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Beta'd by VesperRegina, to whom all due thanks!
"Hit six targets with six shots, win a prize!"
The cry floated with disastrous clarity through the fairground noises, and Trip sighed as the head of one of the party went up like that of a retriever hearing a gunshot. "Malcolm, it'd hardly be fair," he said patiently.
"If they have a sign up saying 'Amateurs Only', I promise I'll walk away." The armory officer predictably began towing his lady in the direction from which that beguiling call had come. "I knew there had to be something worth coming here for."
"I thought you came to keep me company," said Hoshi mock-indignantly.
"Well, that of course." He patted the small hand that was tucked through his arm. "But wouldn't you like me to win you a teddy bear?"
"Well, if you put it like that. I can snuggle up to it at night and think of you."
Trip put two fingers down his throat and made vomiting noises. T'Pol looked at him severely, and catching the expression he pretended to wince. "Okay, okay. When Malcolm here's through showin' off, I'll try winnin' you a fluffy sehlat."
"I would regard it as unlikely in the extreme that the prizes on offer would include a representation of a Vulcan predator. The teeth would hardly be appropriate in an object that is intended to be 'cuddled'." She evidently hadn't much experience with the way the least promising material could be transformed into a plush toy if the market for it was there, but certainly the demand here for a cuddly sehlat was likely to be minimal.
"I'll guess you wouldn't want a teddy bear either." He grinned. It hardly needed her icy "For once, your guess is accurate, Commander," to tell him that any such object would hardly be in keeping with the spare elegance of her quarters.
Reaching the booth, Malcolm didn't press forward immediately but stood to one side with his arms folded, watching critically while a couple of other customers tried their luck with the target shooting. The best score was three half-bulls, which won the young man concerned a bag of some kind of brightly-colored confectionery. His girlfriend appeared pleased with the prize, so the two of them wandered off sharing it.
"He looked like he knew what he was doin'," Trip murmured in his ear.
"Yes. I thought so too. He should have done better than that."
"You could not employ any weapon other than that supplied. Even if you had brought one." T'Pol's tone indicated that she rather hoped he hadn't, since the fair's regulations prohibited it. Certainly the clip at his thigh was innocently empty.
"I'm the security officer, Sub-commander. What do you think?"
"I think you'd better not get arrested," whispered Trip.
"I was trained better than that." Leaving him to wonder exactly what he meant by that obscure statement, Reed strolled forwards and hefted the rifle, squinting along the sights. "Off by a mile." With a swift, practiced movement he broke the weapon open and glanced at the power cell. "And this hasn't the power to knock over a blade of grass." As the booth's proprietor spluttered indignantly, he took from one of his pockets the spare cell he always carried for a phase pistol and exchanged it for the faulty one. The indicators on the weapon suddenly glowed almost as brightly as the menacing smile with which he closed the cell compartment. "Now that's got possibilities!"
"You're supposed to use the weapons as supplied," protested the owner, pointing to the notice which said so.
"I'm using them as supplied. I'm making them work as supplied. We'll leave out the issue of the dodgy sights, shall we? Or would you like to come with me and discuss that little matter with the tourist facility board?" The eyes had turned to splinters of grey ice.
"Nothing wrong with the sights," he muttered.
"I'm sure there isn't. So you won't have any objections to me proving that."
"Everyone who comes here thinks they're some kind of sharp-shooter. Don't you go blaming my rifle if you can't shoot straight."
Oh, boy. Trip covered his eyes momentarily.
Malcolm was obviously in a particularly benevolent mood, however. He responded only with another glacial smile as he stepped up to the firing position and took aim at the targets that were trundling along the ledge at the back of the booth. The track was uneven, jerking over several humps so that the black and white circles pursued an erratic course in front of the distracting light play behind them.
The notice said nothing about a time limit. The fairground music played on as Malcolm stood poised, watching the targets and holding the rifle leveled.
Crack. A bullseye indicator that must see little enough use lit up.
Crack. Crack. Crack. Three in quick succession. He'd got a fix on the degree by which the sights were out of line.
Crack. This one went in as the target crested a hump. Aw, now you're just showin' off.
The last was a long time in coming. A small crowd had gathered. The proprietor was biting his lip and glaring. A thin wind off the shore stirred a single stray strand of black hair that had dropped onto the forehead above the intent eyes.
