Duty, Dragons and Dabo.
Disclaimer: Paramount owns 'em; The Blue Goo, Dr Megalomania and Elvis own the Dragons. We're just seeing what happens when you mix Star Trek: Deep Space Nine and our sick twisted minds.
We'd also like to include various TV series and feature films for inspiration.
Author Note's: We'd also like it noted that we own the various red shirted ensigns and would like to assure the reader that *no ensigns were killed in the writing of this story, horribly maimed or transported to another time and place maybe but killed? No!*
//the dragon's thinking/speaking//
Part 8: Jam Jars and Soap Bubbles . . .
The whoever-it-was turned, saw the incoming security officer, and dove for the nearest jefferies tube. The fact that this was on the gantry opposite, suspended six metres above the promenade didn't seem to bother the man: he simply jumped over the railings, transformed in mid air into some sort of weird avian lifeform, and then flapped for it.
Well, he'd found the changeling.
The dragon settled herself on her really big pillow. She'd had to materialise it when it became apparent the stupid humanoids hadn't taken in account for tails when they made this place. . . the whole place was screwy! *//What kind of universe has only one kind of gravitational pull?//*
Then the gravity fluctuated and sent Quark spinning halfway across the room, still shrieking at ear-splitting pitch. One of the walls obligingly swapped with its opposite counterpart - he crashed into the bar counter and clung onto the rim. A wise precaution, depending on how you looked at it, because seconds later the change reversed and the wall turned into a ceiling to which he was clinging onto for dear life. From the ferengi's point of view, which was down, it was more vertigo-inducing.
More screaming.
:-// Ah, normal gravity at last. . .//
Q looked a little queasy at the listing floor, but was more interested in wrangling with the dragon about what value to assign the aces. Sisko had managed to anchor himself to a bolted-down barstool, as had Dax. Everyone else was strewn about the floor/wall.
And of course, Quark was hanging from the ceiling, screaming.
"Quark! You're not helping!"
He shut up of his own accord when a certain disgruntled-looking individual rushed in to intercept for the other changeling, last seen heading here. Instead, he found Quark hanging off something which
"Odo! Help! Get me down!"
If only he had just let him dangle.
"THAT'S IT!!" Q shouted to no-one in particular.
"What's it?" The Dragon, perfectly at ease on her pillowed perched, peered at him. "You *do* realize you are taking on a distintly. blue tint, don't you?"
He glared her, "It's aqua! Anyway I feel seasick!"
"Why?"
A violent rocking hit the station, Q held up his hands. "Could it be .THAT??!"
He clicked his fingers and the station righted itself.
"Aww! Just as the gravity was gettin' good!" the Dragon protested.
In Ops, they were operating on a skeleton crew of two senior members and a scattering of cadets. They were all in combat mode right now, as Worf shouted:
"Incoming torpedo in three, two, one: brace for impact!"
Hands clamped around the nearest object, which on second look turned out to be somebody's arm, Kira substituted the arm for a console, and tensed.
Nothing.
A little less certain now, Worf repeated: "Brace for impact?"
A couple of indeterminate blurs streaked across Ops: nobody paid them any attention. Using Ops as a surrogate gymnasium was becoming commonplace and besides, they were all too busy looking at the viewscreen, although a couple of ensigns quickly held up their placards made for just such a contingency: 5.8 and 6.9. Not bad.
Furthest away, a backdrop of star-studded space, with the electric blue cauliflower of the wormhole superimposed on it. Then, rank after rank of enemy spacecraft. Fair enough, unless you happened to be on the losing side.
What they hadn't been expecting was the fact that the missile seemed to be decelerating. Then stopping entirely for a frozen moment. Faint lines like stress marks on a stretched sheet of transparent plastic wobbled against the nose of the missile, as two forces pushed against each other. They were in the middle of a battle, so now wasn't the time to suffer from visual hallucinations, but the crew's anticipation was almost tangible as the missile, with a faintly-audible twang that somehow managed mysteriously to cross thousands of metres of vacuum, lost its fight. In that moment, there was nothing more satisfying than seeing an enemy attack repelled by the spacefaring equivalent of a rubber band.
