#and finally Ransoms like 'you know who WILL call me on my shit? Mariner. Mariner has never once had a problem telling me what for'

[glimblshanks]

.

[discotreque]

LwD 2.05: An Embarrassment of Dooplers

So I was a little nervous about this one! I hadn’t heard any spoiler-spoilers, but screeners have been out for weeks now, and I’d heard a bunch of individual, vague, non-spoilery hints about (1) big character moments, on the scale of a mid-season finale even though the show’s not taking a mid-season break; and (2) an ending that would make me cry.

I guess I imagined something relatively serious and dramatic, like “No Small Parts”? This show makes me cackle with laughter and giggle with nerdy glee and “d’awww!” at heartwarming friendships every week, but it’s only ever made me cry once—and then I was impressed that they were going to get there from the wacky hijinks we saw in the brief teaser.

The lack of a cold open made me apprehensive too—in my experience, that’s typically a sign that there’s so much plot in the rest of the episode that they need that extra scene—but after ~21.5 minutes of aforementioned hijinks, I was having so much fun that I’d completely forgotten about the alleged tear-jerker at the end…

…and they were not the tears I was expecting.

I didn’t think I’d be smiling and crying!!!! That was wholesome as SHIT!!!!!

I almost can’t believe they earned that—but they totally did.

After a Mariner–Tendi episode and a Boimler–Rutherford episode, we’re back to the “usual” Season 1 pairings… except the relationships between these characters have changed since Season 1. Mariner still feels thwacked in the abandonment issues by Boimler bailing for the Titan, and Rutherford’s having a tiny little existential crisis about losing an entire year of his life.

Both of which are extremely understandable and very heavy situations—and both of those situations get resolved because everyone in them is vulnerable with each other and honest about their feelings—AND that honesty and vulnerability brings both pairs of friends closer together. Are you kidding me?? I would watch SEVENTY seasons of that shit. Put it in my veins.

Onto the notes:

So basically Dooplers are Tribbles, but for cringe comedy instead of slapstick? Ohhhhh boy.

Look at Ransom the diplomat, tossing his own fork on the floor! I like that he’s actually a pretty competent Starfleet officer, despite also being a completely ridiculous person.

Wait a second, is that—OH HOLY SHIT, THE DOOPLERS ARE VOICED BY RICHARD KIND.

It makes sense that B. Boimler would find William annoying—who likes seeing their own flaws reflected back at them? And who could be a better reflection of one’s flaws than one’s literal duplicate?—but most interesting to me is that it implies on some level, Bradward knows the stick up his butt is a flaw. (Does William?)

Why does the Cerritos model have working phasers?!?!

I’m loving hot pink as the currently en-vogue colour for “dangerous sci-fi energy” in animation (cf. almost every previous episode of this show; Into the Spider-Verse; other stuff I can’t remember right now). As a former child of the 80’s, I’m living for it… but as a former teenager of the 90’s, I can’t help but wonder if it’s going to age as poorly as the harsh neon green of The Matrix, every Borg appearance on Voyager, and like 80% of the websites I made in high school…

SKANTS! SKANTS! SKANTS!

That fake-out joke with the fly-by over the Cerritos model was in the season trailer weeks ago, and I was so enthralled by that handsome lady that the sticker coming into frame still got me good 😂😂😂

BECKY Mariner????? omg yes

Some top-quality Boimler screams in this one. Poor Jack Quaid must drink gallons of throat-coat tea when he records.

One of the great things about Star Trek to me is that you never know what you’re going to get from any random episode. A murder mystery? A road trip? A spooky thriller? A cheesy romance? Broad comedy? Body horror? Didactic political screeds shrouded in tissue-thin science-fiction metaphors? Brain and brain, what is brain??? And after this many years of watching, you’d think I’d be hard to surprise. But if I ever told you I thought I’d see a Blues Brothers–style car chase through a frickin’ shopping mall on an episode of Star Trek, I would have been straight-up lying to you. I loved it, it worked for me, my jaw was on the floor and I was clapping with joy—but I’m definitely comfortable calling this one “unexpected.”

