A/N: a kind of 'after the credits', playing fast and loose with TOS episode time line, based in Reboot. No knowledge of TOS required though. This episode: Operation Annihilate! IMHO the parasites looked like flying pizzas. And I have moved Riley's post to security.
I reckon Cupcake was having a bad day when he beat up Kirk, and let's face it, JTK was quite provoking. Thanks to beta SpockLikesCats. Again, I own nothing (except a fine pair of Spock-ears) and I profit not.
Pre-digital Man
It wasn't really all that bad, manageable is what Doctor McCoy called it, then he nicknamed it the Denevan Dropsy, although dropsy was a totally different disease all together. Nausea and tiredness were the main symptoms, but not so bad that you couldn't carry on your duties with a hypo of anti-emetic and a good night's sleep. Cupcake's sister had three kids and she'd worked all the way to the end of each pregnancy. He figured she probably felt like this a lot. At least the Enterprise crew only endured the discomfort for about a week. No, the fun came as the virus left your body, and Cupcake had the bruises to prove it.
Of course, a security detail was first down on the planet, where they were able to rescue the Captain's brother and his family – and a whole lot of other people – from killer parasites. It was still a mystery to him how the young Kirk seemed to know things intuitively, he had a sixth sense about a lot of stuff. McCoy and Spock figured out that a simple UV light eradicated the parasites, job done. It would have been textbook, but the landing party returned with a flu-virus the colonists had long become immune to. Commander Spock wryly deemed the situation "An equitable trade," and the flu spread through the ship faster than scuttlebutt. There was no cure as such, you just had to let it burn out.
Cupcake was among the first to be infected, so with any luck he would be over it soon. About five days into his illness, he sat at the security console, feeling as though he hadn't slept for a hundred years. His head jerked. Did he nod off there for a second? Not good, not good at all in security. You can't be off the ball for a moment. You never know who might beam onto your ship when you least expect it. Stretch the legs, that's a good plan, to get moving. He struggled off his chair, and the last thing he heard was the echo of a male voice, shouted through cupped hands:
"Tiiiimmm – buuurrr!"
Afterwards, his colleagues told him that he'd fallen into a dead-sleep on the deck, for about a quarter of an hour, snoring like a Horta and (to his mortification) mumbling "knit one, purl two." So what, if he loved to knit baby clothes for his niece and nephews? It was meditation for him, and you had something to show for it at the end, as well as a clear mind. He lumbered off to sick-bay, at last feeling wide-awake, where a nice blonde nurse regenerated his wrenched shoulder, and broadcast a message to all staff that if they felt excessively sleepy, TO LIE DOWN IMMEDIATELY. Cupcake never met a woman before who could appear to speak in capital letters; he liked it.
Aside from himself, there were few casualties, and it quickly became apparent that the bigger you were, the shorter you slept. On the bridge, as Cupcake gave a quick security briefing, the captain asked the navigator a question which went unanswered; the young Russian had fallen asleep with his face on the console. Kirk snapped, his patience stretched by fatigue.
"Mister Sulu, didn't you notice your navigator was asleep on the job?"
Sulu looked sheepish, shaking his head, "Uh, no. No sir, sorry sir. I – "
"Never mind, none of us are exactly firing on all thrusters this week. Just get him a bit more comfortable, will you?"
Sulu scooted over to Chekov's chair and levered him up to a sitting position, pausing half-way to peel a stylus off the boy's cheek. An hour later Cupcake was summoned to take the teenager to his quarters, as he was showing no sign of awakening. Never mind kid, when you wake up you'll feel fantastic.
Kevin Riley was getting on Cupcake's last nerve. He didn't know there were people who sang in their sleep. One more tuneless rendition of 'I'll Take You Home Agaaaaaiiiiiiiiin, Kathleeeeeeen', and he was seriously going to punch a hole in a door. Clearly the idea to leave Riley sleeping in his chair after he plunged into the virus-induced coma wasn't a bright one. Cupcake couldn't endure the caterwauling until his watch ended; that wouldn't be for another two hours. With a sigh, he put the squawker over his shoulder and summoned a turbo-lift.
The doors whispered open to reveal the inevitable sight of another sleeper; a pretty dark-haired ensign, propped up against the lift wall. Teresa Ortiz: a demon poker-player and agile boxer with a literally cracking left hook. A well-built girl, she probably wouldn't sleep for long, which gave Cupcake an idea. As he propped the wailing Riley up beside her, he slid the crewman's hand onto Teresa's bare knee. Closing the lift door he prayed she'd awaken first, and use her boxing skills. If she put the Irishman's jaw out, maybe that would silence his waking performances for a few days. How Cupcake had grown to hate 'The Rose of Tralee', Danny Boy', and 'When Irish Eyes Are Smiling'. By day, he let it go; you wouldn't wish Riley's Tarsus childhood on your worst enemy - no wonder he sang.