Neeeeeeooow. . .
The shot had, quite literally, backfired.
The misguided missile catapaulted back at the ship in the Dominion fleet which had fired it: from Ops, Kira could see the surrounding armada shuffling away from their neighbour with remarkable alacricity, leaving the lone ship not even enough time to think: 'What did I do?' before it detonated.
"What, by the prophets, is that thing?"
'I am not sure. . ." He glowered over his tactical station for a minute. "There appears to be some kind of force-field surrounding the station."
"What is it?"
"Sensors show it consists of a fatty acid and alkali composite. . ."
His deep voice changed from angry to disbelieving halfway through the sentence.
"Are you telling me it's a soap bubble?"
". . . Get down from there. I'm taking you into custody." Odo growled.
The other shapeshifter clung obstinately to the ceiling of the cargo-bay where Odo had finally managed to corner him. Time to try for a little hostage negotiation. The problem was, it had never been his strongpoint, and he wasn't sure if it came down to a wrestling match with another changeling that he could win. Of course, having your phaser trained on your opponent was always a big advantage. . . it usually helped persuade them down from the conduit/jefferies tube/cubby hole/wherever they were, but this infiltrator was stubborn, had disguised himself as the ceiling, and was refusing to come down.
So basically Odo was trying to keep the changeling occupied until he could manoeuvre into a better position, and get a clearer angle for a stun. He hadn't thought the spy would actually growl back at him, which wasn't the brightest course of action since it allowed him to pinpoint his position exactly.
"Oh, you think you're so superior, don't you? Just because you were sent here in one of those special limited edition duranium canisters!"
It sounded like he'd been nursing this grudge for some time.
"What are you talking about? No I don't."
"Oh, sure. Just because I got arrived in the Alpha quadrant as a-."
"A what?"
"You'll laugh."
"No I won't."
"A jamjar."
"?" Odo struggled for composure. He had had plenty of practice in cultivating this air of rigid aloofness, luckily, because if he cracked up into a heap on the floor, the prisoner would escape.
"Yes! The founders had to conserve their resources for the coming war. So they-. . . Oh, the humiliation."
Odo hoped this wouldn't become one of those awkward scenarios where he had to play the role of comforter. Badly. Especially not to somebody he was arresting.
"Look. Come down from there and we can discuss this at your holding cell."
It wasn't the most tactful thing to say. He couldn't see the changeling very well, but he got the impression that a small section of the ceiling had stiffened in indignant outrage.
"Holding cell? Holding cell? As if I were a common criminal! Hah! This is what I say to your holding cell!"
There was a pause.
"Actually I can't think of anything to say to your holding cell."
Stalemate. It would have remained stalemate indefinitely, had not the station given a sudden judder. It wasn't like the short, sharp vibration of a direct hit - again - but was more like somebody had just spun the gravity so it seemed to be pulling him towards the side as well as the floor. This was sufficient to dislodge the changeling on the ceiling - but it was also sufficient to knock Odo sideways as well, giving the shapeshifter time to run off.
Disentangling himself off from some of the pylons at one end of the room with exasperated slowness, Odo really, really wished the com-system was back online so he could pressgang a security team into helping him catch the perpetrator. And then he set off again - not helped by the way gravity suddenly resurrected its former self seconds later, although it did allow him to perform an impressive set of somersaults in mid-air. . .
Face a mask of dismay, Quark surveyed the ruined tableaux of his bar amidst piles of broken crockery. The dragon, Q and those not busy. . . examining. . . the soap bubble had gathered here. They were still in contact with the bemused people in Ops - apparently, in desperation, some of the Jem'hadar were trying to improvise some makeshift offensive measures, including some sort of space detergent, which was completely ineffective. A few more pioneering ships had the ingenuity to manufacture an antimatter bubble- buster, to no avail. It greatly resembled a giant pin. It also kept on inexplicably rotating before they could pierce the bubble and going after the nearest vessel. To their credit, they kept trying, but after the havoc that six antimatter bubble-poppers wrought on the hapless fleet, they were too busy diving out of the way.