It’s CAPTAIN SHELBY!!! And an ancient babydyke crush rose from the depths of my childhood subconscious… (Also I think her Number One is based on the original makeup—eventually deemed too complicated—for Saru? Now that’s a deep cut.)

In 20th-century Trek, you almost never got to see what was going on inside a starship from the outside. Even after they switched from physical models (where it was next to impossible on a single episode’s budget) to CGI (which was still in its infancy, still not exactly cheap, and still broadcast in SD anyway), it was a rare thrill to see any meaningful interior details in an exterior shot. Disco’s modern VFX have given us some tasty, tasty treats in that department, but nothing quite as sublime as all the pink Doopler light glittering through the Cerritos’s windows.

Mariner says she’ll take her contact Malvus down with her, and threatens that they’ll end up “in the same cell.” Malvus is a Mizarian, a species introduced in TNG’s “Allegiance,” in which Captain Picard is held in a mysterious prison with one. I think I see what you did there, McMahan?

Bartender… so hot… lesbian circuits… overloading…

The Tendi and Rutherford C-story was, well, a C-story within a 22-minute episode, so there wasn’t much to it, but the one scene that mattered actually mattered a lot. I’m ambivalent on whether they should end up romantically involved—I’d prefer they don’t, but they’ll be one of the cutest couples in Trek history if they do—and as long as they keep that pure, sweet friendship between them at the heart of whatever else happens, I’m on board.

Carol Freeman was already one of my favourite captains before this season, and she’s been steadily moving up the list. The quiet throughline about her ambition to be on a better ship has been fascinating so far, and it’s starting to actually make me feel a little conflicted: I’m of course rooting for Captain Freeman to recognize her worth, make Starfleet recognize her worth, and become the ass-kicking captain of a hero ship that she’s clearly ready to be—but that almost surely means she’d be kicking ass off-screen, because LwD isn’t about those kind of adventures, and I’d be devastated not to have Dawnn Lewis on the show every week. So I’m kind of on the edge of my seat about this one!

I had so many favourite jokes this week I put them in a separate list:

“Even the replicated water on the Titan tasted better” is a low-key brilliant dunk on people who can’t shut the fuck up about the cooler places they used to live.

“Ooooh, they have a Quark’s now! That used to just be an empty lot where teens would make mistakes!” ← That’s literally me every time I go back to where I grew up. I felt so Seen™ I almost hid under a blanket.

“I would never go down the stairs!” (evil grin) (goes up the stairs)

The “well, shit” expressions from Mariner and Boimler as their crashed car sank right into the water… which started to bubble innocuously… and then the bottles of Data bubble-bath popped up, paying off a joke I thought had already been paid off—that was the one that woke up my poor cat this week. Just exquisite timing.

“YOUR PAGH IS WEAK, AND IT DISGUSTS ME!” “I don’t even know what that is, but I don’t like your tone!”

“Okona’s in there? He’s not even Starfleet! This is outrageous!” made me shout “NO!” at the screen like I was scolding my cat for scratching furniture. (She did not wake up that time.)

Best background joke: the neon sign at the dive bar advertising FREE SHOTS & BEERS. (Get it? Because they’re on a Federation starbase? Where nobody uses money?)

And of course Quark merchandised DS9.

This wasn’t just a standout episode of Lower Decks, this was a brilliant episode of Star Trek, period. The Dooplers, though extremely silly, are nevertheless also a clever sci-fi metaphor for real and relatable personal/interpersonal issues, and an effective plot catalyst for meaningful character growth from all four of our ensigns and the captain.

The jokes were hilarious, the action was kinetic, the A-, B-, and C-plots linked up thematically, the visuals were consistently and thoroughly gorgeous, the character beats—between Mariner and Boimler, Tendi and Rutherford, Mariner and Capt. Freeman—were all genuine, heartfelt and wholesome, and the references to other Trek canon were both deep and deeply affectionate.

