Part One.
They came in the night like it was the middle of the 21st century. His wife was concussed first, with a rifle but smacked into the side of her face. They’d been told during the mission briefing that she would be the most trouble, angry blood, so their elders impressed how important it was that she didn’t wake up, and right now in the heat of the act, only one of them didn’t care if she ever woke up again. The sound of a bone snapping in his wife’s jaw jarred Tom awake just quick enough to feel powerless as four strong men bound his wrists then trussed a black bag over his face pulling an almost razor sharp drawstring taunt around his neck.
“Compu – (Choke)!!”
The head of this band of bullies punches the bagged head of this naked human. Well naked except for the bag. “Another word out of you, and I will walk down the hall, and snap your babies neck.”
Tom shuts the hell up. But they gag him anyway. Gag over the bag. His blood pressure is developing different operating hemispheres between the gag and the drawstring each in their own right tight enough to slice government cheese. Although he’s not so distracted that the new words issued from his assailants don’t register properly and scare the hell out of him too.
“Did you kill the Klingon?”
“She’s breathing.”
“If no one kills her, I’m supposed to rape her.”
“There isn’t time. The window in the transporter shields was narrower than expected.”
“That will make him harder to control if we don’t break his spirit before we...”
“After he wakes up. By then, he will not be any of our problem.”
“Glue his ankles together, prepare for transport.”
The matter transference used is strange. It is completely without sound effect or visual spectacle. This transporter would be the choice of Ninja most certainly. Although frankly, ninja would have handled the job without having to talk to each other about minutia midstream before the fat lady sang. It’s unprofessional, but then it hardly requires much more than a weekend enthusiast to run this sort of OP on such a security backward world like Earth, and regardless, they were only about this business half assed for a promise to a family friend anyway.
The wife dreams of that booby Borgette jumping out of a cake she’d pushed off a cliff. A cliff face some thousand meters off the surf, unclevely hiding pointy rocks covered in the sharpest shellfish. No longer so pretty, no longer the fairest in all the land, honestly(!) how can you be the fairest in the land if you’ve been decapitated? She’s a butterstump. Nice body, but… her stump. Although 3 hours later, when she wakes to the sound of her daughter demanding mothers milk, B’Elanna discovers that it is not her blonde nemesis who has had the traumatic head wound but it is she who is soaking in almost half the blood her body usually keeps inside herself, which pumped out an artery in her throat after the dislocated shattered halves of her jaw bone tunneled into, and then out of her throat. Though all that magenta custard-like goop which passes for Klingon blood was scabbing over, seeming as though someone had iced her neck with an avalanche of rhubarb frosting. She can’t even call for the computer; if it had even still been switched on before those thugs raided her happy little home on the shore of Lake Eerie. The baby continues to blare but mommy can’t do anything about it because of the shock and trauma.
Fortunately the nieghbours noticed the noise, this kid has lungs, which was not Tom and B’Elanna fighting or mating, or fighting while mating for once. So, they came to “intrude” in the name of family values, but instead only just absolutely saved the day with their super timely busybodieness. Mrs. Granger from 5 doors down, had to return the pot after prematurely collecting on the dead-pool, since the first belief at hand was that naturally that she’d finally pushed him too far and that that charming boy had tried to kill his Klingon monsteress which is exactly what Mrs. Granger did say would happen before the end of the week that this just happened to be according to the old calendar, which since they were all Earth-side for the duration, is all anyone used hereabouts anyway. These were not “unreasonable” murderous assumptions from anyone that had met these two, because anyone who had met these two, knew that their marriage was only going to end in bloodshed someday and it was ridiculous that the community could not profit from the entertaining tragedy somehow like some sort of prerecycled karma for being so nice up close and personal to their faces all this time already.
Three days later, after a 1/3rd of the meat and bone above her shoulders had been replaced for one reason or another, before when I said that her goop frosting blood had started to scab, read: “cemented”, the Klingons medication was reduced to a level at which she would regain consciousness. It was an hour after that that her rational sense of personality took over that she was able to form words which weren’t clusters of curses or threats aimed at anyone in eyeshot who were always particularly interested in the strength of the restraints which “appeared” to only be disgusting leather keeping her tethered to the hospital bed. Which for everyone’s peace of mind, the sage orderly assured all was a blend of plastic synthetic duranium AND the leather of animals that had died of natural causes after a long and happy life. Raping living beings for their flesh was obscene to most humans so backward they didn’t bother to explore the universe, never discovering it’s possible anything, even obscenity, is a welcome curiosity once or twice.
