The Runt

[NDak 0]

Koshic sat glumly in the festive atmosphere of the QoB’s mess hall; drinking his champagne, and looking longingly towards the PADD containing the guest list to his ‘coronation.’

 

It just wasn’t fair. Right now, instead of sitting on the be-pinked QoB he should have been sipping Elasia wine from a fine golden goblet being feed by his harem of loyal females. All from the comforts of the Royal Palace. Instead he sat there, depressed and drinking with a bunch of bikini-clad Klingons being belittled by his superior officer, who he thought had either way too much sugar or way too much Prozac in his diet…or both.

 

Really it was a sad tale, how his height had stopped him from becoming a great ruler. How he’d always been shunned because he was a little guy. Runt they used to call him. No wonder he had a complex. To say nothing of his shy-awkwardness that often found him fumbling for the right words. Especially around women. Especially women.

 

Pouring himself another glass of the pink bubbly BcH-supplied beverage, he sighed again to himself; how was it that he’d ended up on this flying-what-not-to-wear-convention anyway?

 

---

Two Years Ago

 

Koshic sat idly on the busy concourse of the space port, his few belongings sitting on the bench next to him. A runaway, he’d grabbed what few possessions he could and stole away in the middle of the night, not that anyone would miss ‘the runt,’ anyway. Yes, he’d run away from his life back on Elasia, and the only way he was coming back, was when those idiots realized that size wasn’t everything.

 

Now he found himself doing what he’d never been asked to do before—find a real job. After all he had to eat. At first he wasn’t sure what he would do to make ends meet. He quickly found, however, that the training he’d received as a medic (after all, the only use the short one ever had on Elasia was patching up the tall brutish ones after they got into drunken brawls) was a prized commodity among freighter Captains who often lacked trained medics, let alone ones who weren’t hooked on their own goods.

 

Soon enough, Koshic had found work for a Pakled trader ship, but he found them too annoying to work with and jumped ship at the first opportunity (Seriously, ask the patient what’s wrong and you got a full seventy minute diatribe about their every ache and pain right down to every possible reason for the ache.) So now, he found himself alone again and out of work—the odd man out.

 

That was when he heard about a Klingon ship that was in need of a medic. He’d immediately contacted the Captain(s) of the ship and found them surprisingly eager to have the Elasian aboard their ship…something about how much he reminded them of a former jell-o wrestling partner…even had a similar name. So, now he waited for them to arrive and bring him aboard.

 

“Now Arriving, the QoB Docking Port…”

 

Koshic looked up and smiled; tucking away a small list into his pocket, he stood and headed for the docking port.

 

---

 

What in Elaa’s name was he thinking? Pink Klingons? How did he ever expect to regain favor in the Dohlman’s court as a lowly assistant medical officer aboard the IKC Pink Lady?

 

Maybe Tro was right, maybe he should stop day dreaming of is victorious return home; of the day when all of Elasia would bow before him in fear and despair. Wait, what the hell was he saying? Tro…right? He looked at his drink--either he’d drank too much or not enough—only one way to find out: Keep Drinking!