Second note: Um... yeah, so I should probably slap -some- kind of "warning label" on this thing, just in case some of the "jokes" near the end of this post not go over well for some reason or another.
XI: I’ve Got a Tofurkey in my Trousers
Mess Hall, TCS Gallante
0851 Hours, Local Standard
As was their wont, the Gallante’s contingent of military police had made their presence known, breaking up the Mess Hall foodfight before it’d really gotten a head of steam behind it; in the process, they’d ruined all the fun for a good portion of the ship’s crew. A lot of those once-again-bored personnel were trying hard not to grumble at the herd of spoilsports that had just crashed the party.
The MPs didn’t seem to notice the annoyed muttering; either that, or they simply didn’t care. Judging by the expression on Corporal Ajantis Dresarin‘s face, it was most likely the latter. But despite all outward signs that the young man was utterly devoid of humor, Lieutenant Imoen Llyr wasn’t about to give up without tossing around a mandatory withering bon mot. Contractual obligations aside, she would have done it just for the kicks.
“How’s it going, Cue Ball?” she asked, sweetly, drawing upon deep-buried reserves of insolence and finding nerve enough to rap her bare knuckles against his bald head.
The only response she got for her trouble was a withering glare, and a harsh poke in the back from a truncheon. “Get moving...” he growled from behind her.
She did as requested, allowing the MPs to herd her and the rest of her posse into the center of the Mess Hall. She sidled in close to Falynn; her older sister wore a sour expression as she shifted awkwardly from foot to foot. “I don’t get it,” Imoen began, “someone breaks into his quarters, shaves his head while he’s asleep, and he assumes it’s me…” She sighed in cute, but indignant frustration. “I get blamed for -everything- around here.”
“That’s because you’re usually responsible.”
Imoen held up a finger in admonishment. “And that, dear sister, is completely beside the point.”
“What point would that be? The one sticking out the top of your head?”
The younger of the two smirked. “Not one of your better comebacks, sugar…”
Falynn grimaced noticeably. “You try working up something snappy when you’ve got half a tofurkey swimming around in your trousers.”
“Thanks for -that- mental image.”
Lynn put on her best “sultry” voice, and leaned in close. “I’ve got a tofurkey in my trousers…”
“All right… quit it! Creeping me out.”
-----
Brig, TCS Gallante
0919 Hours, Local Standard
“You know, you’re right… those pink curtains really -do- make the room.”
“Told ya…”
…
“Hey, Lynn?”
“Yeah?”
Imoen was lying face-up, a particularly hard lump of mattress digging into the small of her back. She blew a lock of hair out of her face; it fell back across her eyes. She studiously ignored it. “When do you think they’re gonna let us outta here?”
Her head at the other end of the same bunk, one leg hanging over the edge of the mattress, Falynn sighed and raised her arm to grab a quick glance at the chronometer on her wrist. “Well, let’s see… we’re scheduled for an operation in about… six hours… so… some time before then.”
“I’m not gonna last that long… this guy’s singing is making my ears bleed.” She pounded a fist against the bulkhead separating her cell from the one next to it. “For the love of Bhaal! Would someone please get this guy a bucket so he could carry a tune?!”
Falynn poked her cellmate in the shoulder with her left foot. “Relax, Im. Someone’s coming.”
“Someone” turned out to be Ajantis. He peered inside the cell, looking through the nearly transparent energy field that kept the two Llyr sisters locked up. “Captain wants to see you two troublemakers,” he said, gruffly as he began to key in the cell-release code. Clearly, the young Corporal was looking none too happy about the two misanthropes being on the loose again, but orders were orders.
Falynn and Imoen rolled out of the bunk and to their feet. The former simply walked out of the cell without any further comment. The latter, of course, did no such thing.
“What’s the problem now, Lieutenant?” Dresarin groused, smacking the end of his baton against his open palm menacingly.
“Sorry…” she replied, adopting a pronounced squint, and holding a hand up to shade her eyes. “Temporary blindness… all that light reflecting off your bald head.”
“Uh… we’ll be leaving now, Corporal…” Lynn interjected, frantically trying to disarm the conversational bomb before it could explode. She seized Imoen by the arm and forcibly dragged the younger woman away from the cell and the irritated MP.
“Damn it, Im… don’t antagonize the guy with the stick…” she said reproachfully once they were both out of earshot.
…
“Aha! There he is…”
“Who?”
“The guy in the cell next to us… you know, the one who can’t sing worth a damn? The Terrible Tenor…”
“You’ve given him a nickname already?”
“What can I say? I don’t like his filed teeth and his watery, yellow eyeballs.”
“Im, you can’t even see his face from here…”
Her posture suddenly went aggressive. “I don’t like his belligerent elbows… his threatening ear-backs!”
“Ilmater, give me strength…”
Like a Ritalin-deprived child, Imoen’s attentions shifted yet again. “Hey, Jaheira… hey, Minsc!”
No response from the two figures falling into step behind them.
“I think she’s mad at me, Lynn.”
“I think she’s mad at you, Im.”
“I’m mad at both of you.”
“We stand corrected,” the two sisters replied in unison.
