Star Trek XI: More Argo Shenanigans
Geez, I'm posting a lot.
So after all that, I did revisit the Argo!verse I started playing around with in January/ posted yesterday.
Because sometimes, when life gives you classical Greek literature to read, you just have to write drunken exploits of sci-fi characters. Cosmic balance and all that.
338 words, G for intoxicated hijinx, and (like yesterday), based on the classic filk song Banned From Argo by Leslie Fish (link goes to mp3, lyrics here), but with eye toward Reboot!verse.
More Argo Shenanigans
The marines are slumped over various tables, and most of the demolition crew are on the floor, all passed out. Scotty thinks the lad, despite his earlier assertions that drinking was a Russian invention, is probably another shot or two from joining them. Himself, well, he can keep drinking forever, everyone knows that. Keenser knows that. Where the bloody hell is Keenser?
“Keenser!” He bellows.
Next to him, Chekov glares balefully and a little woozily from under his curls. “You are being wery loud. And that is not my name.”
“Aye, I know that, don't be ridiculous. But my point is,” Scotty replies haughtily, “my point is, that wee bugger ditched us!” He looks at Chekov for the indignation that deserves, but the kid isn't even paying attention, staring into the near distance with a glassy look to his eyes.
“Lad? You still with me?”
With effort, Chekov focuses on him. “I was thinking. The large gowernment building ower...earlier,” he flails an arm in a direction that can be interpreted as anywhere on the left half of the planet, mutters in Russian for a few moments, then manages, “City Hall, yes?”
“Aye...?” Scotty draws out.
“I was thinking. It would look wery nice with something on top,” he says earnestly (in that way Scotty is coming to realize is more evil than innocent).
A pause, then Scotty laughs and claps the kid on the back. “I like the way you think! Now, I saw a shuttle outside earlier. If you're not too drunk-”
“I am not drunk! I can hold my liquor, I am Russian!” Chekov declares indignantly.
“Alright lad, take it easy. Now, here's what I'm thinking...”
Later:
On the roof, Scotty and Chekov high-five (they miss the first three tries). Pulling out Scotty's flask, they toast their success (Chekov whoops into the night, overbalances, and crumples into a heap, snoring). Scotty shrugs, takes another swig, and pulls out his comm (two to beam up).
So after all that, I did revisit the Argo!verse I started playing around with in January/ posted yesterday.
Because sometimes, when life gives you classical Greek literature to read, you just have to write drunken exploits of sci-fi characters. Cosmic balance and all that.
338 words, G for intoxicated hijinx, and (like yesterday), based on the classic filk song Banned From Argo by Leslie Fish (link goes to mp3, lyrics here), but with eye toward Reboot!verse.
More Argo Shenanigans
The marines are slumped over various tables, and most of the demolition crew are on the floor, all passed out. Scotty thinks the lad, despite his earlier assertions that drinking was a Russian invention, is probably another shot or two from joining them. Himself, well, he can keep drinking forever, everyone knows that. Keenser knows that. Where the bloody hell is Keenser?
“Keenser!” He bellows.
Next to him, Chekov glares balefully and a little woozily from under his curls. “You are being wery loud. And that is not my name.”
“Aye, I know that, don't be ridiculous. But my point is,” Scotty replies haughtily, “my point is, that wee bugger ditched us!” He looks at Chekov for the indignation that deserves, but the kid isn't even paying attention, staring into the near distance with a glassy look to his eyes.
“Lad? You still with me?”
With effort, Chekov focuses on him. “I was thinking. The large gowernment building ower...earlier,” he flails an arm in a direction that can be interpreted as anywhere on the left half of the planet, mutters in Russian for a few moments, then manages, “City Hall, yes?”
“Aye...?” Scotty draws out.
“I was thinking. It would look wery nice with something on top,” he says earnestly (in that way Scotty is coming to realize is more evil than innocent).
A pause, then Scotty laughs and claps the kid on the back. “I like the way you think! Now, I saw a shuttle outside earlier. If you're not too drunk-”
“I am not drunk! I can hold my liquor, I am Russian!” Chekov declares indignantly.
“Alright lad, take it easy. Now, here's what I'm thinking...”
Later:
On the roof, Scotty and Chekov high-five (they miss the first three tries). Pulling out Scotty's flask, they toast their success (Chekov whoops into the night, overbalances, and crumples into a heap, snoring). Scotty shrugs, takes another swig, and pulls out his comm (two to beam up).