Interlude – The "Best Shot" - Part 2
by Colonel James Darson & Alderman Yolanthe Ibalin
Post Details
OLD:
He turned back to the crowd, shot glass in hand, “You all think this is going to kill me, don’t you? Well…you know what they say. You only live once. So cheers, prost, salut, BOTTOMS UP!”
ON:
In one motion and with the roar of the crowd, he threw the shot back like a seasoned drinker should, the liquid mysteriously disappearing into the mask. He spun it around and slammed the empty glass upside down onto the bar, then placed his hand on it and the other on his hip.
When he didn't immediately keel over, Yolanthe frowned. She'd seen non-klingons drink nek'tai by accident and it wasn't pretty. He should have been on the floor screaming. "Pel, get the first aid kit," she murmured to her assistant barman. Then she flicked the intercom switch under the counter. "Klia? You up there?" There was a mumbled reply. "If we still have the EMH isolinear from opening night, can you load it in a holosuite. Now. Right now!"
The crowds initial cheering died down to a hushed silence as they waited to see what would happen as Darson just stood there, stock still.
And stood there.
And stood there.
And continued to stand there.
A minute passed and Darson still hadn’t moved a centimeter, remaining frozen in place, like a statue.
Darson was not a stupid man. If anything, it was the complete opposite. He may act like a complete buffoon, but he never entered into anything without first considering every single path that it could take. Bets and challenges of any nature were no exception. So going into this little challenge he knew it would be no contest. Why?
When he had been restrained in the bowels of the planet with that artifact, one of the things that he told the terrorists that was true was that he had lost a significant part of his body mass over the years. Black Cell had the technology and an unlimited budget, and those missing parts had been replaced by cybernetic components and artificial systems, primarily geared for combat. Non-essential things were removed completely. This included, among other things, his entire digestive system. Considering that he was powered now by an ancient mysterious alien artifact, and no longer needed regular sustenance to keep moving the people who remodeled him decided that they could use a lot of the space for other things. Thankfully they had left him the ability to taste…in a way.
What they had done was they linked Darson’s throat to a Chemical Spectrometer in a holding tank in his abdomen that would break down and vaporize anything that entered and then send signals to his enhanced brain telling him what was in it and what it tasted like, if there was poison in it…etc. That was why he had been so sure that nothing was going to happen to him. Alcoholic beverages of any sort didn’t affect his body any more. But at least it left him able to partake of the deliciousness that they had to offer.
In this case he was overwhelmed by the flavor of the Nek’tai. In so far as it was the most vile, disgusting, putrid thing he had ever tasted.
His continued stillness began to raise concerned whispers. He wasn't even wavering. No-one should be that still. Pelin came up with the first aid kit. "Should we lie him down?" he asked his boss.
Yolanthe shook her head. "I have no idea. He's not...normal." She stared hard at every joint, every finger. He definitely wasn't moving. Not even a tiny spasm or minuscule quiver. She couldn't even tell if he was breathing, or find so much as a throbbing vein to indicate a pulse. She waved a hand in front of his eyes.
Nothing.
She pinched the bridge of her nose. This was possibly worse than slow screaming puking death. She at least had some idea of what to do about that. "Everyone stand back, give him some room." All she could do now was hold her breath and wait.
The Marines in the crowd were trying to gaze over the heads of everybody else to get a glimpse of what was going on. The Sergeant said, “Let’s go check on him.” They began making their way to the front. The Sergeant shouted out in an official voice, “Starfleet Marines! Make a hole!”
They got to the front of the bar and moved towards Yolanthie and Pelin. The three junior Marines gathered around Darson while the Sergeant moved up to the two behind the bar, “Ma’am,” he said addressing Yolanthie, “Sergeant Renaldo, SFMC,” he flashed his ID card, “Are you the proprietor of this establishment?
"Yes, I am. What do you want?" A thought occurred to her. "Is he one of yours?"
“Ehh…” he looked at the Colonel, standing there like some interior decorators’ worst nightmare, “After a fashion.”
"Is he going to be all right? He's...." she trailed off. the words that were coming to mind - not normal, all wrong, weird - would probably not be appreciated.
While Renaldo and Yolanthe were talking, the other three Marines gathered around Darson and inspecting him. The most junior of them, a Private newly transferred to the station, snapped his fingers in front of Darson’s mask and chuckled when he got no response. Emboldened by the drinks he had consumed earlier that night and the fact that he believed Darson to be just like anybody else, he reached out and tapped him on the chest as a means of getting his attention.