“So… uh, Boo… what’s up with Minsc? Why’d he smash those waffles on his own head?” Falynn asked after a second or two of relative silence.
The hamster sighed. “I asked him about that, myself. He said he saw something like it in a holo once. Someone grabbed a handful of food, stood up… and then he couldn’t remember what happened after that. I considered explaining the concept of a food fight to him, but my circuits got tired so I chose not to bother.”
“Wise move.”
“Yeah, I’m hoping someone will tell him eventually. Just won’t be me.”
-----
Captain’s Ready Room, TCS Gallante
0932 Hours, Local Standard
Armilal Ulraunt was a stern man – severe, authoritarian… a strict disciplinarian. Rules and regulations defined his world, gave it shape. They imposed limits and boundaries on both him and his interactions with others – restrictions that granted him the ability to relate to people on his exacting terms. Anything that flouted those laws, broke those rules, or otherwise upset the delicate balance he had labored painstakingly to create, drew his considerable ire. As captain of the TCS Gallante, he had a fair amount of freedom to express that anger.
The aging Naval officer paced his ready room. He avoided the hunched-over posture many others his age were forced to assume, instead keeping his back ramrod straight, head held high, chin lifted in an imperious tilt. He kept his hands clasped together behind his back as he walked to and fro, stopping every so often to glare at one of the figures standing at attention and waiting for his next move.
His face slipped into a contemptuous sneer as he surveyed the gathered personnel: the ones deemed responsible for the acts of rampant insanity that had besieged the Mess Hall less than an hour ago. Troublemakers… misfits… misanthropes… every last one of them. Disciplinary records as long as an elder sage’s beard. Punitive measures numbering in the dozens. Terms of incarceration lengthier than elven gestation periods. It was enough to set his teeth on edge.
And yet… despite his years of experience and countless hours of pondering the situation, he could not even begin to fathom just how the lot of them had survived as long as they had. Normally, pests such as these washed out after weeks. Some of the people standing in front of him had survived a decade… in some cases, more. It was a logical impossibility, defying all rhyme or reason – their continued careers an exercise in intellectual bankruptcy.
“Llyr…” he grumbled, staring at the two sisters standing side by side and wondering just what colossal calamity had spawned two so frighteningly similar beings. While the pair certainly had their differences, that myriad of differences between the two seemed almost superficial at best. A slight disparity in height and weight (Falynn was perhaps an inch or two taller and a handful of pounds heavier), a tiny dissimilarity in hair style and color (Imoen’s was more reddish than brown and worn slightly shorter), an almost imperceptible divergence in bearing and posture (Imoen’s idea of “attention” was about as formal as rainbow-colored socks)…
Etcetera. Etcetera.
And yet the attitudes and outlooks almost always seemed to mesh perfectly. Seamlessly.
The mere thought of it was infuriating.
“Marael…” Ulraunt moved on, setting his sights on the austere-looking woman standing to Imoen’s right. She was the “sane one,” or so he had once foolishly believed. Her outward appearance was unyielding… almost foreboding in its severity. And yet, that constant, unsympathetic expression belied a sense of “humor” to rival that of any of the others in the room. She had been his one prospect for wisdom and good sense amidst the madness… but he had learned the hard way not to trust to hope. It was forsaken in these lands.
“Vaonnor…” The behemoth… the juggernaut… strong of heart… weak of mind. Terribly impressionable, easily manipulated. Ulraunt held out little hope for that one.
“Jansen…” Little need be said about the gnome. Jan talked enough about himself as it was.
“Corthala…” The newly transferred Sergeant had already suffered a close brush with the corruption that festered aboard the Gallante. Minutes after his arrival, he had already been involved with one of the worst disruptions the ship had ever experienced. Ulraunt hoped the grizzled Sergeant was made of sterner stuff than he looked to be. Omega Black needed some manner of mediating influence, and Valygar was currently the only thing remotely resembling such a force.
Ulraunt moved on. The Omegas were -always- the primary instigators, but by no means were they the sole party responsible. He rattled off more names, branding one offender after another.
“Fentan…”
“Delryn…”
“DeVir…”
“Odesseiron…”
Having come to the end of the line, Ulraunt stepped back, fixing them all with a stark glare. “I see we, once again, have to go over the list of things you people are NOT allowed to do. Major, if you would be so kind as to begin the recitation?” The manner with which he made the request clearly indicated that… it -wasn't- a request.
Falynn sighed. “I am not allowed to start foodfights in the Mess Hall.”
“Good. Continue.” The elder naval officer seated himself behind his desk, planted his elbows on the table, and steepled his fingers together.
Falynn did continue, rattling off a list of forbidden actions:
- I am not allowed to threaten anyone with black magic; I am not allowed to challenge anyone’s disbelief of black magic by asking for hair.
- The Dwarven MPs are not after 'Me frosted Lucky Charms'.
- I am not allowed to add 'In accordance with the prophecy' to the end of every sentence.
- When asked to give a few words at a military ceremony, ‘Romper Bomper Stomper Boo' is not appropriate.
- I am not allowed to mount a bayonet on a crew-served weapon.
