may have to turn the tables on these suck ups to restore my anonymity. Am I right? I should just walk right into her office and reported every single one of them. If they want to take advantage of me then they have another thing coming.

Boimler suddenly sat up straight with eyes popping from his head. “Every one of them?”

Beckett smiled knowing. “Everyone but you, Bradster! It wouldn't be buffer time with out Brad!”

“No, really,” Boimler said. “You're not going to report every office who tried to exploit you about the captain?

“I haven't decided yet, but you'll be the first to know?”


Aloof

It didn't take Beckett long to notice that there was something wrong with D'vana. Her friend had been acting strangely ever since the Vindicta incident and Beckett needed to know why. She couldn't have the band breaking up just because Brad left the ship with out saying goodbye. She found the Orion in the work out room, sitting on a rowing machine.

“Hey D'Vana what's up?” Beckett said in opening.

The Orion looked up from her sitting position and Beckett could see her anxiety rise.

“Uh, nothing,” D'Vana answered, pensively. “Just rowing. What are you doing here?”

“Looking for you. I want to know why you've been acting so strangely lately; like you've been trying to avoid me.”

D'Vana got off the ergometer and stood face to face with Beckett. “I have been trying to avoid you.”

“Why?” Beckett asked, truly mystified. “I apologized for the Orion slave girl thing. I was just trying to get us all into weird places for the holo-program. I had no idea it would-”

“-Shut up for a minute, Beckett. Just shut up!”

Beckett could see that her friend was distraught. The slave girl thing had struck a nerve and it was more serious that she had originally thought. “Okay. Okay.”

“The bottom line is that my Beckett meter is broken,” the medical ensign said, seriously. “I just need a break. Give me some space for a few days. I'm asking as your friend.”

D'Vana walked out of the athlectic center without waiting for Beckett's answer.

 

"I just wanted to ask if -" " - no."

“I just wanted to ask if-”

“No!” Beckett interjected harshly. “Not even close. I'm not in the mood. Today is a good day to die! It's Dead, Jim!”

“But, I didn't even get to my question,” Boimler said. “I just want to-”

“It doesn't matter what your question is, Brad!” Beckett raged “I'm not going to answer. I'm going to be childish and stick my fingers in my ears and start saying lalalalalalala. Get me?”

Brad looked at his crewmate and a person he thought was his friend. Even though he had hurt her feelings, he was surprised at the by the way she was acting. He shouldn't be surprised but he was. Maybe it was his time on the Titan, the separation from her, and the experience of a Starship crew that lived up to his expectations. The Cerritos, at times, seemed like a madhouse. The Titan, on the other hand, was a well oiled machine captained by one of Starfleet's best and brightest. Coming home, if that was what it was, was harder than he expected. Brad decided to stop trying when Beckett wouldn't stop her childish distraction.


Stiff Arm

When Boimler returned to The Cerritos, I decided to give him the old Heismann stiff arm. Yes, I know about the Heismann Trophy and the stiff arm being one of the better ways to keep a defensive back from tackling you as you run with the ball. Well that is what Boimler has been trying to do: tackle me while I ran away from him. Why am I running from him. Let's not concentrate on that for now. Bottom line is that the kid doesn't deserve my full attention at the moment. At least, I'm not in a place to give it to him. In fact, my emotions are a tangled mess which is causing me to lash out and treat him badly because I'm still hurt that he left without telling me. Yes, chalk one up for the erstwhile ensign who is tres' self aware, but a bit of train wreck when it comes to dealing with said emotions, in a healthy way, and telling my friend that my feelings were hurt and that I like him more than my relentless hazing lets on. Better to stiff arm him until he gets the message that I want to talk to him desperately, but don't know how to let down my guard. Right?


You take the Good, you take the Brad...

As a Captain, Carol Freeman wasn't sure she was glad to have Boimler back or not. He was good officer on paper and did his best to do things by book, but he was also uptight, lacked confidence, and had repeatedly shown questionable judgment in crisis situations. Granted, he was a junior officer and allowed to learn from his mistakes, but she would need to keep an eye on him to make sure he did, indeed learn from the consequences of his actions.