“Ma’am. Did your husband do this to you?”
“Do what?” There’s a man’s voice talking to her and she can’t hit it.
“Blunt force trauma.” He replies blandishly.
She is horizontal and restrained. Firmly restrained. “How should I know? Probably not. Where’s my baby?”
“We have to form a clear understanding. Discover if your household is a healthy environment for your child.”
Real world B’Elanna. The real world is trying to fuck with you. This is not a game. Have to think, have to outthink the enemy. Outthink the enemy bastards who have taken my baby. “What? … “Discover?” Where is my baby? Why do you think Tom did what ever happened to me that I in a hospital… This is a hospital? I couldn’t talk. I woke up and I couldn’t talk… I was in so much pain. I… Tom did not do this to me.” Did What? There was something wring with her face. There was something wrong with most of her head. It was numb.
“Our working theory at the moment is that, yes he did.”
B’Elanna’s eyes start to actually be useful, in that they’re now interpreting data affording her an understanding of her imminent proximity. She’s in a hospital true, and the person asking her all the questions is not Starfleet Security. “You’re not Starfleet Security.”
“Why? Starfleet doesn’t run this planet. Earth is a distinct member world of the Federation, not some occupied territory under its heel. There’s no need to call in the think-big types, the local Sheriff’s department is handling the matter, and I’ve been told that they have concluded that your husband must have had a psychotic break, then tried to kill you, then left the child to starve to death. They’ve extended the search perimeter to the counties, but it’s only a matter of time till he pops up.”
“You don’t know who I am?”
“Your bio claims you’re B’Elanna Paris. You’re a half blood. I’ve heard that you make wine which I understand no one who isn’t afraid of you will drink.”
“Really? Good to know. What do you mean claims?”
“Just that. Bios can be faked. Not many aliens make it this far inland. You can’t expect to act like a Klingon around these parts and not get to rile a few collars, especially the fellah who has to share a bed with. My wife gets out the frying pan sometimes and has a go at me. I’m not singling your lot out, it’s men and women in general, tit for tat, it’s universal. We know your husband is a convict. But if he’s a danger to the public, and not just you, we need to know.”
“A danger to me how? What happened.”
“He caved your face in.”
“What?”
“You’ve been in the hospital for three days.”
“WHERE THE HELL IS MY BABY THEN!?”
“Social Services is in charge of the situation and if you comply to all the framewaork we erect to insure the safety of the child, then Miral Paris will be returned to you in due course once the safety of the child can absolutely be assured. I am only concerned with the safety of the child.”
“You think I am a danger to my child?”
“It’s common knowledge that you are in a an abusive relationship, which three days ago turned extremely violent. Whether you are violent too or you are merely enabling an dangerous spouse, we cannot tolerate familiar connections with your spouse if he is criminally psychotic and violent and a danger to the child.”
Morons. She is surrounded by… “I am going to play soccer with your liver.”
“Threats will not help.”
“Don’t you have a computer? A news-feed? Voyager! Don’t you know who we are? Us, the two of us, we’re the love story of this generation, this entire damn century! We’re right up there with Romeo and Juliet, Oscar and Alfred, Kirk and Keeler... Starcrossed lovers fighting destiny and expectation in the face of ultimate adversity… He was Starfleet, I was Maquis, but we did it like bunnies anyway! From Voyager!”
There’s a blank look on his face you can only sustain from working too long in a government bureaucracy. He is not going to feed her manic attitude with any sort of…“You’re laying it on a bit thick? Look, I know the two of you were in Starfleet, but that doesn’t mean a lot around hear, since we are far too literally down to Earth people, and since neither of you are in Starfleet anymore, no one thought it so much trouble to bother Starfleet Security on a simple domestic abuse matter.”
Cork the Volcano. Talk like a person, stop threatening and be calm! Calm butterflies and placid lakes and lawn mowing and mowing this (*&^ over again and again eating through a few layers of derma with each grisly wet sweep… “I know we moved here because we didn’t want to be celebrities but are you seriously telling me that you have never heard of Voyager?”
“We’re simple folke.”
