ataraxion | [video] yet another pretend-this-is-several-hours-post-jump post

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[video] yet another pretend-this-is-several-hours-post-jump post

[Hello, ship. Have a Scotsman. A Scotsman who is no longer covered in goo, has had plenty of time getting more familiar than he'd like with the ship's towels, and is feeling marginally better for having had a shower and getting dressed.

Anyone with an ounce of common sense would be wary of using an unknown communications device to contact an unknown group of people who may or may not be responsible for the waking-up-in-goo fiasco, but Scotty's never exactly been known for his common sense.]

I don't suppose anyone'd be interested in tellin' me what's goin' on. [Do you see this angry pout? Do you?] An' if you're no' interested in tellin' me what's goin' on, would you mind directin' me t'the nearest source of a good stiff drink? [Because demanding alcohol from your captors is sure to work, Scotty.]

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Got abducted by aliens, buddy. Fucked up, I know.

I'm building a still, I don't trust the fucking liquor here. But the hard stuff is in the kitchen.

[A beat.]

My still will be so much better.

[Note to self: Find the kitchen.]

An' these aliens can't be bothered t'at least explain themselves? Usually how it goes. [He's had a long Starfleet career. Getting abducted is sort of par for the course.

Though there's something more important to ask about, and after a brief pause...] What're you plannin' on brewin'?

[The kitchen is great and Libby is just a paranoid weirdo.]

Nope. Aliens have their mouths shut, put in supposedly human guards who pretend to be the captain and head engineer, and vacated the premises. Maybe.

[WHY ARE YOU SO CASUAL ABOUT THIS LIBBY.]

Little bit like vodka. You know, clear and tasteless.

[Scotty will drink anything alcoholic, suspicious or not. After all, you don't know if it's legit until you try it. No common sense, remember.]

Vodka. [Okay, so the narration lied a bit. Vodka's for tiny wee Russians who only think they can hold their drink.] You can do better'n that. [Pause. Right. Other important things.] What's this about the captain an' engineer, then?

Why, what do you want?

[Libby always rises to a challenge. Making whatever booze surely can be mastered. Right? Right.]

They're obvious plants. They don't tell us fuck all and lie all the time. Enemies for sure. I'm gonna avoid them until I fuck their computers up.

[Gee, maybe that should be behind a filter-NOPE, SHE DOESN'T CARE, LET THEM KNOW.]

[ Here, have McCoy's face twin and his pet assault rifle. ]

Stuck in space. No one knows how or why. If you find the alcohol, let me know.

A proper scotch whisky'd be nice. [Good luck making it outside Scotland.

Also, have another pause. And a rare moment of sense.] I'm no' entirely sure broadcastin' that for just anyone t'hear is a good idea. [He has at least fiddled around with his comms device enough to get an idea of how it functions.]

Doc-- [No, wait. Not McCoy. Looks a hell of a lot like him, though.] Ah. Sorry, thought you were someone else... [The accent's all wrong. And he was so hopeful for a moment, too. He shifts a moment, before continuing.] Aye, well. Stuck in space I don't mind.

'Kay, fixed. A bit. Sorry, it's not perfect yet, this--whole thing is out of my experience.

[Why does she not understand the ship :< it is painful and wrong.]

I can try to make whisky. Technical challenge and all.

[ There's even an eyebrow raise. ] Okay then. [ Anyway... ] Speak for yourself.

Bit late for that, I'd imagine. [But it takes him all of a moment to work out the encryption and how to do it. Not too different from sending encrypted messages via subspace channels.]

Unless you've some way t'bring a bit o' Scotland aboard the ship, you're no' goin' t'manage makin' a proper whisky. [Snob snob snob.]

[Sob you even don't like being in space not!McCoy. You are breaking Scotty's delicate little heart, you horrible familiar-but-not-face.]

It's the no' knowin' where I am an' why I'm here that I mind.

[Scoffing. It's happening. AT YOU, SCOTTY.]

I don't give a fuck. They have to know anyone sane is gunning for them. So fuck it. Yeah, motherfucks, I want to fuck your lying asses up.

And Buddha, no, I did not bring Scotland. But I can make whisky not full of evil space chems. So your call, there.

I mean according to my POS I've got Scottish in me.

[ The last time he was in space he watched his whole unit die and it was bad and awful and fucked up, okay. He has reasons.

And this was his face first. About 200 years first. ]

It's a spaceship called the Tranquility.

[...that is quite a mouth you've got there, lass.]

You can't make whisky outside o' Scotland. No' proper whisky. An' it's got t'be aged before you drink it, so there's no' much point brewin' it yourself. [Unless you're willing to wait seven years or so to enjoy it.] Any idea what clan, by any chance?

[Yeah well Scotty... didn't actually see the destruction of Vulcan... or the destruction of the fleet when the Romulans first attacked... But he's seen some shit okay.]

Oh. [Beat.] Brilliant.

Nope. Fucking scientists, am I right? Oh, we'll just clone some of a Scottish guy--fucking bitches.

[So much rage, not at all concealed by a veil of sarcasm.]

And--so, fuck, you don't want my not-full-of-alien-fuckery alcohol?

[ Snow? ]

Don't think anyone's figured out the "why", though. Just that this place is fucked up.

[ Reaper would it kill you to be cheerful with the nice Scotsman? ]

Didn't say I didn't want any. [In fact, he'll even lend a hand with the still, once he finds out there's no hope of getting home.] Where're you from, exactly?

[And huge terrible beasties that totally don't look like they belong in frozen wastelands. Seriously messed up shit.]

That's... no' exactly helpful.

Hawai'i. 2084.

[She makes a GREAT still, he may even approve.]

I'm a genetically modified organism. If that doesn't work for you, you can go fuck yourself.

2084? But that's... Centuries ago. [Yeahno, that's more worrying than the whole genetically modified stuff.] No' that time travel's no' possible. [Have a little worried quirk of a smile.] I'd know. But. [Pause.] Don't suppose you'd know the stardate? Now, I mean. What year is it now, here?

Fuck if I know, buddy.

I think most of the people here are from--I mean, fuck, my one bud is from 2009.

[He doesn't seem to care about her DNA. PLEASING.]

I don't have much more than that. I just got here.

[He's pretty chill like that.]

2258. I've never heard o' time travel on such a massive scale. Theoretically it's possible, but the amount o' energy it'd consume... Ships are one thing, but a crew full o' people, an' from that wide a time gap? It ought t'be impossible.

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[video] yet another pretend-this-is-several-hours-post-jump post

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