At last, able to take a break, he left for the mess hall and stepped into a scene resembling avant-garde performance art taking place in the passageways of the Enterprise. Bodies were propped up in corners, lying flat-out on the deck and sitting up against bulkheads. The sounds of gentle snoring, and sleep-talking, made the ship seem alive with ghosts; a little creepy, but amusing as well. Seeing a princessy, overly-made-up blonde lieutenant with a spit-bubble blowing between her slack jaws gave him a kick.
One obscenely young crewman (third class) had his thumb in his mouth, and Cupcake bent to remove it, tucking the offending digit into the boy's waistband. In the mess he'd seen the youngster teased without mercy - no point in giving them more ammunition. It was impractical to get them all back to their quarters, and the doc said, "A spell sleeping on the deck is character-building, won't do them any harm." A spell sleeping? More like a sleeping spell.
The security officer checked people as he went along to make sure nobody was tangled in an awkward position; the virus-sleep was an immobile one, people didn't move as they would in a normal doze. He hefted a tall, spindly communications officer to a padded chair in a briefing room; those slight of build slept the longest, and were the least cushioned against the deck-plating. Beginning to feel like a police officer on patrol at closing time on Risa, he rolled one stertorous Orion and two human heavy-breathers into the recovery position, as a precaution.
Of course, the first wave of the infected, ha, that made it sound like a zombie-vid, were now wide awake, right-as-rain and playing the occasional prank. A notorious tough-guy combat instructor was going to wonder why his forehead said "TAWT" when he got to looking at his reflection. Possibly, he'd misinterpret it as a poorly-spelled homage to his whippet-like body. His more kindly assistant (who was quite handsome, although Cupcake wouldn't say that to his face) would see the word "TOH" in his mirror; much better. Chortling, he made a mental note to look through the security tapes and 'accidentally' wipe any evidence of perpetrators.
Reinforcing the zombie theme, a stocky Andorian lieutenant lurched by wearing the glazed expression of a man waking in unfamiliar surroundings, and with all his joints seized up. Cupcake pointed to the guy's face and mimed a wiping motion on his own chin, and the lieutenant rubbed a snail-trail of drool from beneath his mouth. "Thanks." His voice was a dry croak.
"Don't mention it sir."
As he helped stiff-limbed crew off the deck, all bearing the same whaa? expression that quickly settled into oh yeah, I remember now, checked on others, and generally had his progress impeded by the obstacle course in the hallways, he wondered if he would ever reach his destination. Crouched one-kneed on the deck, he placed a hand on his thigh, levered himself up and made a brief reconnaissance of the final twenty meters of his endless journey. The sight before him caused a tightening of his chest, and he knew what followed would be the usual speech paralysis associated with the crew member now approaching.
Natsumi Hatakeda - her name sounded like a spring breeze. That he'd even thought of such a sappy analogy meant he was soft in the head; well gone. Transfixed by the swing of her shiny black bob, he tried to speak. Come on Cupcake, say something, you idiot. But his tongue swelled in his mouth, and all he could manage was a strangled, and effeminate, "Hi." Moron. Don't go red, don't go red.
Too late, he felt himself blush when she gave a shallow, prayer-handed bow. His heart was not only on his sleeve, but lit up in neon and flashing. Bitter experience told him not to say any more, as her presence turned him into a kind of verbal Yoda. Any attempt to invite her to the mess would probably turn out like; "Mess I am going, join me, you will?" In his mind he saw her delicate brow, knitted in quizzical confusion, wondering if perhaps Standard wasn't his first language. He was convinced she thought him simple, a great hulking Lenny from Of Mice and Men; biddable muscle. Thus far, his dignity in her presence was in tatters. He spilled things, and once he'd even tripped, on an imaginary trip-wire.
As she made to reply, her limbs folded towards the deck, and he caught her about the waist with swift security-officer reflexes. He felt dismay that his high-pitched greeting had provoked her cultural politeness and possibly delayed her from lying down, until she had no choice but to pass out.
What now? Although not very short, to him she was tiny, and so light. Chekov slept for ninety minutes, Cupcake for fifteen, but he was the biggest human on the ship. This light cherry blossom could sleep for half a day. Cherry blossom? Man, don't ever say that out loud. He debated putting her over his shoulder, but felt uncomfortable exposing her in the inadequate short uniform, so he lifted her into his arms, fighting the urge to smell her hair. At least while she slept, the chances of him staging further clown performances were low. A stomach-churning scenario of him stumbling and landing on her, accompanied by the sound of squelchy splintering, went through his head.
Giving up all hope of reaching the mess, he pointed himself at the rec-room; a bear with an egg in his paws.