The touch communicated itself through the armor, through the system of synthetic nerves inside, and then to the brain which was still disabled from the Nek’tai. As such, instincts took over and responded the only way they knew how.
Darson’s arm suddenly flew out violently in conjunction with his leg in the opposite direction, crashing into the Private’s chest and the back of his knees. The impact knocked the wind out of him and cracked his sternum, as well as sent him literally into a flip.
Darson grabbed him by the leg while he was still in mid-air and wound up, spinning around with him like a shot put. The Marines managed to get out of the way and the Sergeant at the bar turned around in time to see it coming and ducked, the improvised melee device missing him by centimeters. Darson released the Marine sending him flying over the heads of the crowd with a scream and a crash in the back.
As he turned his attentions back to the rest of what he originally perceived as enemies, his mind kicked back into gear with a jolt. He shook his head and held a hand to it with a groan, looking around.
A quick glance around at the Marines in standard combat stances and the frightened crowd behind him told him that something was not quite right. He cracked his neck and said to the Marine in front of him that he recognized from his personnel files, “Are you an illusion Sergeant?”
“…No sir?”
“Good…if this was an illusion, there would be a chaser for me…and you certainly wouldn’t be raising your fists against me, would you Sergeant?”
Renaldo hurriedly dropped the stance, “No sir. We were just…trying to stop you from you know….killing anybody.”
“Killing somebody?....that does sound like me. Are there only the three of you?”
“No sir…you, uh… tossed …Private Willhelm over to the back there.”
“Ah. Go and check on him if you would. All of you. I need to have words with the bartender.”
The three Marines quickly moved back through the crowd to attend to their fallen squad mate. Darson shook his head again and moved languidly around to address the crowd, “Ladies and gentlemen! Assuming that you aren’t all hallucinations, I apologize for the little disturbance. But more importantly, I am alive and well! As you can see I have survived my encounter with the dreaded Nek’tai. And as celebration for my miraculous well-being, the next round is on me!”
Seeing the boy go flying towards the gaming tables, Yolanthe's colour had gone from mint to an acrid acid green. She was torn between going to help, and staying at the bar to keep an eye on the ...the thing...in front of her. That display only confirmed her suspicion that he wasn't actually human.
In the end, given Darson's playing to the house, she judged him safe enough to leave for the moment and pushed through the crowd and went to her injured customer, leaving Pelin to manage the bar crowd.
Around Darson the crowd was clapping and cheering, not just at the promise of booze, but in awe and admiration of surviving the crazy stunt of drinking nek'tai, and then the added entertainment of the swift and sudden violence of his recovery.
Quite a few moved to slap him on the back, and then thought better of it, instead bombarding him with questions.
"How did it taste?"
"Did you know you'd live?"
"How did you do it?"
"What was it like?"
“What was it like?” Darson put his hand to his chin in contemplation, “How should I put this…imagine a myriad of quantum states, all of them deliciously intoxicated. Now imagine that it turns into a sea of burning fire. That is pretty much the only way to describe it.”
The poor marine who was foolish enough to lay a finger on his commander had landed between two tongo tables, and his breath was coming in laboured sucking sounds. At least he was alive. The green faded, giving way to a pale buttery yellow. "There's an EMH running in the holosuites, if you can get him up there." She told Renaldo. Then she stormed back to the bar where Darson was grandstanding.
Darson turned back to the bar and leaned casually across it to talk to an undoubtedly confused bartender, “You see miss? I told you everything was going to turn out all right. By the way, I want the picture in a large format, so as to look nicely imposing on the back wall.”
"Turn out all right?" Yolanthe folded her arms. "That boy sounds like he's got a punctured lung or worse. Who the hell are you to come in here and do that to one of my customers?"
Darson raised his hand to his chest in an expression of faux shock, “Oh my, did I neglect to introduce myself? My mistake, my mistake. I am- Oh, wait one moment, I forgot to put it on.”
He reached into inside his cloak and rummaged around a little bit, coming out with a silver emblem of an eagle that he pressed magnetically to the center of his chest, “I am Colonel James Darson of the Starfleet Marine Corp, Garrison Commander onboard this station, as well as the Commander of all Marine forces in this Sector. A pleasure to make your acquaintance."