They came in the night like it was the middle of the 21st century. His wife was concussed first, with a rifle but smacked into the side of her face. They’d been told during the mission briefing that she would be the most trouble, angry blood, so their elders impressed how important it was that she didn’t wake up, and right now in the heat of the act, only one of them didn’t care if she ever woke up again. The sound of a bone snapping in his wife’s jaw jarred Tom awake just quick enough to feel powerless as four strong men bound his wrists then trussed a black bag over his face pulling an almost razor sharp drawstring taunt around his neck.
“Compu – (Choke)!!”
The head of this band of bullies punches the bagged head of this naked human. Well naked except for the bag. “Another word out of you, and I will walk down the hall, and snap your babies neck.”
Tom shuts the hell up. But they gag him anyway. Gag over the bag. His blood pressure is developing different operating hemispheres between the gag and the drawstring each in their own right tight enough to slice government cheese. Although he’s not so distracted that the new words issued from his assailants don’t register properly and scare the hell out of him too.
“Did you kill the Klingon?”
“She’s breathing.”
“If no one kills her, I’m supposed to rape her.”
“There isn’t time. The window in the transporter shields was narrower than expected.”
“That will make him harder to control if we don’t break his spirit before we...”
“After he wakes up. By then, he will not be any of our problem.”
“Glue his ankles together, prepare for transport.”
The matter transference used is strange. It is completely without sound effect or visual spectacle. This transporter would be the choice of Ninja most certainly. Although frankly, ninja would have handled the job without having to talk to each other about minutia midstream before the fat lady sang. It’s unprofessional, but then it hardly requires much more than a weekend enthusiast to run this sort of OP on such a security backward world like Earth, and regardless, they were only about this business half assed for a promise to a family friend anyway.
The wife dreams of that booby Borgette jumping out of a cake she’d pushed off a cliff. A cliff face some thousand meters off the surf, unclevely hiding pointy rocks covered in the sharpest shellfish. No longer so pretty, no longer the fairest in all the land, honestly(!) how can you be the fairest in the land if you’ve been decapitated? She’s a butterstump. Nice body, but… her stump. Although 3 hours later, when she wakes to the sound of her daughter demanding mothers milk, B’Elanna discovers that it is not her blonde nemesis who has had the traumatic head wound but it is she who is soaking in almost half the blood her body usually keeps inside herself, which pumped out an artery in her throat after the dislocated shattered halves of her jaw bone tunneled into, and then out of her throat. Though all that magenta custard-like goop which passes for Klingon blood was scabbing over, seeming as though someone had iced her neck with an avalanche of rhubarb frosting. She can’t even call for the computer; if it had even still been switched on before those thugs raided her happy little home on the shore of Lake Eerie. The baby continues to blare but mommy can’t do anything about it because of the shock and trauma.
Fortunately the nieghbours noticed the noise, this kid has lungs, which was not Tom and B’Elanna fighting or mating, or fighting while mating for once. So, they came to “intrude” in the name of family values, but instead only just absolutely saved the day with their super timely busybodieness. Mrs. Granger from 5 doors down, had to return the pot after prematurely collecting on the dead-pool, since the first belief at hand was that naturally that she’d finally pushed him too far and that that charming boy had tried to kill his Klingon monsteress which is exactly what Mrs. Granger did say would happen before the end of the week that this just happened to be according to the old calendar, which since they were all Earth-side for the duration, is all anyone used hereabouts anyway. These were not “unreasonable” murderous assumptions from anyone that had met these two, because anyone who had met these two, knew that their marriage was only going to end in bloodshed someday and it was ridiculous that the community could not profit from the entertaining tragedy somehow like some sort of prerecycled karma for being so nice up close and personal to their faces all this time already.
Three days later, after a 1/3rd of the meat and bone above her shoulders had been replaced for one reason or another, before when I said that her goop frosting blood had started to scab, read: “cemented”, the Klingons medication was reduced to a level at which she would regain consciousness. It was an hour after that that her rational sense of personality took over that she was able to form words which weren’t clusters of curses or threats aimed at anyone in eyeshot who were always particularly interested in the strength of the restraints which “appeared” to only be disgusting leather keeping her tethered to the hospital bed. Which for everyone’s peace of mind, the sage orderly assured all was a blend of plastic synthetic duranium AND the leather of animals that had died of natural causes after a long and happy life. Raping living beings for their flesh was obscene to most humans so backward they didn’t bother to explore the universe, never discovering it’s possible anything, even obscenity, is a welcome curiosity once or twice.