There were some quiet sniggers at the sight of a warships dashing across the viewscreen, pursued by the intractable stinger, although nobody owned up to them - it wasn't part of the published Starfleet philosophy to collapse into hysterics every time one of the Dominions ploys backfired. Although it did make for good entertainment.
But basically Q's bubble-field had them reach a stalemate. Nobody dared fire out, in case it upset the ridiculous but effective mechanism, and nobody could fire in at them.
And meanwhile the omnipotent nuisance was challenging the dragon to some sort of game, over Quark's wails of protest - some of which were concerned with his faulty Dabo table, which, despite all the odds, had survived the firefight but was still biased in the wrong direction, and therefore useless. With Sisko, Nog, Dax, O'Brien and Bashir in audience, somebody had to take notice of him eventually. They couldn't ignore a screaming ferengi forever, could they?
Well, they were giving it their best shot, as all five were drawn into a heated argument over what to play, and whether to play it at all. In Quark's opinion, Q and the dragon were going to settle this regardless of the crew's reasoning, their actions being determined by a higher form of logic, otherwise known as nonsense. In Quark's opinion, they should sit back and try to gain something from the situation - such as offering the duelling pair a suitable setting for the, uh, card game that would be written down in legend, and maybe bargaining for indefinite use of the 'soap bubble' to repel the would-be invaders currently trying to find a way to annihalate Deep Space nine, until they could figure out how to replicate, patent and sell the technology for a profit. But the holosuites were down, and as usual, nobody was listening to his ideas.
Suddenly the com system sizzled to silence in mid-chuckle: someone was still laughing over the fate of a misguided spacecraft trying to flee the pointy end of their antimatter creation at time of breakdown. What now?
The two superbeings ignored this inconvenience.
:-//Snap!//
"Don't be ridiculous, my poor, misguided reptile. Something with a little more. . . flair." A click of the fingers, and Q was the scarlet-clad matador complete with red cloak and the set of rules for some obscure form of rummy, which had little or nothing to do with Spain.
"Will you both be quiet for a second!" and then to O'Brien: "Can you get the com system up and running again?"
"I'm on it."
Q and the dragon ignored them, too, and Dax when she tried for some reverse psychology:
"Maybe we should leave them to it."
Bashir didn't catch on: "We can't! We're in the middle of a battle, and what happens if that. . . alkali composite gives way?"
:-//Soap bubble. It's a soap bubble//. The dragon interjected, staring pityingly at the doctor.
Odo would have exited the bar again, but an influx of rather bedraggled looking officers forestalled the changeling. Kira, Worf and the others had trooped in - still strangely bereft of accompanying ensigns - because the environmental controls in Ops had gone haywire and sprayed the lot of them with semi-frozen coolant out of spite, and they wanted to know:
"What the hell is going on?!"
It was getting crowded in here by now, and with all the conflicting queries rebounding across the room, and everybody firmly attached to the nearest fixture in case the gravity shuddered again, nobody had a clue what was going on, so Kira's question was futile. She was searching for Sisko, while Worf laboriously swung past the barstools to talk to Dax - but then the dragon's telepathic announcement cut everybody off.
//"Hey everybody! We've decided on what to play! Okay? Then LET THE BATTLE COMMENCE!"//
The game they had finally agreed upon was poker.
Far above them. well, okay, on the second floor. . . eyes were watching.
To be more accurate, the entire railing around the promenade was staring at the proceedings with disbelief.
It wasn't, of course, really a railing. The two eye-stalks protruding from the metal were a dead giveaway. It looked like half the population of deep space nine was assembled, along with dragon, various aliens, Q and associated spatial disturbances, on the promenade below.