As a mother, she was thrilled to have to the young man back aboard. Beckett was bad enough when he had been on board before, but after his transfer to Titan, she had gone from good-hearted mischief maker to a grumpy Gorn who seemed to have backslid almost immediately after making a pledge to be a better officer. It was the captain's job to know her officers, especially her daughter, and the loss of Boimler, who apparently had never said goodbye, was a heavy blow to bother her heart and her ego. Carol knew how lager her daughter's ego was and to have taken such a hit could put ever closer in danger of being booted out of Starfleet regardless of her parent's influence. Boimler being back was a good thing for Beckett, and by extension, Carol herself. Now, the burned bridge needed to be rebuilt. Unfortunately, that meant that Beckett would have to set her sizable ego aside.



Awkward Apologies

Brad Boimler had been stalking Beckett Mariner. Wait, that sounded bad. Brad Boimler had been hunting Beckett Mariner. Yeah, no. Brad Beckett and been following Beckett Mariner. Better. Much more benign and less creepy. The bottom line was that Brad had been tracking her from the shadows, waiting for the moment to pounce on her unannounced and declare-Why won't the pendulum stay on the nice side! Brad wanted to apologize to Beckett and make it more than a platitude. It had been wrong of him to leave without telling her and even more wrong to leave her tidal wave of messages unanswered. But, she wouldn't let him. She was as wrapped up in herself, albeit in much less healthy way, as he was when he took Riker up on his offer. He needed a way to get her attention and make his heartfelt amends. He would either slap her face or throw a Martini in her face. That would do it. If she want to lalalala him, he would take an equally childish route.

From behind the bar, in the forward cantina, Brad watched at Beckett, D'Vana, and Sam, talked. The medical ensign and the engineer were engaged in animated conversation while Beckett rested her chin her hand looked out the port window with a forlorn expression.

“Why are you crouching behind my bar?” asked the tall, dark Bajoran barkeep.

“Observing,” Boimler said.

“Order something and observe somewhere else,” the bartender intoned.

“Okay,” Brad said. “I would like a Martini. Shaken, not stirred.”

“Who are you? James Bond?”

“Who?” Boimler asked, perplexed by the question.

“Never mind.”

The Bajoran produced the Martini in no time and handed to Boimler. “Get going.”

Brad took the drink and moved as quickly as he could between the tables as he tried to approach Beckett unseen and keep from spilling the drink. As he closed in on her table, he lost his footing and stumbled forward dousing Beckett's face with the syntoholic cocktail.

“What the hell?” Beckett exclaimed, rising from her chair. Once her surprise had passed, she began licking her lips at the exquisite taste the martini.

“Oh My god!” Boimler burst out, bracing himself on the table. “I'm so sorry. I didn't-”

“You didn't what, Brad?” Beckett said, angrily, wiping her mouth with her the back of her hand.

Brad's mortified expression changed as he watched her lick her lips and wipe her mouth. It wasn't the first time he had seen either, but at this moment, it was quite distracting.

“I didn't know that you licking your lips was so hot,” he said as in a daze.

Beckett's mouth fell open in surprise as did her friend's.

“Wait, what?” she said, her face scrunched in confusion.

Boimler's pale face blushed bright red as soon as he realized he'd said what he was thinking out loud. He stood up straight and knew he needed to change the subject immediately. He took her confusion as an opportunity. Grabbing her by the shoulders, he put a tractor lock on her eyes.

“Beckett, I'm so sorry I left on The Titan without telling you. It was really rude of me. Yeah, Rude. I got the offer and jumped at it and left in a hurry because Riker was shipping off. I could have stopped and told you. I could have sought you out and let you know I was leaving. I didn't do it because I didn't have time, and truthfully, I didn't want you to try and talk me out of it.”

Beckett tilted her head as she absorbed brad's apology. “So, you thought I would talk you out it? That's why you didn't let me know you were leaving. That's why you ignored and brick ton of messages and didn't respond to me in months? Once were gone, me talking you out it was a non issue. You were just being an a-hole at that point. I have enough of those in my life. I don't need that crap from my friends.”

“I know. I know. I was wrong, Beckett. I was thinking about me. I was thinking about my resume and the great opportunity to serve under William Riker. I had tunnel vision. Like I usually do. I'm not apologizing for taking the assignment. I'm apologizing for leaving you and Sam, and D'Vana, high and dry.”

“But, you think I'm hot?” Beckett said, throwing him a curve ball.