- I am not allowed to trade my rifle for any of the following: Cigarettes, booze, sexual favors, Orcish Gauss rifles, Sahaugin Armored vehicles, small children, or bootleg holodiscs.
- I am not allowed to teach other soldiers to say offensive and crude things in Goblin, under the guise of teaching them how to say potentially useful phrases.
- I am not allowed to drink three quarts of blue food coloring before a urine test.
- Nor am I allowed to drink three quarts of red food coloring, and scream during the same.
Imoen picked up the narration:
- I am not allowed to get silicone breast implants.
- “My proper military title is ‘Lieutenant Llyr’ not ‘Princess Anastasia’.”
- I am not allowed to let sock puppets take responsibility for any of my actions.
- I am not allowed to let sock puppets take command of my post.
- I am not allowed to chew gum at muster, unless I brought enough for everybody.
- I am not allowed to chew gum at muster even if I -did- bring enough for everybody.
- I am not allowed to sing the following song during airborne operations: “See the earth below/Soon to make a crater/Blue sky, black death, I'm off to meet my maker.”
- “It is better to beg forgiveness than to ask permission,” no longer applies to me.
- I am not allowed to use the following words and phrases in a cadence: Budding sexuality, necrophilia, I hate everyone on this ship and wish they were dead, personal lubrication, all Fleet officers are latent homosexuals, Tantric yoga, Götterdämmerung, Calishite hooker, we've all got jackboots now, slut puppy, or any references to squid.
- "Teddy Bear, Teddy bear, turn around" is -not- a cadence.
- I am not allowed to go EVA and paint pink bunnies on the side of the ship.
- If the thought of something makes me giggle for longer than 15 seconds, I am to assume that I am not allowed to do it.
- I am not allowed to use smiley faces to mark minefields.
- Claymore mines are not filled with yummy candy, and it is wrong to tell newbies that they are.
- Two drink limit does not mean first and last.
- Two drink limit does not mean two kinds of drinks.
- Two drink limit does not mean the drinks can be as large as I like.
- “No Drinking Of Alcoholic Beverages” does not imply that intravenous consumption is acceptable.
- “I’m drunk,” is a bad answer to any question posed by my commander.
- Putting Good & Plenty into a prescription medicine bottle, and then eating them all at muster is not funny.
- I am not allowed to treat “piss-bottles” with extra-strength Icy-Hot.
Jaheira was next to take up the baton:
- I am not allowed to add pictures of officers I don’t like to war criminal posters.
- I am not allowed to tell any officer that I am smarter than they are, especially if it's true.
- I am not allowed to wake a superior officer by repeatedly banging on the head with a bag of trash.
- “A full magazine and some privacy” is -not- the way to help a potential suicide.
- Bodychecking Admirals is not a good idea.
Jan was the next contributor:
- I am not allowed to have flashbacks to wars I was not in.
- Our medic is called “Lieutenant Marael” not “Dr. Feelgood.”
- Past lives have absolutely no effect on the chain of command.
- Our assault transports cannot be assembled into a giant battle-robot.
- I am -not- allowed to attempt “Something I saw in a cartoon” when operating a military vehicle.
Viconia DeVir’s turn to speak arrived:
- “Napalm sticks to kids” is -not- a motivational phrase.
- I am not allowed to perform any military functions while “Skyclad.”
- I am not allowed to pretend to be a fascist stormtrooper while on duty.
- Burn pits for classified materiel are not revel fires – therefore I am not allowed to dance naked around them.
- I am not allowed to perform “lap-dances” while in uniform.
- If I take the uniform off, in the course of the lap-dance, it still counts.
And finally to Edwin Odesseiron:
- I am not allowed to use the Admiral’s personal shuttle for taquito runs.
- I am not allowed to operate a business out of the barracks.
- Especially not a pornographic holo-movie studio.
- Not even if they -are- “especially patriotic films.”
- I am not allowed to use the loudspeaker system to broadcast the soundtrack to a porno movie.
- I am not allowed to taunt officers in the throes of nicotine withdrawal, with cigarettes.
- I am not allowed to take incriminating photos of my chain of command.
- I am not allowed to use Engineering department computers to -create- incriminating photos of my chain of command.
Several minutes after it had begun, the “performance” came to its conclusion. While Ulraunt seemed well pleased, the others appeared to be just the opposite. Instead of standing at attention, they’d begun to slouch or fidget. Imoen was trying hard to stifle a yawn, an attempt that warped her expression so profoundly, she looked as if she were going to vomit. Viconia was scrutinizing her manicure; Minsc’s arm was flopping around behind his back as he tried to get to an itch he just couldn’t reach.
And so on.
Feeling that he’d made his point, the captain gave each of them one final, hard stare than motioned graciously (gracious for him) to the door. “And don’t you go forgetting what you’ve ‘learned’ here, today. Dismissed.”
Once again, Imoen felt the need to speak once she and the rest were out of earshot. “Uh, I… I can still antagonize -him-, right?”
Jaheira put a reassuring hand on the young woman’s shoulder. “If you ever -stop-, I’ll hurt you.”
