"Turkey Day IV"

[Guest Laarell]

Six hours ago...

 

The air was charged with what was almost electricity. Tension was in the air, all around. The hunt was on.

 

One leg after another, she walked through the dust, stalking her prey like an expert killer -- after all, she was one. Armed with deadly weapons, and deadly poisons, she was aware of the fact that her quarry was utterly unaware of her presence. The fool. It had no idea that death, Death Incarnate itself, had set her sights upon it.

 

Of course, even if it had, there would have been nothing that it could have done about it. When Death set her sights upon you, there was nowhere to run and nowhere to hide.

 

She stopped.

 

She sniffed.

 

She struck.

 

Two needle-sharp fangs sunk deep into the cricket's body, pedipalps quickly adjusting the insect's body to be better accommodated within the oversized spider's mouth.

 

Chomp. Chomp. Chomp.

 

It was a very good day. Citrus, self-decidedly the loveliest Teykier, had much to be thankful for.

 

* * *

Just before...

 

This was possibly the worst day that Odile Condacin had ever had. Well, not the worst. But close. Very, very close.

 

Odile knew better than to have ever volunteered herself for away team duty. Well. She hadn't exactly volunteered. It was sort of implied that she was ordered to. And it wasn't even implied, if she remembered accurately. She was just... ordered to.

 

That damned dog.

 

Odile frowned, hand twitching instinctively around the dagger she'd brought. Corizon was going to get himself killed playing hero for this away team, she just knew it. And then, oh gods oh gods, she was going to have to answer for why there was a pulverized Dameon at whatever camp they set up in and oh gods, she was going to be responsible. Even if she wasn't the ranking officer. She clearly was responsible for him.

 

And it wasn't just Starfleet that she'd have to answer for -- no, nope, nada. Gods knew that if she let Captain Corizon get killed, she'd have far worse to deal with than the wrath of Starfleet. After all, Odile knew the sort of friends that her captain had, and if he were chewed up, or burned, or infected, or whatever these things did, she'd personally have to explain it to... well, someone important. And that certainly wouldn't do.

 

Luckily, however, right as she was about to leave the Romulan (shouldn't he have been more... volatile or something, being most assuredly a spy?) and their requisite Helpless Female behind to go and save the soon-to-be-overwhelmed canine hero's, he managed to make a breakaway. Thank gods.

 

Odile breathed a thankful sigh of relief. It really was just as well that he fought his own battles, Odile supposed. It would hardly be good for him to have to be rescued in front of his crew, even if it was by a Xenexian. Though, she also realized, after a moment, it probably wouldn't have been the first time.

 

Odile smiled, very, very slightly.

 

* * *

 

A few hours ago...

 

Joshua Bentley had been looking forward to Thanksgiving. He always made dinner for his comrades, and just because they were out on Espania VI didn't mean that he couldn't do the same. A few native substitutes (turkey, for example, just never was able to be replicated correctly, so wild fowl was even better) could be overlooked.

 

Besides, it really wasn't the food. It was about camaraderie, it was about friendship and shared, good times, and it was about watching the recordings they'd just received of (months-old) North America collegiate sports that they had carefully avoided any results from. It was about happiness, and the word itself -- thanksgiving.

 

How often did you -- even when "you" was a well-pipped science officer -- get to be out here, on the true frontiers of learning and study and the safety of the Federation? Jobs like this were the absolute best that anyone could ask for -- even if his friends had laughed at him for wanting a post like this, in the "backcountry". It was nice out here. Fresh, and refreshing.

 

Especially in the backcountry of the backcountry. Joshua had been out of contact with the rest of his team for a little while now -- but that wasn't too worrisome; the comm systems had been known to go out now and then.

 

But something was... off... once he was back. It was too deserted for just-after-work hours, even if it was Thanksgiving. It was too...

 

Oh gods. Oh gods. Oh. Gods.

 

Later, as his former friends tied him to the spit, Josha reflected that this was not what he had in mind for a holiday centerpiece at all.

* * *

 

Now...

 

Laarell Teykier, staring at the practically-dead mainframe of the U.S.S. Excalibur, realized that she might have had the absolutely worst day of anyone, ever, anywhere.

 

Even with her gentle, caring caress, the computer had managed to do... very, very little. It took a hell of a lot more than a (hopefully) soon-to-be C-6 computer rating to compel a piece of circuitry to activate damaged systems, not to mention coaxing it into doing some repairs on them. Unlocking it out of the recovered-diagnostic mode wasn't so bad, but the results at the end of it were atrocious. No control. No systems. No real overrides. The best they really could hope for was a good encryption to keep someone else out, rather than employ the mainframe to their own advantages. Laarell felt more like a piece of decor than something useful, and as horrible as she imagined she looked after the flying... thing... things... attacked, not even a particularly attractive piece of decor at that.

 

The Orion let out a long, tired sigh, sitting back in the spider-clawed-apart piece of upholstery. Oh gods, what a mess. This was going to be an ever-loving nightmare to clean up whenever they got their ship back. If they got their ship back. And if they didn't... well... maybe it would be a good thing. Maybe if she were dead, she'd actually get a little bit of rest and an end to her endless, if metaphorical, headaches.

 

No, no no no no no. That was a terribly pessimistic view to take, and the Orion was far from a pessimist. Look on the bright side, she always told herself. You never knew when the doors to the Bridge would open and some gorgeous piece of transferee or new Alpha-shifter would step out. Besides, after they were done fixing their starship, she imagined that someone would be tired, and need some cheering up. Yes, Tan...

 

An even darker scowl tainted her pretty features, the momentary bout of dreamy optimism replaced by coarse mutterings in her own language. No, she rather doubted that the chief of engineering would be needing her tender touch. Better to spend more time babying the computers, for that matter. They'd probably be more grateful, and even if they were spitting out megatons of broken coding at her, less insulting and more gratifying.

 

Oh well. Another, much more worthwhile pursuit would present itself soon enough, or her last pursuit would realize what it had pushed away just because of its emotional breakdown. Either way, she was sure that her recent little rainclouds would have a silver lining sometime soon. And when the downpour finally stopped, she'd be very, very grateful. Even an Orion needed something to be thankful for now and then.