Chapter Two – Drag Racing Into Trip

A.N: Short but sweet tis this chapter

I decided the next day to join in with the bizarre buzz of energy that seemed to be spreading throughout the ship now, probably radiating from Trip wherever he bounded about like an overly adorable six-year-old.

It was also true though that we hadn't come across a planet suitable or interesting enough to stop and chat with in close to two weeks now. The crew were growing stiff muscles and agitated twitches over their left eyes. They too were radiating a buzz. They needed a vent, an excuse to burn off their puppy fat and I was more than happy to let Trip provide it. I knew there was a fifty/fifty chance I would regret it by the sixth.

It was my trusted Helmsman who was on hand that late morning to help me join in with the bizarre buzz of the ship. He ran up my heel with a convertible.

"Sir!" He looked truly mortified as he came round the corner with the sophisticated remote control toy, remote in hand to prove him guilty although the expression in his face was enough proof alone to throw him in the brig. I looked down first at the sleek red toy that had jammed into my ankle and then up at Mr Mayweather with a raised brow.

"You could cause an accident with that Ensign, I hope you know that."

He nodded hurriedly, swallowing once, trying to be discrete as the lump of saliva ran nosily down his throat in a very exaggerated manner.

"Yes Sir, I understand Sir. It's just," and here was when he began to look boyish and wishful in a very familiar way… "I took it with me last month when I was on the Horizon, thought I'd relive some old childhood memories by taking it for a spin…"

He trailed off and tilted his head to the side slightly, much in the way T'Pol was inclined to do, although she didn't tend to smile when she did it.

"I have another one in my quarters Sir, if you want to have a race. Convertible against monster truck."

The beginnings of a grin began to tease at the corners of my lips. T'Pol had the bridge, I was sure she could hold it for just another ten minutes…

…………

We hit the accelerators dead on together and raced after our vehicles through C Deck. Travis took an instant lead, but then of course his wheels didn't account to four times the mass of his shiny red hull. My battered green monster truck could probably have done with shedding a pound of two down below, and a paint job. My monster truck, however, which was dubbed 'Travis smells' on the bumper, did have the advantage of significant power over speed.

Running shoulder to shoulder with Travis I jarred my thumb into the LCD remote control screen and willed it on more than anything until it at least reached the back wheels of the convertible – dubbed 'Paul smells like a Vulcan' on the belly of the car. Then I let it rear onto its back wheels and slammed its ugly green bumper into the back of the slick, glossy competition. The car lost its momentum almost instantly and taking a sharp left nose-dived into the nearest wall.

"Hey, cheat!"

Travis seemed genuinely offended but I simply grinned as I backed off and carried on, overtaking him as he fumbled with reverse.

We were now approaching the door to the turbo lift for C Deck, before the race agreeing to make a full circuit of it by doubling back at this point and racing round to where we had started; the door to Travis's quarters. This plan, we had mutually agreed, was ingenious and near flawless in theory, and should only take around ten to fifteen minutes to execute (if we chose to execute just one circuit). However there were certain factors and variables we had not considered in our master plan, and the turbo lift door opening was one of them.

And sure enough, it did.

I threw my feet to a halt as the gentle whooshing of the doors surprised me and threw me off guard, but forgot about the monster truck as it continued merrily along on its four monster wheels. Four merciless, crushable looking wheels.

The crowd in the lift scattered amidst yelps and stupefied gazes upon their dignified Captain, leaving all but one to stand looking lost in the middle in his content, far away thoughts.

I truly did feel bad for Trip when the truck took an unexplained leap and cascaded into his left shin, making a cringing noise with something as it crash landed and Trip dropped what he had been carrying in his hand onto the foot of the originally uninjured other leg.

He hoped wildly from foot to foot, cursing in his colourful Southern accent as he spat and danced and spat some more.

"What the hell—" he opened his screwed up eyes and saw me standing sheepishly with the remote control clutched in one hanging hand, the other raised in a plea asking for the chance to explain myself. Behind me Travis cradled his convertible, looking as innocent as any Denobulan caught eating his own toenail clippings and enjoying them.

"Trip, I'm sorry, I truly am—"

"Sorry?" He did not look happy. "Sorry? You've just broke ma damn shin and smashed ma big toe in! How am ah supposed to plan a Halloween/4th o' July ball when ah'm on ma blinkin' knees here?"

Trip was not on his knees, but Captain I may be, I was not for arguing with his overdone case. The others in the lift wisely enough scattered, all heading for random quarters that I was sure were nowhere near their original destinations. One managed to kick what Trip had been holding out of the lift and then took off like a gazelle as he saw the fury in the so often docile Southerner's eyes.

"What's in the suitcase Trip?"

The plan of distraction worked and Trip dropped his shin as he beamed down at the fairly large leather case, picking it up again and hugging it into his chest.

"Face paint."

He said it as if I were supposed to not wonder and worry about where he had gotten face paint from.

"For those that really wanna regress into their childhood when dressin' up, maself included of course."

"You mean we're actually going to have a Halloween disco tomorrow? I thought that was another of Hoshi's rumours."

The Ensign behind me began to share Trip's boyish, wishful look again. They were hitting me from all angles now, and my concern for their true mental age began to give me a headache. A hypocrite I was, I know, as I tried to ignore the crashed monster truck at Trip's feet.

"Commander, where did you get the face paint?"

Trip's smile grew perky. "It's amazin' what Chef can do with leftovers."

And on that he shut over the turbo lift doors taking the monster truck with him.

(A car crash with a suitcase and a painted face)