“That's not the point,” Brad said, trying to redirect her. “I'm saying I'm s-”

“Isn't it, though?” she interrupted. “Just a little bit the point. I mean, how long have you had these thoughts? Were you unable to face them? Did you leave because if you told me, I might have similar feelings and want you to stay.”

Sam and D'Vana sat wrapt by the scene before them.

“Uh,” Boimler said, stymied. “No. You sound like you think I'm in love with you when all I said was that your luscious lips make me feel funny inside.”

“What?” Beckett barked.

“Er...umm,” Brad stalled. “I-I am not in love with you. I just d-didn't want any drama when I left.”

“Now, I'm a drama queen? What is up with you, Brad?”

Brad shook his head as he had many times before when hitting a wall with Beckett. There was no arguing with crazy.

“The bottom line is I'm saying I'm sorry. If you can't, or won't see that then there is nothing else I can do.”

Sam and D'Vana turned to Beckett, awaiting her response.

“Listen up, Brad,” she said, taking him into a bear hug. “Apology accepted. It's good to have you back. Just know that if you pull that stuff again, I'll kick you nuts so hard, we won't be able to have children.”

“Beckett,” Brad said, once she released him from the hug. “I'm not-”

“Shhh,” she shushed him, placing a hand on his lips. “We can talk about your inappropriate comments later. For now, all is forgiven. Have a seat.”

Boimler was happy that Beckett accepted his apology. However, nothing with her was ever simple.

 

A/N: More Star Trek Lower Decks!

Perfect Smile

D'ava Tendi looked at herself in the mirror of the lower decks lav. He had said she had the perfect smile. When ever she smiled, she always felt self conscious; like her teeth were crooked or her dimples too pronounced. She grimaced in the mirror and frowned and grinned and scowled. Watching as her face morph before her was weird, but cool at the same time. He said she had the perfect smile. She smiled and watched as the edges of her mouth turned up. At first she showed no teeth. Opening her lips, she caught a glimpse of when he meant. Suddenly, her freckles began to burn and the shade of green in her cheeks deepened. Leaving the lav, Tendi wondered if her blushing cheeks were due to her own pride or the value Sam had seen in her.


Not Normal

“...we won't be able to have children...”

Brad Boimler had picked up on that bit of word play and it was keeping him from enjoying a good night's sleep. The woman whom had made the threat about kicking him in the nether regions also said that he would not be able to have children because of it. But it wasn't as simple as her boot in his balls. She said 'WE'. We would not be able to have children! What the hell was that supposed to mean? He knew where babies came from. Of course, he did. Did she mean adopting? Wouldn't they have to be married for that? And, If they were married, wouldn't they just have their own children. Back to where babies come from. He was supposed to be scared that she would take his baby making power away, but she was suggesting that they might...

Now, he knew sleep would evade him for the rest of the night. He would be pondering what was more terrifying: A kick in the balls from Beckett or being in bed with her?


Holding Hands

The concert in the forward cantina was less than D'vana had expected. She was hoping for classical or neo-Rigelian jazz, but what she got was closer to the ancient art of Karaoke. She was stretching it by calling it art, but she was willing to concede that one could train their voice on the classic song from the past and present. Sam was more enthralled by the performance and she waited patiently as Brad and Beckett belted out a song called 'Rock Me Like a Hurricane'. She guessed she deserved what she was getting. Sam had told her that Mariner and Boimler were performing; and, in retrospect, she knew that neither of them played and instrument. The next song was called 'More than Words' and it caught D'vana's attention. Unlike the previous song where her friends were sounded like tortured Targs, their harmony on this one was actually quite good. In fact, as they sang to each other, she began to feel uncomfortable because it sounded honest. She turned to look at Sam, surprised to find that he was already looking at her. Genuine affection shone in his wistful gaze.

“Would it be okay if I held your hand?” he asked, in a low tone.

She met his gaze and smiled as she gave in an affirmative nod.

“Perfect,” he said, taking her hand and resting them both on his thigh.