The changeling had an idea. It was a dangerous idea, and would involve some morphing, but-. . .
So it was agreed, they were going to play poker.
The dragon scan through her pad of card game rules and brushed up her rules. "Okay, says here we need a pack of card. . ."
Q looked at the cards in his hands, then at the various members of the crew, back at the cards, then the crew, cards, crew, . . .cards, . . .crew, . . .cards, . . .crew. . . his face split into an evil grin and he click his fingers. The cards disappeared, followed closely by the crew.
A larger pack cards reappeared in his hands, the backs of the cards were blue with the federation symbol. The Dragon glowered at him, arms folded in an expectant pose. "Okay, I'll bite. Where are they?"
He grinned at her, "Who, prey tell?"
She jerked her head to the now vacant space. "Them."
"Them? Oh, you must mean the THEM, THEY, the people recognisable only as deja'vu." he click his fingers again and several men dressed entirely in black appeared. The Dragon grimaced. "That was cheap, really, really cheap!"
Q chuckled, "I know, I know." The men disappeared again.
"So, where are they?"
Q shuffled the pack and dealt a card to her, she picked it up. It was the king of spacestations, Sisko. "GET ME OUTTA HERE!!! Q!!! MUMMERTREORYDRAGON WHAT EVER YOUR NAME IS DO SOMETHING!!!!"
The Dragon looked up at Q, "That also was very cheap, not totally unfunny but very cheap none the less!" She sighed and snapped her claws and restored the crew.
Worf stepped menacingly towards Q with the obvious intent of slaughtering him, Sisko, Kira, Odo, Bashir, Dax and O'Brien had to leap on the enraged Klingon before he leap on the omnipotent being and tried to rip him into shreds.
The Dragon looked at the padd again, "Okay we got cards. . ." she materialise another pack, ". . . now we need some thing to wager with. . . the rule suggests chips of some kind. . ."
"Why don't we make this interesting and make it a no limit wagering game, huh?"
Somebody groaned in trepidation. . .
Disclaimer: Paramount owns 'em; The Blue Goo, Dr Megalomania and Elvis own the Dragons. We're just seeing what happens when you mix Star Trek: Deep Space Nine and our sick twisted minds.
We'd also like to include various TV series and feature films for inspiration.
Author Note's: We'd also like it noted that we own the various red shirted ensigns and would like to assure the reader that *no ensigns were killed in the writing of this story, horribly maimed or transported to another time and place maybe but killed? No!*
//the dragon's thinking/speaking//
Part 8: Jam Jars and Soap Bubbles . . .
The whoever-it-was turned, saw the incoming security officer, and dove for the nearest jefferies tube. The fact that this was on the gantry opposite, suspended six metres above the promenade didn't seem to bother the man: he simply jumped over the railings, transformed in mid air into some sort of weird avian lifeform, and then flapped for it.
Well, he'd found the changeling.
The dragon settled herself on her really big pillow. She'd had to materialise it when it became apparent the stupid humanoids hadn't taken in account for tails when they made this place. . . the whole place was screwy! *//What kind of universe has only one kind of gravitational pull?//*
Then the gravity fluctuated and sent Quark spinning halfway across the room, still shrieking at ear-splitting pitch. One of the walls obligingly swapped with its opposite counterpart - he crashed into the bar counter and clung onto the rim. A wise precaution, depending on how you looked at it, because seconds later the change reversed and the wall turned into a ceiling to which he was clinging onto for dear life. From the ferengi's point of view, which was down, it was more vertigo-inducing.
More screaming.
:-// Ah, normal gravity at last. . .//
Q looked a little queasy at the listing floor, but was more interested in wrangling with the dragon about what value to assign the aces. Sisko had managed to anchor himself to a bolted-down barstool, as had Dax. Everyone else was strewn about the floor/wall.
And of course, Quark was hanging from the ceiling, screaming.
"Quark! You're not helping!"