Crack. Six lights lit up. Hoshi gave a squeal of joy; Trip punched the air, and even T'Pol looked mildly impressed, if not altogether surprised. From the audience came a ripple of applause and admiration. Needless to say, the booth's owner did not share the general rejoicing. If looks could have killed, Dr Phlox would have had to have possessed powers of reanimation to have salvaged the lieutenant's situation.
"I can shoot pretty straight. Even with a gun this good." There was no other word than 'smirk' for the expression on Malcolm's face as he laid the rifle down again. "And I think this means I get to choose the prize." He watched the stallholder reluctantly pick up the smallest furry animal on display. "I think I said that I choose."
"Yep. Pretty sure that was what you said." Trip stepped forward and stood beside him. Arms crossed, casual, not particularly aggressive-looking but still utterly and unmistakably in support. And as if the two of them weren't worrying enough, a Vulcan female behind him was looking Extremely Disapproving and a human female behind the sharp-shooter was looking ready to be Really, Really Pissed Off. She might be small, but her expression suggested that she wouldn't be a good person to meddle with in that state.
It wasn't worth the aggravation, and the proprietor had to be mindful of the crowd as well. After all, he could hardly deny that the prize had been fairly won, despite all the precautions he'd taken to prevent that happening. "OK. Nobody can say I don't run a straight stall. Which would you like?"
Malcolm paused to consider, but Trip had to put in his credit's worth first: "Not the pink one. If it's supposed to be you, it's smilin' too much."
"Sod off, Trip." It was obviously a bit of a struggle. Armoury officers have their pride, and having to select any one of those gormless-looking bears to represent him in the arms of his beloved was a lowering thought. A glance pleaded with Hoshi to choose one for him, but she wasn't having any of it. The Pissed Off expression could easily be transferred to him instead, and he wilted. "That one." He pointed pretty well at random. At least it had a ribbon round its neck, which was girly, and therefore a suitable present for somebody who liked girly things (with the exception of himself of course). And the grin was slightly less nauseating than most of the others'. And it was LARGE. Which was an attribute that she could appreciate as being apposite. "You're carrying this yourself," he warned her ungallantly.
"Might have to hire a truck." The chief engineer got out of the way as the bear was begrudgingly handed over and Hoshi fairly disappeared behind it. "Well, now you have to think of a name for it. Somethin' appropriate."
She gleamed past it at the donor. "I already have one. I'm going to call him Everard."
"I said think of a name, not a joke," complained Trip.
"Or a gross exaggeration," T'Pol murmured. Everyone blinked, and decided they must have misheard her. That sounded perilously like an attempt at humor.
"Think it'll fit in the shuttle?" Tucker wasn't going to dignify it by calling it 'Everard'.
"We could always leave you behind and take Everard instead. I don't suppose anyone in Engineering would notice the difference for a day or two at least." The lieutenant dodged the playful swing that his friend aimed at his ear. "Come to think about it, I think the only person on board who would notice would be Chef, because nobody would be eating the pecan pie."
"Nobody's leaving my bear behind," said Hoshi firmly.
"Certainly not," said Malcolm fervently. "I mean, after all the trouble I went to to get hold of it, it'd be a pity," he corrected himself a little too quickly, though not without a telling grin. Even the correction was rather double edged, when he reviewed it, but that came under the heading of 'when you're out of ammunition, stop pulling the trigger.'
"And you're not putting him in Engineering either. Anna would kidnap him and he's all mine."
"Just like the original," said the armory officer coyly.
"Aw, Malcolm, just what are you after this evenin'? For cryin' out loud!"
"Whatever he's after, now he's won me Everard he can have it."
"Remind me to warn Rostov to pull a double shift till I can install soundproofin' on his wall. He's already complainin' he can't get to sleep half the night."
"I had no idea that Crewman Rostov was such a light sleeper."
Everyone turned and looked at T'Pol. There was no doubt about it this time. She had made a joke.
"Sweetheart, are you feelin' OK?"
"I am in perfect health, thank you." She looked slightly unsure of herself. Humor was a whole new ball game for her, and she was visibly relieved when after a tiny pause all three of them began to laugh.
And fortunately for Engineering, and Chef, there was just enough room in the Shuttle for everyone. Including 'Everard'.
And the bear came too.
The End.
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