Disclaimer: I don't own Star Trek. It's its own franchise; therefore it's self owned. Kind of like Mickey Mouse movies.

Chapter 1: Meet April, the Butterscotch Junkie

Sadly, if someone offered me a year's supply of butterscotch in exchange for murdering you, you'd be in a heck of a lot of trouble. Butterscotch, in all its creamy, buttery flavorful-goodness, is my weak spot - my funny bone - my Achilles' heel - the Trojan horse to my Troy (am I the only one that finds it ironic that one Greek tragedy sparked so many allegories used to explain weakness?).

Where does butterscotch play a part in this tale you may ask?

Well, my best friend - pardon me, ex-best friend since yesterday - knew of my Trojan horse and used it against me. With a pan full of her mother's homemade butterscotch toffee (my X-BFF can't cook food worthy for starving butt-licking dogs), Fisha (aka X-BFF) wooed me into volunteering for Professor Bosh's work study.

Now I'm all for volunteering; especially for academic focused shindigs. Heck, I find encyclopedias more appealing than an attractive male that decides to rip his shirt off, but two parts of this work study make me wince like someone stuck too many lemons in my mouth.

First off, Professor Bosh is an egotistical flubber body-flea brain who only got tenure at Rat University of Archeology, where I'm currently studying for an advanced degree along with Fisha, because he pleaded being member to an endangered species. The Bosh species to be exact. And yes, they all are given the first name 'Bosh' (the full 3,000 of them)…even the females.

Don't ask me why. I didn't make the rule; I just tilt my head and gravely wonder why such things exist as they do.

As heartless as it sounds by complaining about this prof and not giving him any slack due to the fact that there may exist underlining depression due to there being so few of his kind (if I was part of an endangered species, I know I would feel…well, let's not touch on that base right now). Back to Bosh and his fellow Boshes. Approximately two centuries their planet made first contact with Earth, and from this contact the Bosh people were introduced to trans fats.

Toxic to the Bosh people. No. Healthy for the Bosh people. Big no! Since earthly trans fat became incorporated into the Bosh diet, three-fourths of the species has eaten themselves to death.

I'm not joking. The dean of our department won't allow Prof. Bosh anywhere near the kitchen, since earth food is practically meth dipped in heroine to him.

The second the more vital reason it took yummy yummy butterscotch to get me on this transport to study with fat-Bosh (my personal nickname for the airhead, boulder butt) is-

"Oh yipes, Ape! Look, it's the Starfleet headquarter buildings!" Fisha squealed from a window seat of our transport ship.

I can personally attest that this female Jaloxian (Fisha's native species) has walked on sacred grounds of alien planets, read scrolls and tablets of languages of millennia old cultures, and helped discover artifacts that made fat-Bosh soil his layers of blubber; all without blinking one of her golden eyes in shock. Give her an emporium of studly intergalactic flyboys, though, and Fisha becomes a tween waiting to buy boy-band tickets.

While my X-BFF was giggling like the twit she is, I tried to focus all my concentration on the lasted published work by Doctor S. B. Hallet. Hallet works at Starfleet as head of the Department of Exoculturalism and the only reason I didn't abandon ship after Fisha coaxed me aboard this crazy train.

Let's see, I skimmed over the lines of the reader screen, Bosh interrupted my thoughts right as I was getting to the section about Romulan birthing symbols.

"-and Ms. Pike I expect you to be in charge of introductions between myself and the captains…" the pompous, gurgling toned voice from the front of the transport called back, "Ms. Pike…Ms. April Pike!"

I could hear fat-Bosh perfectly, but was too busy trying not to break the micro-reader in my hands as my blood pressure rose ever higher.

That tub of lard wanted me to make introductions between his boulder butt and Starfleet captains. Like heck I would! I'd rather stick my head under an elephant with the runs.

"Oh, Ms. Pike," Bosh mouth opened and shut with slimy smacking noises, "Are you with us?"

My fingertips were becoming pink from the pressure, so I turned my attention to grinding my butt further and further into my seat. Hopefully one of two possibilities would occur. Either my butt and the seat would create so much friction heat that I would catch on fire and die (crossing my fingers that fat-Bosh would fry along with me) or I would dig a hole through and fall straight out of the ship (once again, this ends with the professor of lard's death via being sucked through the hole along with me.)

"April," Fisha whispered as she nudged my side; breaking my concentration on fatal escape plans.

Rolling my eyes skyward at my bad luck, I breathed deeply through my nose to let go some tension and gave a heartless thumbs up to fat-Bosh. He, in return, starting smacking those fat, slim-lips while lecturing about focus and how our field required the most serious, focused minds.

I just sat back and tried to imagine myself alone in some far way cave full of undiscovered artifacts from alien cultures long ago…and never-ending tin full of butterscotch toffee to keep me company.

Fisha must have recovered from the Santa Claus effect of Starfleet and its hunky hunks, because she asked in that wispy oh-so-girly voice that female Jaloxian's share, "Why did you bug out so much? I know you loath Bosh, but you looked ready to behead him with your reader pad."

"Should of thought of that one," I muttered to myself. With eyes still closed and signs of the headache ahead growing in my frontal cortex, I replied to Fisha, "It's nothing. Forget it."

This was how Fisha and I rolled. Her Jaloxian nature meant sharing feelings and thoughts and solving problems for others. Really, the entire planet and culture of Jalox (both female and male alike) portrayed a glittery, neon colored bar where everyone's drink is spike with estrogen and unicorn pee. I, on the other hand, buried my personal woes under four specialized degrees in branches of exoculturalism, time consuming work study trips to other planets, and spending time in my relationship with Mr. Silence-slash-Stolidity.

Healthy? No. Working? For now. Worth changing or messing with? Not even for a butterscotch sundae.

Sucky luck for me, I just had to go along and become chums with a member of one of the most touchy-feely species in the known universe.

"But I thought your dad works at Starfleet?" Fisha asked.

"He does."

"Are you two fighting?"

"No."

"Are you angry at him?"

"No."

"Is he-"

"No, Fisha," I interrupted and sat up; becoming sick of this emotional third degree, "Pike isn't mad at me. He and I aren't fighting. We're fine! If you must know, it's Starfleet I'm not so crazy about."

"Oh."

"Yeah, oh."

I leaned back into my seat and closed my eyes in another attempt to find some solace during the final minutes of our voyage. Quickly, silently, and as sneakily as a cobra, the guilt towards my snappiness towards Fisha seeped into my stomach and hissed at me to apologize.

Opening one eye, I could see her rolling a finger through her turquoise hair. One thing that would always amaze me was how young Fisha appeared at times. When in deep thought, most humans look older and more mature than usual. Due to her alien blood, when Fisha was serious, her features instead turned younger and more innocent.

That cobra-guilt grew in a mass about six times greater after I saw how troubled and sorry my (now non-ex) best friend appeared. I reached over and tugged a strand of her hair. Fisha glanced back at me with guarded golden eyes. I smiled that sorry-smile she'd seen far too many times to count, and we silently made up.

I'm not huge on the hug/cry-and-a-make-up ways of most female friendships. Fisha tried it a few times when we first met, and soon realized that it was safe for us both if we interacted with only the least about of PDA possible.

One thing I do appreciate about picking out Fisha from the many Jaloxians studying exoculturalism (I'll tell you, the lot of them were just lining up to be my bosom buddy) is that she shared my philosophy about not holding a grudge after everything is said and done. As far as we were concern, the butterscotch toffee she gave to me yesterday as a scheming incentive was John Doe in a field of nowhere.

Is my outlook on life poetic or what.

We spent the last twenty minutes of the landing discussing the articles I'd read about Hallet. Finally, the captain announced we had arrived at Starfleet (be still my racing heart). Fisha, not sharing my lack of enthusiasm, went back to giggling and squealing in excitement.

If this reaction was going to become a common occurrence during our stay at Starfleet, there definitely was need to find some way to drowned out the noise before she condemned me to deafness.

I wondered if my Ipod 13.5 was in my carryon or the other luggage.

"Ms. Pike," fat-Bosh arose in all his slime glory and turned to address me, "Please walk by my side as we enter the administration building."

I didn't reply, and started rubbing my butt into the seat again.

"Ape, what are you doing?" Fisha asked with some concern as she slung her carryon bag over her shoulders.

"Trying to catch fire."

Laughing her wispy laugh, my friend wrapped one of her hands around my arm and dragged me out of the seat and along to the transport's exit.

As fat-Bosh and his eight interns stepped out of the transport, they all "oh"-ed and "ah"-ed at the grounds, buildings, and all the cadets wearing red jump suits walking from here to there.

From the look of their outfits, apparently there was a campus-wide ski trip planned for the cadets today. That would be my only reason for wearing something so dorkish and warm on a beautiful, sunny day.

"This is so awesome!" Fisha exclaimed at my side; her smile beaming brightly and nails digging into my arm as if I needed pain to know how jazzed she felt.

I half-shrugged in reply and tried to remember if this work study from the ninth level of hell would last two or three weeks.

End Note: Review! Please, and I'll get up another chapter by next week.