"Then I think, Colonel, I should make one thing clear right now." She glowered and drew herself up to her full height, glaring down at him.
"I don't give a ferengi's lobes that that boy is one of yours. The moment he crossed my threshold he became one of mine, and I don't tolerate people beating on my customers. Especially not their own commanders. So unless you have one good reason why I don't throw you and that tin can of yours out right now, I suggest you leave."
“She’s got spunk,” Darson thought emotionlessly, not at all intimidated by the height and figure of Yolanthie. But she was wrong about one thing. His Marines were not hers, they were his. Forever and for always. Minions, if one had to put it like that. But now was not the time. He came here to do a business deal and recognized that to put forth that argument now would be a grave tactical error. Instead he said in a placating tone,
“Reasons? I’ll give you three,” he began to tick them off on his hand, “One. I did not mean to sound callous. What happened was an accident. While he should have known better than to touch me, I was distracted to say the least and instincts took over. That is my mistake, and I’ll own up to that…that’s just the type of guy I am. He’ll get a sincere apology and light duty until he’s back to a hundred percent. While I’m at it, I’ll offer my utmost thanks and apologies to you, for giving medical attention and accommodating me, and damaging your bar respectively."
She remained furious and resolute. That wasn't a reason, or maybe half of one. It was really just good manners.
“Two,” he said moving on to the next finger, “I will pay for my drink and all damages including a little extra. You deserve it. I’ll also buy a round for everybody in here as promised. The way things are going now, you’ve got a fired up crowd that will be drinking in good spirits for a while. If you were to toss me out after a little thing like that, it might hurt ruin the mood and hurt your business for the rest of the night.”
He had her there. It was a very good reason. Her anger began to fade, returning her to a more normal violet hue.
“And third…I have a couple of business propositions for you that will make you incredibly, incredibly wealthy.”
And with that he got her full attention. "Pel, start setting these people up." She indicated to Darson that he should follow her. "That is a good reason. Step into my office Colonel. This I want to hear."
OFF?
Yolanthe Ibalin
Owner, The Box of Delights
Colonel Darson
Marine Commanding Officer, Deep Space 5
by Colonel James Darson & Alderman Yolanthe Ibalin
Post Details
| Title | The "Best Shot" - Part 2 | |
| Mission | Interlude | |
| Author(s) | Colonel James Darson & Alderman Yolanthe Ibalin | |
| Posted | Thu Jul 01, 2010 @ 3:42am | |
| Location | Box Of Delights | |
| Timeline | SD 23 - 2110 |
He turned back to the crowd, shot glass in hand, “You all think this is going to kill me, don’t you? Well…you know what they say. You only live once. So cheers, prost, salut, BOTTOMS UP!”
ON:
In one motion and with the roar of the crowd, he threw the shot back like a seasoned drinker should, the liquid mysteriously disappearing into the mask. He spun it around and slammed the empty glass upside down onto the bar, then placed his hand on it and the other on his hip.
When he didn't immediately keel over, Yolanthe frowned. She'd seen non-klingons drink nek'tai by accident and it wasn't pretty. He should have been on the floor screaming. "Pel, get the first aid kit," she murmured to her assistant barman. Then she flicked the intercom switch under the counter. "Klia? You up there?" There was a mumbled reply. "If we still have the EMH isolinear from opening night, can you load it in a holosuite. Now. Right now!"
The crowds initial cheering died down to a hushed silence as they waited to see what would happen as Darson just stood there, stock still.
And stood there.
And stood there.
And continued to stand there.
A minute passed and Darson still hadn’t moved a centimeter, remaining frozen in place, like a statue.
Darson was not a stupid man. If anything, it was the complete opposite. He may act like a complete buffoon, but he never entered into anything without first considering every single path that it could take. Bets and challenges of any nature were no exception. So going into this little challenge he knew it would be no contest. Why?
When he had been restrained in the bowels of the planet with that artifact, one of the things that he told the terrorists that was true was that he had lost a significant part of his body mass over the years. Black Cell had the technology and an unlimited budget, and those missing parts had been replaced by cybernetic components and artificial systems, primarily geared for combat. Non-essential things were removed completely. This included, among other things, his entire digestive system. Considering that he was powered now by an ancient mysterious alien artifact, and no longer needed regular sustenance to keep moving the people who remodeled him decided that they could use a lot of the space for other things. Thankfully they had left him the ability to taste…in a way.