Missing You


Contents of video message 122 to Lt. Jg Brad Boimler, USS Titan

Oh you messed up big time this time, Brad. Oh the things I have been planning to do to you when you-if you come back are monstrous. You thought I had a devious mind before, well, Buddy, you ain't seen nothing yet. What really sucks if that I have to go into a supply closet to record this message because, Ensign Tamara Blakely is teasing her hair into infinity. Do you know what it feels like, much less looks like to tease your hair so much it looks like cotton candy? No? You will, Brad. Oh as god as my witness, I will tease that little mop of black until it looks like an afro. Do you want to walk the ship with an afro, Brad? Then answer my damn messages! You're silence is driving me to drink, Brad. You know what happens when Beckett drinks, don't you? Nothing good! That's kind of where I am with you right now. Nothing good. I can't think of a single solitary compliment to pay you. You know where I left those compliments, Brad? Do you? I left them in the message number 78. You know what message that was? That was me in the bargaining stage, Brad. That was me thinking 'hey, the Bradster can sing. He keeps a neat bunk. Brad understands buffer time. Brad and I work well together. Boimler gets me. I get him. That was when Tendi told me she thought we were really singing that song to each other. After puking in the lav waste bin, I started to thi-COMPUTER DELETE MESSAGE!


Routine Exam


“Okay Ensign Mariner, you can strip,” Dr. T'Ana said matter of fact.

“Come again?” Beckett replied, shocked.

“I said strip naked, Ensign,” the feline doctor repeated.

“You realize there are no walls in Sickbay,” Beckett said, sweat forming on her brow. “No privacy.”

“And why is that a concern?” T'Ana asked, eyes on her medical PAAD. “This is the 23rd century after all. We have dispensed with hunger and money and aggression, why not modesty? Does it bother you that once of your crewmates sees you in your Birthday suit?”

“Hell yes, it bothers me,” Beckett replied, piqued. “Have you been dipping into Ransom's pain killers?”

“Ensign, painkillers are a thing of the distant past,” the doctor stated.

“Oh, I know,” Beckett said, nodding her head in self assurance. “I noticed a bottle of Romulan ale missing from my stash. Are you drunk on the job, Doc? You must be to ask me to get naked without a curtain at least!”

“I did not take your illegal contraband nor have I not had anything but Racktajino to drink this morning.”

“Then you must be hiding something,” Beckett said, nervously. “I heard about that Doctor Bashir out on Deep Space Nine. Man was hiding his genetic enhancements for years! Oh, I have your number now, Doctor. You're hiding your genetic deficiencies! You don't really know what you're doing. Do you? That is the only reason I can imagine you asking me to get naked.”

T'ana sighed heavily. “Do we have to go through this for every exam, Beckett? Strip to your damn underwear or I call the Captain. Do you want me to get Momma on the comm, Ensign? Do you?”

Beckett met the Doctor's eyes and gave curt shake of her head as she began to disrobe.

 

A/N: Season 2 of Star Trek: Lower Decks as begun and the brief reunion between Brad and Beckett did not give me what I wanted. I have explored a more wacky version of their reunion above, but after reading a lovely piece of angst on another site, I thought I might give it a more serious approach. This is part one of two. I hope you enjoy.


Keeping It Together

It only took Beckett a split second to turn the shine on as soon as she saw Brad lumbering toward their table. It was only a minor deviation from her normal, public, persona, but it was necessary to throw up a wall to stop the tidal wave of emotion threatening to overcome her. She would listen to his stories, tell some of her own, welcome him back at arms length while throwing a few ballbusters his way. She would drink more, get lounder, and potentially more obnoxious. She might even throw a pass a Jett, seeing as how she felt only a little guilty about finally connecting with him, as a colleague, only to unceremoniously ditch him the moment Boimler reappeared.

She wasn't read y to see Brad. Certainly not without warning. Her brave face, or fake face to be more accurate, would only last a few hours. Tendi might stay with her that long, but Sam wouldn't and Brad would want to turn in early even on the day of his return. Which was fine with her because being with him now was threatening her sanity. Every god damn stage of grief was screaming from behind her bright, attentive eyes. Part of her wanted to punch his lights out and kick him while he was down. Another part wanted to hug him so hard he couldn't breathe. Another wanted to smother his pasty face with kisses. Another wanted to go straight to the lav and cry ugly tears. Something she will likely do when all of her friends have deserted her and she is utterly alone with her unresolved feelings.

“-at he would really collect me,” Sam said in his way, the way that made everything see so nonchalant. Everything was not nonchalant. “Beckett had my back, though.”

“What else did you see?” Brad said, excited, as Beckett knew he would be, by the prospect of cataloging a Collector museum.