He shut up of his own accord when a certain disgruntled-looking individual rushed in to intercept for the other changeling, last seen heading here. Instead, he found Quark hanging off something which
"Odo! Help! Get me down!"
If only he had just let him dangle.
"THAT'S IT!!" Q shouted to no-one in particular.
"What's it?" The Dragon, perfectly at ease on her pillowed perched, peered at him. "You *do* realize you are taking on a distintly. blue tint, don't you?"
He glared her, "It's aqua! Anyway I feel seasick!"
"Why?"
A violent rocking hit the station, Q held up his hands. "Could it be .THAT??!"
He clicked his fingers and the station righted itself.
"Aww! Just as the gravity was gettin' good!" the Dragon protested.
In Ops, they were operating on a skeleton crew of two senior members and a scattering of cadets. They were all in combat mode right now, as Worf shouted:
"Incoming torpedo in three, two, one: brace for impact!"
Hands clamped around the nearest object, which on second look turned out to be somebody's arm, Kira substituted the arm for a console, and tensed.
Nothing.
A little less certain now, Worf repeated: "Brace for impact?"
A couple of indeterminate blurs streaked across Ops: nobody paid them any attention. Using Ops as a surrogate gymnasium was becoming commonplace and besides, they were all too busy looking at the viewscreen, although a couple of ensigns quickly held up their placards made for just such a contingency: 5.8 and 6.9. Not bad.
Furthest away, a backdrop of star-studded space, with the electric blue cauliflower of the wormhole superimposed on it. Then, rank after rank of enemy spacecraft. Fair enough, unless you happened to be on the losing side.
What they hadn't been expecting was the fact that the missile seemed to be decelerating. Then stopping entirely for a frozen moment. Faint lines like stress marks on a stretched sheet of transparent plastic wobbled against the nose of the missile, as two forces pushed against each other. They were in the middle of a battle, so now wasn't the time to suffer from visual hallucinations, but the crew's anticipation was almost tangible as the missile, with a faintly-audible twang that somehow managed mysteriously to cross thousands of metres of vacuum, lost its fight. In that moment, there was nothing more satisfying than seeing an enemy attack repelled by the spacefaring equivalent of a rubber band.
Neeeeeeooow. . .
The shot had, quite literally, backfired.
The misguided missile catapaulted back at the ship in the Dominion fleet which had fired it: from Ops, Kira could see the surrounding armada shuffling away from their neighbour with remarkable alacricity, leaving the lone ship not even enough time to think: 'What did I do?' before it detonated.
"What, by the prophets, is that thing?"
'I am not sure. . ." He glowered over his tactical station for a minute. "There appears to be some kind of force-field surrounding the station."
"What is it?"
"Sensors show it consists of a fatty acid and alkali composite. . ."
His deep voice changed from angry to disbelieving halfway through the sentence.
"Are you telling me it's a soap bubble?"
". . . Get down from there. I'm taking you into custody." Odo growled.
The other shapeshifter clung obstinately to the ceiling of the cargo-bay where Odo had finally managed to corner him. Time to try for a little hostage negotiation. The problem was, it had never been his strongpoint, and he wasn't sure if it came down to a wrestling match with another changeling that he could win. Of course, having your phaser trained on your opponent was always a big advantage. . . it usually helped persuade them down from the conduit/jefferies tube/cubby hole/wherever they were, but this infiltrator was stubborn, had disguised himself as the ceiling, and was refusing to come down.
So basically Odo was trying to keep the changeling occupied until he could manoeuvre into a better position, and get a clearer angle for a stun. He hadn't thought the spy would actually growl back at him, which wasn't the brightest course of action since it allowed him to pinpoint his position exactly.
"Oh, you think you're so superior, don't you? Just because you were sent here in one of those special limited edition duranium canisters!"
It sounded like he'd been nursing this grudge for some time.
"What are you talking about? No I don't."
"Oh, sure. Just because I got arrived in the Alpha quadrant as a-."
"A what?"
"You'll laugh."
"No I won't."
"A jamjar."
"?" Odo struggled for composure. He had had plenty of practice in cultivating this air of rigid aloofness, luckily, because if he cracked up into a heap on the floor, the prisoner would escape.
"Yes! The founders had to conserve their resources for the coming war. So they-. . . Oh, the humiliation."
Odo hoped this wouldn't become one of those awkward scenarios where he had to play the role of comforter. Badly. Especially not to somebody he was arresting.
"Look. Come down from there and we can discuss this at your holding cell."
It wasn't the most tactful thing to say. He couldn't see the changeling very well, but he got the impression that a small section of the ceiling had stiffened in indignant outrage.
"Holding cell? Holding cell? As if I were a common criminal! Hah! This is what I say to your holding cell!"
There was a pause.
"Actually I can't think of anything to say to your holding cell."
Stalemate. It would have remained stalemate indefinitely, had not the station given a sudden judder. It wasn't like the short, sharp vibration of a direct hit - again - but was more like somebody had just spun the gravity so it seemed to be pulling him towards the side as well as the floor. This was sufficient to dislodge the changeling on the ceiling - but it was also sufficient to knock Odo sideways as well, giving the shapeshifter time to run off.
Disentangling himself off from some of the pylons at one end of the room with exasperated slowness, Odo really, really wished the com-system was back online so he could pressgang a security team into helping him catch the perpetrator. And then he set off again - not helped by the way gravity suddenly resurrected its former self seconds later, although it did allow him to perform an impressive set of somersaults in mid-air. . .
Face a mask of dismay, Quark surveyed the ruined tableaux of his bar amidst piles of broken crockery. The dragon, Q and those not busy. . . examining. . . the soap bubble had gathered here. They were still in contact with the bemused people in Ops - apparently, in desperation, some of the Jem'hadar were trying to improvise some makeshift offensive measures, including some sort of space detergent, which was completely ineffective. A few more pioneering ships had the ingenuity to manufacture an antimatter bubble- buster, to no avail. It greatly resembled a giant pin. It also kept on inexplicably rotating before they could pierce the bubble and going after the nearest vessel. To their credit, they kept trying, but after the havoc that six antimatter bubble-poppers wrought on the hapless fleet, they were too busy diving out of the way.
There were some quiet sniggers at the sight of a warships dashing across the viewscreen, pursued by the intractable stinger, although nobody owned up to them - it wasn't part of the published Starfleet philosophy to collapse into hysterics every time one of the Dominions ploys backfired. Although it did make for good entertainment.
But basically Q's bubble-field had them reach a stalemate. Nobody dared fire out, in case it upset the ridiculous but effective mechanism, and nobody could fire in at them.
And meanwhile the omnipotent nuisance was challenging the dragon to some sort of game, over Quark's wails of protest - some of which were concerned with his faulty Dabo table, which, despite all the odds, had survived the firefight but was still biased in the wrong direction, and therefore useless. With Sisko, Nog, Dax, O'Brien and Bashir in audience, somebody had to take notice of him eventually. They couldn't ignore a screaming ferengi forever, could they?
Well, they were giving it their best shot, as all five were drawn into a heated argument over what to play, and whether to play it at all. In Quark's opinion, Q and the dragon were going to settle this regardless of the crew's reasoning, their actions being determined by a higher form of logic, otherwise known as nonsense. In Quark's opinion, they should sit back and try to gain something from the situation - such as offering the duelling pair a suitable setting for the, uh, card game that would be written down in legend, and maybe bargaining for indefinite use of the 'soap bubble' to repel the would-be invaders currently trying to find a way to annihalate Deep Space nine, until they could figure out how to replicate, patent and sell the technology for a profit. But the holosuites were down, and as usual, nobody was listening to his ideas.
Suddenly the com system sizzled to silence in mid-chuckle: someone was still laughing over the fate of a misguided spacecraft trying to flee the pointy end of their antimatter creation at time of breakdown. What now?
The two superbeings ignored this inconvenience.
:-//Snap!//
"Don't be ridiculous, my poor, misguided reptile. Something with a little more. . . flair." A click of the fingers, and Q was the scarlet-clad matador complete with red cloak and the set of rules for some obscure form of rummy, which had little or nothing to do with Spain.
"Will you both be quiet for a second!" and then to O'Brien: "Can you get the com system up and running again?"
"I'm on it."
Q and the dragon ignored them, too, and Dax when she tried for some reverse psychology:
"Maybe we should leave them to it."
Bashir didn't catch on: "We can't! We're in the middle of a battle, and what happens if that. . . alkali composite gives way?"
:-//Soap bubble. It's a soap bubble//. The dragon interjected, staring pityingly at the doctor.
Odo would have exited the bar again, but an influx of rather bedraggled looking officers forestalled the changeling. Kira, Worf and the others had trooped in - still strangely bereft of accompanying ensigns - because the environmental controls in Ops had gone haywire and sprayed the lot of them with semi-frozen coolant out of spite, and they wanted to know:
"What the hell is going on?!"
It was getting crowded in here by now, and with all the conflicting queries rebounding across the room, and everybody firmly attached to the nearest fixture in case the gravity shuddered again, nobody had a clue what was going on, so Kira's question was futile. She was searching for Sisko, while Worf laboriously swung past the barstools to talk to Dax - but then the dragon's telepathic announcement cut everybody off.
//"Hey everybody! We've decided on what to play! Okay? Then LET THE BATTLE COMMENCE!"//
The game they had finally agreed upon was poker.
Far above them. well, okay, on the second floor. . . eyes were watching.
To be more accurate, the entire railing around the promenade was staring at the proceedings with disbelief.
It wasn't, of course, really a railing. The two eye-stalks protruding from the metal were a dead giveaway. It looked like half the population of deep space nine was assembled, along with dragon, various aliens, Q and associated spatial disturbances, on the promenade below.
The changeling had an idea. It was a dangerous idea, and would involve some morphing, but-. . .
So it was agreed, they were going to play poker.
The dragon scan through her pad of card game rules and brushed up her rules. "Okay, says here we need a pack of card. . ."
Q looked at the cards in his hands, then at the various members of the crew, back at the cards, then the crew, cards, crew, . . .cards, . . .crew, . . .cards, . . .crew. . . his face split into an evil grin and he click his fingers. The cards disappeared, followed closely by the crew.
A larger pack cards reappeared in his hands, the backs of the cards were blue with the federation symbol. The Dragon glowered at him, arms folded in an expectant pose. "Okay, I'll bite. Where are they?"
He grinned at her, "Who, prey tell?"
She jerked her head to the now vacant space. "Them."
"Them? Oh, you must mean the THEM, THEY, the people recognisable only as deja'vu." he click his fingers again and several men dressed entirely in black appeared. The Dragon grimaced. "That was cheap, really, really cheap!"
Q chuckled, "I know, I know." The men disappeared again.
"So, where are they?"
Q shuffled the pack and dealt a card to her, she picked it up. It was the king of spacestations, Sisko. "GET ME OUTTA HERE!!! Q!!! MUMMERTREORYDRAGON WHAT EVER YOUR NAME IS DO SOMETHING!!!!"
The Dragon looked up at Q, "That also was very cheap, not totally unfunny but very cheap none the less!" She sighed and snapped her claws and restored the crew.
Worf stepped menacingly towards Q with the obvious intent of slaughtering him, Sisko, Kira, Odo, Bashir, Dax and O'Brien had to leap on the enraged Klingon before he leap on the omnipotent being and tried to rip him into shreds.
The Dragon looked at the padd again, "Okay we got cards. . ." she materialise another pack, ". . . now we need some thing to wager with. . . the rule suggests chips of some kind. . ."
"Why don't we make this interesting and make it a no limit wagering game, huh?"
Somebody groaned in trepidation. . .