What they had done was they linked Darson’s throat to a Chemical Spectrometer in a holding tank in his abdomen that would break down and vaporize anything that entered and then send signals to his enhanced brain telling him what was in it and what it tasted like, if there was poison in it…etc. That was why he had been so sure that nothing was going to happen to him. Alcoholic beverages of any sort didn’t affect his body any more. But at least it left him able to partake of the deliciousness that they had to offer.
In this case he was overwhelmed by the flavor of the Nek’tai. In so far as it was the most vile, disgusting, putrid thing he had ever tasted.
His continued stillness began to raise concerned whispers. He wasn't even wavering. No-one should be that still. Pelin came up with the first aid kit. "Should we lie him down?" he asked his boss.
Yolanthe shook her head. "I have no idea. He's not...normal." She stared hard at every joint, every finger. He definitely wasn't moving. Not even a tiny spasm or minuscule quiver. She couldn't even tell if he was breathing, or find so much as a throbbing vein to indicate a pulse. She waved a hand in front of his eyes.
Nothing.
She pinched the bridge of her nose. This was possibly worse than slow screaming puking death. She at least had some idea of what to do about that. "Everyone stand back, give him some room." All she could do now was hold her breath and wait.
The Marines in the crowd were trying to gaze over the heads of everybody else to get a glimpse of what was going on. The Sergeant said, “Let’s go check on him.” They began making their way to the front. The Sergeant shouted out in an official voice, “Starfleet Marines! Make a hole!”
They got to the front of the bar and moved towards Yolanthie and Pelin. The three junior Marines gathered around Darson while the Sergeant moved up to the two behind the bar, “Ma’am,” he said addressing Yolanthie, “Sergeant Renaldo, SFMC,” he flashed his ID card, “Are you the proprietor of this establishment?
"Yes, I am. What do you want?" A thought occurred to her. "Is he one of yours?"
“Ehh…” he looked at the Colonel, standing there like some interior decorators’ worst nightmare, “After a fashion.”
"Is he going to be all right? He's...." she trailed off. the words that were coming to mind - not normal, all wrong, weird - would probably not be appreciated.
While Renaldo and Yolanthe were talking, the other three Marines gathered around Darson and inspecting him. The most junior of them, a Private newly transferred to the station, snapped his fingers in front of Darson’s mask and chuckled when he got no response. Emboldened by the drinks he had consumed earlier that night and the fact that he believed Darson to be just like anybody else, he reached out and tapped him on the chest as a means of getting his attention.
The touch communicated itself through the armor, through the system of synthetic nerves inside, and then to the brain which was still disabled from the Nek’tai. As such, instincts took over and responded the only way they knew how.
Darson’s arm suddenly flew out violently in conjunction with his leg in the opposite direction, crashing into the Private’s chest and the back of his knees. The impact knocked the wind out of him and cracked his sternum, as well as sent him literally into a flip.
Darson grabbed him by the leg while he was still in mid-air and wound up, spinning around with him like a shot put. The Marines managed to get out of the way and the Sergeant at the bar turned around in time to see it coming and ducked, the improvised melee device missing him by centimeters. Darson released the Marine sending him flying over the heads of the crowd with a scream and a crash in the back.
As he turned his attentions back to the rest of what he originally perceived as enemies, his mind kicked back into gear with a jolt. He shook his head and held a hand to it with a groan, looking around.
A quick glance around at the Marines in standard combat stances and the frightened crowd behind him told him that something was not quite right. He cracked his neck and said to the Marine in front of him that he recognized from his personnel files, “Are you an illusion Sergeant?”
“…No sir?”
“Good…if this was an illusion, there would be a chaser for me…and you certainly wouldn’t be raising your fists against me, would you Sergeant?”
Renaldo hurriedly dropped the stance, “No sir. We were just…trying to stop you from you know….killing anybody.”
“Killing somebody?....that does sound like me. Are there only the three of you?”
“No sir…you, uh… tossed …Private Willhelm over to the back there.”
“Ah. Go and check on him if you would. All of you. I need to have words with the bartender.”
The three Marines quickly moved back through the crowd to attend to their fallen squad mate. Darson shook his head again and moved languidly around to address the crowd, “Ladies and gentlemen! Assuming that you aren’t all hallucinations, I apologize for the little disturbance. But more importantly, I am alive and well! As you can see I have survived my encounter with the dreaded Nek’tai. And as celebration for my miraculous well-being, the next round is on me!”