“Tons of stuff!” Beckett said, too loudly. “Kahless' Fornication Helmet for one. The rival Collector tried to steal it. He didn't seem the fornicatin' type if you know what I mean?”

Beckett noticed Sam and Tendi look at each other. It was a worried look; the look her two wise, but innocent, friends shared more often than she liked to see. Turning to Brad, even he had his head tilted slightly to the side, as if he should know something was off. Time had dulled his ability to read her and that pressed the wave of emotion that much closer to the surface. She wasn't going to last five hours. She wouldn't make it though once at this rate. If she ran it would be bad. If she stayed it would be worse.

He's back. Isn't that what you wanted?

I never wanted him to leave. Leaving, the way he did, it freaking sucked. It HURT!

Nothing hurts Beckett.

Shut up.

Beckett is teflon. Nothing sticks. Absent, workaholic parents. Slides right off. Being chastised for your lack of ambition. No worries. Beckett does what she wants. Best friend, whom you might possibly love leaves. Business as usual. Beckett persever-

Shut up!

She felt something nudge her elbow. Looking sharply in the direction of the nudge, she barked:

”I SAID SHUT THE HELL UP!”

Tendi drew back as if she had been slapped and her green cheeks darkened a shade. Sam and Brad's eyes widened in shock.

Beckett stood up and placed a hand on the table in front of Boimler, leaning over him. “I cannot do this. You and me. We are done.”

Dontrundontrundontrun. Regaining a sense of control, Beckett left the room.

 

Finished 'Picard' on the public network yesterday. A great show and your story about Rafi was marvelous.
No access here to Lower decks but your vignettes give a great look into the show

 

@earlybird-obi-wan: Thank you, earlybird. I appreciate that. Season 2 of Lower Decks has not been doing it for me.
Also, thank you for the comment on the Raffi piece. It was a weird moment on the show and JL was out of line (character).

A/N: I am not ashamed to admit that Marvel's What If...? has gotten my attention. What better way to start that with Peggy Carter getting the super soldier serum. I love this episode and posted an angsty one shot. This is shorter and speaks more to her physical transformation. I hope you enjoy. ( tag to Episode 1: 'Captain Carter')

Marvel's What If...?
Body Talk

When Peggy Carter woke the morning after the incident, her body felt heavy. Moving her arms and legs felt like trying to swim in wet cement. Propping herself up on her elbows, and looking around the room she remembered that she was in the infirmary. Held for observation. A flash of anger caused her to grimace but she let it go just as quickly. As much as there were tests to be run, Peggy knew well what Flynn and his cronies wanted to 'observe'.

Turning her thoughts from small men, she also remembered that there was no bed that could accommodate her new size. The nurses have been kind enough to put a mattress on the floor and extend it with additional pillows. Looking down the length of her body she could see her feet protruding from the edge of the blanket at the other end. Though covered by the blanket, she could see and feel her new muscled legs. She flexed them, experimentally, and could feel the difference in who she was just a day ago. Her abdomen felt tight, tighter than ever before. She marveled at her strong, broad alabaster shoulders. Still covered by the blanket, she could feel with every breath the heave of her bosom. As if her breasts were not large enough before, they were now an amplified amalgamation of muscle and fatty flesh. She smirked at the strange technical description. She had liked their shape before. She liked it even more now.

Rising from her makeshift bed, Peggy remembered the XXL tank top and boxer shorts she had been offered as sleep clothes. Her breasts strained against the thin cotton of the tank top, but the boxer's shorts felt nice, hanging free from her skin. Taking a few steps toward the powder room, she faltered, still not used to the changes in her gait. She heard a whistle from a nearby bed and instinctively wanted to cover herself. From another bed came a complimentary, but still uncomfortable, comment. Quickening her pace to the powder room, she ducked inside and closed the door. Cursing under her breath, she realized she had not grabbed the additional clothing she'd gotten the night before. Peggy Carter did not hide. She didn't hide from war. She did not hide from sexist project managers. She certainly did not hide from a few cat calls. Stepping from the powder room she strode across the wood floor back to her bed and squatted down to pick up the folded clothes. The whistles came. The comments, both appropriate and not, were many.

Peggy knew that Steve was in a bed at the far into the room. She knew that he would keep his comments to himself. She would go see him immediately after getting dressed. Rising, She returned to the bathroom to get dressed in peace.

 

Getting that big and muscled should be scary