“Ma’am. Did your husband do this to you?”
“Do what?” There’s a man’s voice talking to her and she can’t hit it.
“Blunt force trauma.” He replies blandishly.
She is horizontal and restrained. Firmly restrained. “How should I know? Probably not. Where’s my baby?”
“We have to form a clear understanding. Discover if your household is a healthy environment for your child.”
Real world B’Elanna. The real world is trying to fuck with you. This is not a game. Have to think, have to outthink the enemy. Outthink the enemy bastards who have taken my baby. “What? … “Discover?” Where is my baby? Why do you think Tom did what ever happened to me that I in a hospital… This is a hospital? I couldn’t talk. I woke up and I couldn’t talk… I was in so much pain. I… Tom did not do this to me.” Did What? There was something wring with her face. There was something wrong with most of her head. It was numb.
“Our working theory at the moment is that, yes he did.”
B’Elanna’s eyes start to actually be useful, in that they’re now interpreting data affording her an understanding of her imminent proximity. She’s in a hospital true, and the person asking her all the questions is not Starfleet Security. “You’re not Starfleet Security.”
“Why? Starfleet doesn’t run this planet. Earth is a distinct member world of the Federation, not some occupied territory under its heel. There’s no need to call in the think-big types, the local Sheriff’s department is handling the matter, and I’ve been told that they have concluded that your husband must have had a psychotic break, then tried to kill you, then left the child to starve to death. They’ve extended the search perimeter to the counties, but it’s only a matter of time till he pops up.”
“You don’t know who I am?”
“Your bio claims you’re B’Elanna Paris. You’re a half blood. I’ve heard that you make wine which I understand no one who isn’t afraid of you will drink.”
“Really? Good to know. What do you mean claims?”
“Just that. Bios can be faked. Not many aliens make it this far inland. You can’t expect to act like a Klingon around these parts and not get to rile a few collars, especially the fellah who has to share a bed with. My wife gets out the frying pan sometimes and has a go at me. I’m not singling your lot out, it’s men and women in general, tit for tat, it’s universal. We know your husband is a convict. But if he’s a danger to the public, and not just you, we need to know.”
“A danger to me how? What happened.”
“He caved your face in.”
“What?”
“You’ve been in the hospital for three days.”
“WHERE THE HELL IS MY BABY THEN!?”
“Social Services is in charge of the situation and if you comply to all the framewaork we erect to insure the safety of the child, then Miral Paris will be returned to you in due course once the safety of the child can absolutely be assured. I am only concerned with the safety of the child.”
“You think I am a danger to my child?”
“It’s common knowledge that you are in a an abusive relationship, which three days ago turned extremely violent. Whether you are violent too or you are merely enabling an dangerous spouse, we cannot tolerate familiar connections with your spouse if he is criminally psychotic and violent and a danger to the child.”
Morons. She is surrounded by… “I am going to play soccer with your liver.”
“Threats will not help.”
“Don’t you have a computer? A news-feed? Voyager! Don’t you know who we are? Us, the two of us, we’re the love story of this generation, this entire damn century! We’re right up there with Romeo and Juliet, Oscar and Alfred, Kirk and Keeler... Starcrossed lovers fighting destiny and expectation in the face of ultimate adversity… He was Starfleet, I was Maquis, but we did it like bunnies anyway! From Voyager!”
There’s a blank look on his face you can only sustain from working too long in a government bureaucracy. He is not going to feed her manic attitude with any sort of…“You’re laying it on a bit thick? Look, I know the two of you were in Starfleet, but that doesn’t mean a lot around hear, since we are far too literally down to Earth people, and since neither of you are in Starfleet anymore, no one thought it so much trouble to bother Starfleet Security on a simple domestic abuse matter.”
Cork the Volcano. Talk like a person, stop threatening and be calm! Calm butterflies and placid lakes and lawn mowing and mowing this (*&^ over again and again eating through a few layers of derma with each grisly wet sweep… “I know we moved here because we didn’t want to be celebrities but are you seriously telling me that you have never heard of Voyager?”
“We’re simple folke.”
This one is looking good too...:thumbsup:
