AN: I know, I know, I should be publishing more of Favourites. To tell the truth, I haven't gotten around to writing the next chapter yet. I'll go do it now! Promise!
This is crack. You have been warned.
Christopher Pike fiddles with the medals on his dress uniform and scowls.
'Do I have to do this?'
The director nods emphatically. Pike knows that these orders have come from the very top and cannot be ignored. His face rearranges itself to a vaguely inspirational, serious look, the kind that makes you feel like he's looking at you and only you.
The director silences the set and starts rolling the cameras.
'Action!'
Pike looks at the camera and begins to speak.
'You can settle for an ordinary life. Or do you feel like you were meant for something better? Something special? Enlist in Starfleet.'
'Cut! That was perfect, Admiral!'
Luckily, the director does not hear Pike's muttering as he leaves the set.
'Sounded damn better in a bar in Iowa.'
Pavel Chekov critically examines the various objects surrounding him. There's a bottle of vodka, borscht, beef stroganoff, a portrait of Yuri Gagarin, a Faberge egg and a whole lot of other Russian inventions and discoveries. Not all of them, of course, there are too many to fit in the room!
He glares upwards at the woman who is curling his hair. It's naturally curly, why do they have to curl it even more? It looks ridiculous. The director seems to think otherwise. He's grinning so wide his face is going to split open.
The director is satisfied, so the cameras begin to film. Chekov, unhappily, puts on his most adorable look, complete with puppy dog eyes.
'Space travel vas inwented in Russia! Like all good things! So enlist in Starfleet! Eet's a Russian inwention!'
'Cut!'
The director's grin seems even wider, if possible.
'Absolutely adorable, Ensign, the people will love it!'
Chekov sulks.
'But I do not vant to be adorable!'
'Would you prefer cute?'
Hikaru Sulu stares down at the harness he's wearing, the second-rate stuntmen below him and his newly-polished katana.
This is ludicrous, he thinks. He does things like this all the time without a harness, he fights real enemies, and his katana is never this shiny. Why was he doing this? Because the Admirals ordered him to. He doesn't like Admirals. There's nothing wrong with a healthy disdain for authority, he thinks.
Sighing, he swings down to the ground, with an appropriate, heroic shout, and is immediately attacked by one of the stuntmen, who he dispatches with his katana.
Of course, he easily bests them, that's the point, and they're pretty bad, anyway. Every fight's easy after Romulans. He then helps up the blonde, prissy and very annoying young woman who he was supposed to be 'rescuing.'
'Want to be a hero? Enlist in Starfleet, where heroes are made!'
'Cut! Excellent work, Lieutenant!'
Sulu fiddles with the harness. Why'd he ever had to wear this thing? He's space jumped, this isn't dangerous after that.
'Stupid health and safety regulations.'
Leonard McCoy swears loudly and picks up the hypo the crazy man with glasses and a massive grin hands him. Why'd he have to do this? How'd he end up here? Thank God he's drunk. That'll help him get through this.
The man in glasses is now behind a camera, still grinning. What's wrong with him? The doctor in him is itching to hypo him with something to sober him up; the sadist in him wants to do it as hard as possible.
'Action!'
McCoy hypos the 'patient' in front of him.
'Space is disease and danger wrapped in darkness and silence. Enlist in Starfleet. Save lives.'
'Cut! Wonderful, Doctor!'
McCoy resists the urge to ram the hypo into the Director's neck as hard as humanly possible. He keeps control of himself as he exits the set, but off it is another matter.
'Damn it, I'm a doctor, not a poster boy!'
Nyota Uhura rolls her eyes as she looks over her script. Half of it is in grammatically incorrect Klingon, Vulcan and Andorian. She sighs and wonders why the Admiralty had to hire such incompetent people to completely butcher these languages, when they already have some of the best communications experts working for them.
The ridiculous man with terrible Klingon and dreadful fashion sense gives her a grin and a thumbs up. She rolls her eyes. He's almost as bad as Kirk.
She begins with a spiel in Klingon. She's not reading off the script, that would be an insult to the Klingons' honour, and they would surely go to war against the Federation. Instead, she corrects the terrible grammar.
She does the same with the Vulcan. Spock would approve.
She fixes the Andorian as well.
Then she looks at the camera, with a smile. The camera pans out, showing off her legs.
That's so sexist!
I am not a piece of meat! Starfleet actually think they can promote themselves by selling...and this is the 23rd century! Wait 'till I get hold of whoever scripted that...actually, wait 'till Spock gets a hold of them.
Struggling to contain her fury and keep up the fake smile, she recites the only on-script line she's said in this entire juvenile advertisement.
'Didn't understand a word I said? Learn to communicate with the universe. Enlist in Starfleet.'
Actually, if they enlisted in Starfleet, they'd have to learn to communicate with more than one universe. Especially if assigned to the Enterprise.
'Cut! Wonderful job, Lieutenant. You went way off script, but it was great!'
Uhura rolls her eyes.
The director, the idiot, should be thankful she went off script. He'd find himself tortured by honour-defending Klingons if she had stayed on the script. They don't like people who mangle their language.
Montgomery Scott is furious as he stares down at the model of the Enterprise he holds in his hands. It's supposedly to scale, but they've got it all wrong! The nacelles are the wrong size, the markings are half their scale size, it's the wrong shade of silver...
But he refrains from stating all these complaints to the model maker, who he thinks looks utterly stupid in the beret, and to the man in black glasses who just grins continuously. The man in glasses, the director, obviously doesn't understand a word the model maker is saying to him about various light-reflecting properties of certain alloys as they sort out the lighting for this thing he has to be in.
Damn Admiral Archer and that blasted dog!
The Admiral had sent him a message the other day, saying that if he did this ad, without any complaints, then all would be forgiven. He very much doubts that all will be forgiven; the Admiral is one to hold grudges.
But there really isn't anything he can do, so he simply presented at the set time, and was given a script. And so here he is, in this tiny studio.
'Action!'
Scotty holds up the model of the Enterprise with great reverence, smiling.
It's a forced smile.
'Looking for true love? Enlist in Starfleet. I found it, and so can you.'
'Cut! Wonderful job, Lieutenant Commander! Admiral Archer asked to see you-'
It is with great trepidation that he heads off to the Admiral's office.
It is with great shock that he is told all is forgiven. They must have been really desperate...
James Tiberius Kirk just rolls his eyes and flops down on a nearby couch as an admittedly pretty young woman slathers him with makeup. Normally, he would be trying to pick her up, but this was a bit of an awkward scenario...she's putting makeup on him!
He can't believe that he's got to do this. He guesses it's part of becoming a Captain. Along with all the paperwork. He hates paperwork. But he was expecting that. This? Well, this is totally left-field, from out of the ball park. He doesn't think it will end well, but Jim Kirk doesn't believe in no-win scenarios.
So he grins his trademarked grin at the pretty makeup girl, and nods affirmative (Spock's rubbing off on him), when the director asks him if he's ready.
He stands and gazes at the camera. The director wanted a good shot of those blue eyes. Jim's not going to complain if this helps him get a date or fifteen.
'They gave me a second chance. I went from Cadet to Captain in less than a day.'
He grins his trademark grin again.
'I dare you to do better. Enlist in Starfleet.'
'Cut! Marvellous, Captain, the ladies will love it!'
The ladies already love him. But hey, a guy can never have too many admirers, can he?
He eats his words when he spends the next month running from rabid, obsessive young women from all over the galaxy. And Bones won't help him. He claims that it's his own fault.
Spock raises an eyebrow at the decidedly human frivolities in front of him. Multiple cameras, lights, a large group of people, and a decidedly illogical man in black glasses, known as the director.
Starfleet, low on personnel after the Narada, had just launched an aggressive recruiting campaign. Logical. They had decided that all of the 'heroes', an illogical term, of the incident had to feature in a major advertising campaign. Logical. Studies and history show this to be an effective tactic.
Yet his fellow 'heroes' had complained endlessly about this. True, it may not be a likeable or agreeable duty, but it was a duty to the Federation that they had to perform. They were enlisted Starfleet members. This is a logical duty. He does not find the concept illogical and therefore, not disagreeable.
However, that does not mean he has to enjoy the process.
He logically detests having to wear makeup.
He logically detests having to say illogical lines.
He logically detests the tremendously large amount of wasted resources around him.
He logically detests the director. He is annoyingly illogical.
So he does the only logical thing.
He makes sure it's over as soon as Vulcanly possible.
'Action!'
'Enlist in Starfleet. It is the only logical course of action.'
'Cut!'
AN: You probably all think I'm crazy...
Disclaimer: I don't own Star Trek. In fact, I don't own very much at all.