Aaaargh. Crossover Drabbles!
Jeesh. They are doing another crossover drabble challenge at Black Pearl Sails, giving us up to 1,000 words. I have great difficulty with crossovers, there being very few characters in the various media that I know well enough to actually be able to write. However, I did watch a lot of Star Trek over the years...
“Analysis, Spock?”
“Hominid, male, Caucasian descent, late seventeenth century.”
“Seventeenth? We’ve gone back too far!”
“Indeed.”
“Bones? What do you think? Why is he unconscious?”
“He’s unconscious because he’s drunk, Jim! Blood alcohol level’s at point two five percent! Other than that, he’s healthy enough, but he’s got more old injuries than you can shake a stick at-there must be a dozen scars under that pirate costume.”
The object of their scrutiny gave a kind of shuddering sniff and opened his eyes, bleary but strangely compelling with their lining of smudged cosmetic material. The eyes considered the three faces for a long moment, then the mouth opened. “’M I dead, then?”
Kirk smiled and said, rather gently, “No. I’m Captain James T. Kirk, and you’re our temporary guest here on…uh…my ship.”
The eyes narrowed. “Captain? Where’s yer wig, an’ hat?”
“Wig?”
“Aye. An’ you!” The eyes fixed on Spock, who raised a brow. “You’re Satan, ‘f I’m not mistaken. I am dead!”
Bones said, wryly, “You’re not dead, son. I’m a doctor. I know these things.”
There was a pause. “This isn’t hell, then?” their guest said finally.
Kirk chuckled. “Far from it. Can you get up?” He offered a hand and the pirate took it.
“Thanks!” he said, as he rose with surprising grace to his booted feet. He stood there a moment, swaying slightly, and looking around the transporter room. “This is a ship?” He looked at Kirk. “Don’t look like a ship.”
“No, well, it’s a newer model than you’ve probably seen before. You’re a sailor?”
The pirate drew himself up. “Captain Jack Sparrow, at your service.” He nodded at Kirk, and at Bones, but then his eye lit on Spock again, taking in the greenish complexion, pointed ears, and expression of mild interest. Sparrow cleared his throat, turned to Kirk, and said conspiratorially, “I could use a drink. Don’t have any rum by chance?”
“Rum!” exclaimed the Doctor. “That’s what that smell is! Thought I recognized it.”
Sparrow looked down his nose at the doctor. “Are you implying that me personal hygiene is less than it should be?”
“I’m sayin’ you reek of the stuff!” Bones cocked a brow at Kirk. “Not that that’s necessarily a bad thing: probably what’s keeping him so calm about all this.”
“Then you’re advising continued…sedation?”
“Within moderation.”
Spock said, “The doctor has a point, Captain. It will be nearly twelve hours before we can return our guest to his natural environment. The sedative effect of alcohol should enable him to endure with equanimity what must seem a very strange and perhaps disturbing situation.”
Kirk nodded. “Very well. Captain Sparrow, I wonder if you’d like to come to my quarters. Perhaps you can tell us a little about yourself and your adventures over a bottle of Romulan Ale.”
“Ale!” Sparrow frowned.
But Bones patted his shoulder. “Not like English ale, son. You’ll like this, better than rum.”
“Word of a gentleman?” Sparrow eyed the doctor, skeptically.
Bones grinned. “Trust me!”
“Analysis, Spock?”
“Hominid, male, Caucasian descent, late seventeenth century.”
“Seventeenth? We’ve gone back too far!”
“Indeed.”
“Bones? What do you think? Why is he unconscious?”
“He’s unconscious because he’s drunk, Jim! Blood alcohol level’s at point two five percent! Other than that, he’s healthy enough, but he’s got more old injuries than you can shake a stick at-there must be a dozen scars under that pirate costume.”
The object of their scrutiny gave a kind of shuddering sniff and opened his eyes, bleary but strangely compelling with their lining of smudged cosmetic material. The eyes considered the three faces for a long moment, then the mouth opened. “’M I dead, then?”
Kirk smiled and said, rather gently, “No. I’m Captain James T. Kirk, and you’re our temporary guest here on…uh…my ship.”
The eyes narrowed. “Captain? Where’s yer wig, an’ hat?”
“Wig?”
“Aye. An’ you!” The eyes fixed on Spock, who raised a brow. “You’re Satan, ‘f I’m not mistaken. I am dead!”
Bones said, wryly, “You’re not dead, son. I’m a doctor. I know these things.”
There was a pause. “This isn’t hell, then?” their guest said finally.
Kirk chuckled. “Far from it. Can you get up?” He offered a hand and the pirate took it.
“Thanks!” he said, as he rose with surprising grace to his booted feet. He stood there a moment, swaying slightly, and looking around the transporter room. “This is a ship?” He looked at Kirk. “Don’t look like a ship.”
“No, well, it’s a newer model than you’ve probably seen before. You’re a sailor?”
The pirate drew himself up. “Captain Jack Sparrow, at your service.” He nodded at Kirk, and at Bones, but then his eye lit on Spock again, taking in the greenish complexion, pointed ears, and expression of mild interest. Sparrow cleared his throat, turned to Kirk, and said conspiratorially, “I could use a drink. Don’t have any rum by chance?”
“Rum!” exclaimed the Doctor. “That’s what that smell is! Thought I recognized it.”
Sparrow looked down his nose at the doctor. “Are you implying that me personal hygiene is less than it should be?”
“I’m sayin’ you reek of the stuff!” Bones cocked a brow at Kirk. “Not that that’s necessarily a bad thing: probably what’s keeping him so calm about all this.”
“Then you’re advising continued…sedation?”
“Within moderation.”
Spock said, “The doctor has a point, Captain. It will be nearly twelve hours before we can return our guest to his natural environment. The sedative effect of alcohol should enable him to endure with equanimity what must seem a very strange and perhaps disturbing situation.”
Kirk nodded. “Very well. Captain Sparrow, I wonder if you’d like to come to my quarters. Perhaps you can tell us a little about yourself and your adventures over a bottle of Romulan Ale.”
“Ale!” Sparrow frowned.
But Bones patted his shoulder. “Not like English ale, son. You’ll like this, better than rum.”
“Word of a gentleman?” Sparrow eyed the doctor, skeptically.
Bones grinned. “Trust me!”