Disclaimer: Of course I don't own any of this. If I did, it wouldn't be fanfic, now would it?
Spoilers: TATV (aka "Berman & Braga have an aneurysm while trying to explain away why even mainstream critics think the episode sucks"), Storm Front I & II and the post-series Enterprise novels.
Note: These are...not particularly serious in intent, nor coherent or in any kind of real or self-imposed continuity. Just a few private jokes I thought of while re-watching the final season. BTW, am I the only one who noticed Blalock's obvious distaste for everything about the episode while watching TATV/B&BHAAWTTEAWEMCTTES?
Also, spot all the crossovers. I'll give you a brownie for each one spotted.
Trip was dying. To an outside observer, the stoic Vulcan standing only a few feet away seemed entirely unperturbed by the prospect, but anyone more familiar with her species would notice the slight frown, the way her hand held onto the nearby biobed, the way she would fidget slightly every now and then.
It was just so...stupid. A last-ditch attempt at diverting some raiders who had boarded the ship, all in defense of a single Andorian child. And now he was dying.
Phlox turned around, and dropped the tray of temporary pain relief he'd prepared for his terminal patient. An alien female had somehow entered the med-bay, apparently through the rear wall, and her garish purple-magenta clothing was extremely impractically revealing. She ignored him, turning instead to the other two occupants.
"Charles Tucker III of Earth and T'Pol of Vulcan, you have proven yourself capable of great Love..."
"So...you and T'Pol? What's that like?"
"Aw, c'mon Malcolm, you know a gentleman don't kiss and tell!"
"Just curious, is all..."
The silence wasn't just awkward, it was crawling into the meeting-your-mother-in-law-after-breaking-her-finest-tea-set territory. Finally Trip had had enough. "Well, it's kind of...great, gotta admit. Though the tentacles were a bit of a surprise."
Malcolm stared at him, his mouth dropping open. "...tentacles?"
"Yeah. Around the...y'know. They don't like mentioning'em. Kinda unusual, but boy does she know how to use'em. Though I could do without the throat-singing and the little bells on my toes. Brings me right out of it."
"...you're putting me on, aren't you?"
Trip chuckled and glanced over at his friend. "Yep. Now quit bein' nosy and help me fix your damn torpedoes."
"What d'you mean you've never seen it? It's a classic!"
"Your definition of classic seems extremely inclusive, commander."
"...Trip." Her voice was so adorable when she was embarrassed. He didn't push further, being happy she'd concede this far just for the sake of making him happy. But, back to the subject at hand...
"Anyway, it's an honest-to-God classic. One of the greatest. Man, I gotta remember to show it on our next movie night."
"I fail to see the inherent fascination in watching stiffly animated clay models move clumsily against poorly integrated matte backgrounds. The cinematography is clumsy, the lighting overly bright for a medieval setting, and the portrayal of early Islamic culture is extremely insensitive."
"Yeah...but on the upside, Caroline Munro kinda reminds me of you."
She paused. "...very well."
"So, you have any idea why they're shooting at us?"
"None whatsoever, commander. Though it might just possibly be related to the way you ogled that dancer back in the tents."
"I did not! I was just wondering..."
Trip glanced over at T'Pol, who suddenly seemed to gain a faint greenish tinge to her skin. "Oh...nothing."
"Well, you were staring. It's a bloody miracle they didn't try to gut you right then and there."
"Lieutenant commander Reed has made a quite accurate observation. It was most unsubtle."
"Yeah, well, mostly I was figuring how much one of those outfits cost."
Malcolm glared at him, then finally realized the kind of exchange that was going on between the two senior officers huddling behind the wall with him. "Oh." Somehow, the insight merited further, more elaborate commentary. "Oh..."
"That's...shut up, Malcolm."
"I fail to see what is so amusing, lieutenant commander."
"No, not amusing..." He leaned closer to the commander and whispered softly, "If you take pictures, I'd be happy to buy a few-"
"She can hear you, Mal."
"Shutting up now, sir. And ma'am."
Requisition Manifest 1124888-AJ
Authorized by: Cmdr Charles Tucker III.
Content of Requisition: One (1) set of "Barry White's Greatest Hits". Two (2) candles (white). Two (2) silver candlesticks. One (1) 2x2 m table-cloth (cotton-silk blend, white). Two (2) dinner plates (porcelain, white). Two (2) dessert bowls (porcelain, white). Two (2) sets of cutlery (two (2) forks, two (2) knives, two (2) dessert spoons). Two (2) napkins (cotton-silk blend, white). Two (2) wine glasses (crystal, Kosta Boda).
Notes: Tell chef I want the vegetarian Pasta Bolognese, oh, and the garlic bread he does with non-dairy butter. For dessert two fruit salads, and a bowl of strawberries with non-dairy whipped cream.
The apparent Acquisitions Officer stared at the padd for a long, long while. This was a weird one. Not only had he run into a captain with a frighteningly familiar face, no, apparently he was...somewhere he would never have dreamed of going, ever. He sighed. "Oh boy."
"Make thee another self for love of me, That beauty still may live in thine or thee..."