Treading with careful concentration, he was startled to almost collide with another being, striding confidently along. Its shape didn't ring any bells - no such species existed on the Enterprise, did it? Its bottom half was biped, and the top a haphazard tangle of multiple limbs.
Commander Spock was carrying Arex, the Edosian six-limbed relief navigator, who had a gentle snore and a sharp fin on the end of his chin that dug into the XO's pectoral muscle.
"You've got your hands full there, sir."
"Indeed, he is most..." Cupcake could see the Vulcan groping for a benign word, "...chaotic."
"You want to trade, sir? My bundle's light as a bloss – feather."
"It is not the weight that poses the problem, but its distribution. The arrangement of the skeletal structure is also something of a hindrance to effective conveyance. I believe any attempt at a trade, as you call it, would result in unnecessary expenditure of energy, for both of us. I have started as I mean to go on."
Wow, way to go commander, never use one syllable when six will do.
Cupcake nodded. "Of course, sir. I'm taking ensign Hatakeda to the couches in the rec-room, you want to follow me?"
"Affirmative. Carry on."
On the way they passed the chief engineer, carrying Keenser.
Scotty gave two brusque, military nods: "Commander. Ensign."
Spock acknowledged: "Mister Scott."
Each regarded the others' charges with detachment, as if carrying a sleeping colleague while going about your daily business was completely normal, then continued on without exchanging another word.
Well, thought Cupcake, this is probably nowhere near as whacko as it'll get, and we're only six months into our voyage.
In the rec-room, the number of crew who'd dropped during their day was fewer than in the corridors, and Cupcake easily found a space on a couch for Natsumi. Conscious of the commander looming behind him, he was brisk about laying her down, then assisted Mister Spock in disentangling Arex's form from the Vulcan officer's shoulders. It was like unravelling knitting gone wrong. At last, the commander was freed, and they agreed to place Arex on his side, really the only option for someone with a tripodal arrangement of limbs. Despite himself, Cupcake found it impossible not to ask mental questions about the shape of Edosian toilets. Thankfully, the commander broke through his thoughts before they blundered down an inevitable, more scatological trail.
"You were only briefly affected by the flu, ensign?"
"Yes sir, I reckon my size helped. You? How are you feeling?"
"I was unaffected; my Vulcan physiology seems impervious to many afflictions that plague you … humans."
You are an arrogant prick sometimes, I'd love to find out if you really are 3 times as strong as a human – sorry, 2.733 (recurring).
"I'm surprised Lieutenant Arex got sick, sir - it does seem mostly humans, Orions and Andorians."
"Indeed, however he is asleep. The duration is unquantifiable due to his unique status on the ship. We have no other Edosians as controls."
"Yeah. Hey, I thought the captain made a good call when he told you to duck that flying pizza, it's kinda like he knows things in advance." Cupcake thought this conversation was possibly impertinent, and was among the longest he'd had with a senior officer, but the circumstances weren't normal.
Spock merely raised an imperious eyebrow that mimed "dismissed."
"Okay, well, I better be off, sir. I'm off duty."
"Carry on, ensign."
Cupcake risked a glance at Natsumi. She was breathing quietly, her normally neat hair mussed; he didn't want to leave. Staying to watch over her was creepy, and would inevitably end in bewilderment on her part as she struggled to understand him without the aid of a universal translator.
It was a miracle. He was in the mess putting the final touches on his meal-tray, and nobody had fallen down, lain down or talked down to him in at least ten minutes. For some months now, he'd saved up alcohol credits for a rainy day. This was that day, and he dithered trying to make a decision, finally settling on a half-bottle of sake. It looked like a doll's-house accessory in his hand; that was the problem with alcohol when you were a big guy, one man's bucket was another man's thimble. Oh well, he had a couple of bottles of Starlight Apple Brandy from home, hidden in his quarters. But they were for a really rainy day – a cats and dogs kind of day – and he sensed the weirdness was just beginning.
He liked this ship, it was enlightening.
Determined to let the fallen take care of themselves, he stared fixedly at his plate while he ate. Certain he'd established an obvious exclusion zone, he was annoyed to see the shadow of a companion fall across his meal.
Jonno, from engineering; an insufferable gossip who Scotty referred to as 'The Fishwife'. "How ya mate?"
"Tired."
"See you got sake there, remind you of the lovely Now-sue-me."
"Her name is Natsumi."
"I know mate, it's just a funny name."
"I'm sure she thinks Jonno is hilarious. It's probably Japanese for asshole."
A rhino had thinner skin than Jonno; he ploughed on regardless, cramming fries into his mouth so fast that Cupcake felt quite queasy and stood, draining the last of his sake. "I'm tired, gonna get to my bunk."
"Right-o big guy! See ya!"