Seeing the boy go flying towards the gaming tables, Yolanthe's colour had gone from mint to an acrid acid green. She was torn between going to help, and staying at the bar to keep an eye on the ...the thing...in front of her. That display only confirmed her suspicion that he wasn't actually human.
In the end, given Darson's playing to the house, she judged him safe enough to leave for the moment and pushed through the crowd and went to her injured customer, leaving Pelin to manage the bar crowd.
Around Darson the crowd was clapping and cheering, not just at the promise of booze, but in awe and admiration of surviving the crazy stunt of drinking nek'tai, and then the added entertainment of the swift and sudden violence of his recovery.
Quite a few moved to slap him on the back, and then thought better of it, instead bombarding him with questions.
"How did it taste?"
"Did you know you'd live?"
"How did you do it?"
"What was it like?"
“What was it like?” Darson put his hand to his chin in contemplation, “How should I put this…imagine a myriad of quantum states, all of them deliciously intoxicated. Now imagine that it turns into a sea of burning fire. That is pretty much the only way to describe it.”
The poor marine who was foolish enough to lay a finger on his commander had landed between two tongo tables, and his breath was coming in laboured sucking sounds. At least he was alive. The green faded, giving way to a pale buttery yellow. "There's an EMH running in the holosuites, if you can get him up there." She told Renaldo. Then she stormed back to the bar where Darson was grandstanding.
Darson turned back to the bar and leaned casually across it to talk to an undoubtedly confused bartender, “You see miss? I told you everything was going to turn out all right. By the way, I want the picture in a large format, so as to look nicely imposing on the back wall.”
"Turn out all right?" Yolanthe folded her arms. "That boy sounds like he's got a punctured lung or worse. Who the hell are you to come in here and do that to one of my customers?"
Darson raised his hand to his chest in an expression of faux shock, “Oh my, did I neglect to introduce myself? My mistake, my mistake. I am- Oh, wait one moment, I forgot to put it on.”
He reached into inside his cloak and rummaged around a little bit, coming out with a silver emblem of an eagle that he pressed magnetically to the center of his chest, “I am Colonel James Darson of the Starfleet Marine Corp, Garrison Commander onboard this station, as well as the Commander of all Marine forces in this Sector. A pleasure to make your acquaintance."
"Then I think, Colonel, I should make one thing clear right now." She glowered and drew herself up to her full height, glaring down at him.
"I don't give a ferengi's lobes that that boy is one of yours. The moment he crossed my threshold he became one of mine, and I don't tolerate people beating on my customers. Especially not their own commanders. So unless you have one good reason why I don't throw you and that tin can of yours out right now, I suggest you leave."
“She’s got spunk,” Darson thought emotionlessly, not at all intimidated by the height and figure of Yolanthie. But she was wrong about one thing. His Marines were not hers, they were his. Forever and for always. Minions, if one had to put it like that. But now was not the time. He came here to do a business deal and recognized that to put forth that argument now would be a grave tactical error. Instead he said in a placating tone,
“Reasons? I’ll give you three,” he began to tick them off on his hand, “One. I did not mean to sound callous. What happened was an accident. While he should have known better than to touch me, I was distracted to say the least and instincts took over. That is my mistake, and I’ll own up to that…that’s just the type of guy I am. He’ll get a sincere apology and light duty until he’s back to a hundred percent. While I’m at it, I’ll offer my utmost thanks and apologies to you, for giving medical attention and accommodating me, and damaging your bar respectively."
She remained furious and resolute. That wasn't a reason, or maybe half of one. It was really just good manners.
“Two,” he said moving on to the next finger, “I will pay for my drink and all damages including a little extra. You deserve it. I’ll also buy a round for everybody in here as promised. The way things are going now, you’ve got a fired up crowd that will be drinking in good spirits for a while. If you were to toss me out after a little thing like that, it might hurt ruin the mood and hurt your business for the rest of the night.”
He had her there. It was a very good reason. Her anger began to fade, returning her to a more normal violet hue.
“And third…I have a couple of business propositions for you that will make you incredibly, incredibly wealthy.”
And with that he got her full attention. "Pel, start setting these people up." She indicated to Darson that he should follow her. "That is a good reason. Step into my office Colonel. This I want to hear."
OFF?
Yolanthe Ibalin
Owner, The Box of Delights
Colonel Darson
Marine Commanding Officer, Deep Space 5