"Great, but less phlegm. Klingons only spit when angry."
"I still say translating Shakespeare into Klingon is downright wrong."
"C'mon, commander, where's your sense of adventure?"
"I dunno, Hoshi. I just get this feeling generations from now we'll be hated by people having to listen to Klingons misquoting or misinterpreting the plots and context."
"Oh, nonsense. Sometimes you can be such a pessimist. Now, let's try some Hamlet..."
"So what're they up to?"
"Hmmm?" The man once known as 'Daniels' barely raised his eyes from the holographic representation of a single timeline. "Oh, those two. Let's see, he tried to kill her while under the influence of native pollen, she shot him, he's being treated while she's looking on from outside the decon chamber."
"Oh. I thought you were looking at..."
"Oh, gross. It'd be like watching your parents having sex, for Sisko's sake!"
"Great-great-great-great grandparents in your case."
"Even worse. You do realize the only image that survived to present day was one of them both old and wrinkly? Not a mental image you want associated with-"
'Daniels' shuddered. "Stop it. Sisko, you're crass."
"So why don't you take one with the viewer? Peek ahead, say, the 2170's? He'd dumped that ridiculous Vulcan-Romulan disguise by then, right? Get one of them as still young, healthy and hale. How many kids had they managed by then?"
"...I dunno. It just feels like being too intrusive whenever I decide to do it. You know?"
"Well, it's not my problem. I'm gonna get back to my own desk. Picard just managed to send the damn android back to the 19th century...again. See you at lunch, Tucker."
The man once known as 'Daniels' grunted a reply, paused the viewer at the face of his ancestor looking perfectly calm and unemotional. She was staring at something through the large observation window into the quarantine chamber, hands clasped behind her back. Hard to reconcile that expressionless visage with the contented smiling old woman on the 3-d picture that had a place on the shelf above his desk in his office. He took a deep breath, held it for half a second, then exhaled. Time to continue work.
He sped up the viewer until days, weeks, months were flying by. Just when he was about to pause for lunch himself, the viewer stopped, a small red icon blinking in familiar warning. He sighed, and called up what anomaly or disturbance had caused issue this time. He stared at the screen. Jon Archer surrounded by aliens in Nazi uniforms. "Oh, hell."
Then he poked his old-style comm-badge, trying hard not to get a migraine. "Tucker to bridge? We have another bump in the road. 1940's North America, Earth, Archer, no Enterprise. Yet. Looks like he stumbled across the Na'Kuhl we've been looking for..."
Trip stared at the strange contraption that had suddenly appeared in the middle of engineering. Two meters tall, about a meter wide, about the same shade of blue as their uniforms (a little lighter, though), and 'Police' in big, friendly block letters written on the top. The door opened, and a blonde girl peered out through the crack. "He's looking at us! I thought you said the stealth field was fixed!" The accent reminded him of Malcolm, though it was less cultured, a bit more working class.
Another face could be glimpsed, a large-nosed, high-cheekboned fellow with close-cropped hair and wearing black leather. "Oh. Right. Don't mind us. Close the door, Rose, we missed the target."
"I told you that tea damaged something! Honestly, anyone who's ever owned a bloody computer knows you never put beverages on the consoles..." The door closed. Then opened again. The tall British person in leather grinned at Trip, waggling his eyebrows and glancing briefly at the Vulcan science officer.
"Good luck. You'll need it."Then he vanished back inside, and before anyone had time to respond, the warbling, raspy drone echoed throughout the entire deck, and the contraption vanished without a trace.
Trip walked over to where it had been and waved his hand through the air while T'Pol took readings, her face unreadable. He turned to stare at her. "What the hell just happened?"
Her mute, wide-eyed shrug was more informative than any long-winded scientific explanation.
The Tellarite embassy secretary smirked at them. "The ambassador is not seeing anyone today. Perhaps if you were one of the masseuses he has scheduled..." The leer was most unhelpful to her calm.
T'Pol resisted the urge to sigh or plant the palm of her face over her eyes. She'd never done that before, and was certainly not going to start now. However, Trip was standing only a few meters away and was getting increasingly irritated. She would have to deflect his attention so she could attempt a different approach before he took to letting his emotions speak for them both. Now, how should she...ah. An eminently logical diversion. She leaned closer to the secretary, frowned slightly, and affected an Austrian accent. "I'll be back."
The flabbergasted look on her mate's face was most satisfying. She guided him back towards the entrance, trying hard not to show her pleased acceptance of his stunned amusement. "Honey...that was grand. But we still gotta get inside."
She raised an eyebrow. "That is obvious. However, I suspect we will need a different method of gaining entry. I suggest 'doing as the Romans', as the saying goes."
"...what d'you have in mind?"
"I said, and I'm not surprised your under-developed auditory organs were unable to receive my message seeing as your species is less evolved than a Terran porcine, that your ambassador has the honor of an Orion, the social graces of a Nausicaan and the intelligence of a Pakled. Also, he enjoys performing sexual favors for Andorian males. Both genders."
Trip grinned. "What she said. Oh, and your mom dresses ya funny."
End, for now...