Outside the mess was a mess. Fatigued by the thought of a further slalom through bodies on the way back to his quarters, his mind went to the soft couches in the rec room. Surely if he got his head down for a couple hours in there, the battlefield would be cleared? Part of him knew he'd thought of this cunning plan because of the casualty sleeping off her fever in there. Sighing, he sloped off to the rec-room, resigned to whatever fate his minor stalking consigned him to.
.
He'd meant to sleep for two hours, but he was soon woken by minor tremors in his leg which turned out to be Arex, shaking him by the foot while entering data into a padd with a stylus. "Mister Cupcake sir," everyone called him that now, thanks to James Tiberius Kirk, "are you well? What time does your watch start?"
"Uh, what time is it?"
"06.21."
"Sh – ah, I didn't mean to sleep this long. Thanks, Mister Arex, my watch isn't 'till eight." As he left, he looked to the couch where he'd laid Natsumi down. It was empty.
Things got back to normal over the next few days. Kevin Riley continued to bug the hell out of him with his 'singing', and the last of the crew shook off their torpor. One quiet shift, Cupcake and Riley sat playing the "Illegal Boarding Simulation" on the ship's computer. It was really an excuse to shoot Klingons, and both he and Riley played using fake ID numbers. They were set up by an older lady in computing services who found Kevin's accent "absolutely darling - say something again, Kevin". Riley could switch the accent on and off at will. Praise be, the man was useful after all. Truth was, if they played under their own names, they would be on the carpet for their unorthodox solutions, like putting sixteen phasers on overload and blowing a hole in the ship. They could complete the sim properly, but what was the fun of that?
Kevin swung in desultory fashion on his chair, arms trailing behind, staring at his screen, which said "Mission failure. Fatalities: 436." Whoops. Never mind, the bang was glorious. "You should ask that lass Natsumi out, ye know."
"What? She wouldn't go out with a big lunk like me."
"She would - Teresa told me."
"Huh?"
"You know, Teresa, I'm going out with her." Riley took on a cowboy stance (Cupcake didn't know it was possible sitting down), shoulders back, thumbs hooked into his imaginary gun belt. Proud as freaking punch. "Yup."
"Teresa? You? Going out?" Lord, his internal Yoda was peeking out again. "How?"
"Ah," Riley knuckled his head, ruffling his hair up, "hard to say, I woke up with my hand on her knee in the lift. I don't remember getting in the lift," he shrugged, "and things kinda went from there."
From second-hand jaw-breaker to matchmaker, who'd'a thought it. Cupcake ventured an indelicate question, "Isn't she a bit ... robust for you, Riley?"
"Oh no, my grand-pappy always said 'never trust a flimsy woman', that's what he said, no use on the farm."
"Ri – ght, you do know you're on a starship, Kev?"
"Yeah, sure I do."
This line was pointless to pursue. "So Teresa said something about, uh, Natsumi ...?"
"Oh, yeah, she likes you. Told Teresa she thinks you're funny, and you saved her from mashing her head on the deck. She likes funny guys, watches them old holos by..." Riley struggled, his eyes unfocussed, "Bust Erkeetin!"
"Bust Erkeetin?" Never heard of them.
"Nah, me neither, I think it's like, from the pre-digital."
"Woah, nobody watches that stuff, unless they're doing research."
"Whatever, it means you've got a chance."
"That's me, Kev, unreconstructed, pre-digital man."
"So? You gonna ask her out?"
"I might."
"Cool, we can double-date! We can go to the observation deck and ... make ice cream in the replicators ... and ... and ... Karaoke!"
Cupcake rested his forehead on the console, and groaned.
Tugging the hem of his jacket down, Cupcake stood outside Natsumi's quarters, holding a fist-sized purple orchid to his chest. His pleading with Sulu made it all worth it as the door slid open to reveal his date, sheathed in violet silk, her jet hair gleaming. Smiling up at him, she gave her customary Japanese bow, which Cupcake returned, except he was holding the orchid, so his hands couldn't go together, and he fumbled and dropped the flower, then tried to make a catch, succeeding somehow in launching the little plant at speed towards the overhead.
They both watched as it shot from his grasp and flew in an arc below the upper deck. Cupcake wanted to die on the spot as he watched three months of Sulu's careful tending plummet to earth in slow motion. He'd have sworn the little sucker jumped out of his hand.
"Got ya!" Natsumi's balletic arm shot out and caught the bloom with expert precision by the short stem. "Hey, we're a good team!" She giggled. "I can be your straight man." Mesmerized, he watched her tuck the bloom into the 'v' of her dress. Completely blasé to his slapstick introduction, she continued to beam in expectation. He held out his arm, she hooked hers into it, and they walked off to the observation deck.
A bear with an egg in his paws.
- The End -