Only 15 episodes in, and this series knows exactly what it is, exactly what it wants to do, and knows that it can knock our socks off doing it. Mike McMahan has said in recent interviews that the back half of S2 (and the apparently almost-fully-written S3) is a straight line uphill in quality from here—which surprised me at first, because McMahan seems like a pretty chill dude who doesn’t normally brag about his own work like that.

But then the Prophets sent me a vision of my space dad Ben Sisko, who reminded me of the words of 1930’s baseball player Dizzy Dean:

“If you can do it, it ain’t bragging.”

[Thanks to cygnus-x1.net for the screenshots this week—I was too lazy to do my own.]

[ashdoesfandomarchieved]

oh my god they were drift compatible

ao3

Beckett likes fighting.

She likes the rhythm, the burn of the bo staff in her palms, the sound of wind rushing in her ears. Every thrust, every block; her heart rate climbs imperceptibly until it’s pounding in her skull. A pulse of blood drowning out everything but the sound of her own heavy breathing and her opponent’s gasps.

Beckett loves fighting. But this isn’t supposed to be a fight.

Ransom grunts as his back hits the floor. The fall is softer than it would have been in an actual situation—broken by the practice mats and Beckett catching his head with her ankle right before it impacts with the ground. He blinks up at her, heaving slightly, sweat soaking his brow and the front of his gray shirt.

“Four points to three,” Bradward Boimler’s monotone voice rises across the loud applause. She risks a glance at him. His eyebrows are pulled together slightly, lips puckered into something like disappointment.

With a scowl, Beckett stomps toward where he’s standing, just slightly behind her mother, staring impassively down at his clipboard. He looks the picture of a perfect officer: uniform neatly pressed, back straight, shoulders back, expression unreadable. Even his hair still somehow manages to be professional despite his obnoxious color and the way it’s swept to the side, revealing the undercut beneath.

The only thing that gives him away is the slight uptick in his voice.

“What the fuck?” Beckett slams the butt of her staff into the ground and leans on it with both hands. Boimler flinches slightly at the sound, shoulders coming up to his ears.

Marshal Freeman’s face is impassive, but Beckett can tell she’s inwardly smirking.

“Is there a problem?” Boimler finally asks, when he realizes his Marshal isn’t going to.

“If you don’t think Ransom is a good fit for me, why did you personally select him?” she demands, trying to keep from snarling at him.

Boimler’s lips thin.

“I’m not entirely sure what you’re talking about,” he replies, measuredly. He risks a glance at Freeman, whose face is as immobile as concrete.

“Every time I get him on his back—”

Ransom makes a choking noise in tandem with Brad’s face turning red.

“—you get pissy,” she says. “Like we’re not doing good enough or some shit.”

“ He’s doing fine,” his voice raises a couple of notches—probably out of nervousness. A couple of oohs come from the crowd at that. “My problem is with you.”

Beckett lets out a surprised snort, leaning back on her heels. “Me?”

Boimler risks one more glance at Freeman. She’s still standing, feet two shoulder widths apart, hands clasped behind her back. Utterly impassive and watching Beckett with a hawk-like gaze. If Brad hadn’t already pissed her off, that would have done it. Beckett is reminded of a thousand moments in her childhood where she wasn’t good enough to be privy to what was going on in her own mother’s head.

So she turns her ire on Boimler, who has finally come to the realization that Freeman was just going to let this happen. He takes a step out of the woman’s shadow, hands gripping his clipboard tightly.

“You’re good,” he says, voice reluctant. “You could’ve had him incapacitated two moves ago, but you waited until the last one.”

“So? I still won.”

“That’s the problem. Compatibility isn’t supposed to be about a fight.”

Beckett smiles. “You know how to use one of these?” she asks, throwing the bo staff up in the air slightly and catching it.

Something in Boimler’s expression stiffens. “I’m not—”

“Come on, Bradward,” she cajoles. “Just one fight.”

He glares. “It’s not a fight .”

Beckett switches her gaze toward her mother, who has finally let the corners of her mouth twitch into something of a smile. “Officer Boimler, if you would indulge Ranger Mariner,” she says. It’s not a suggestion.

With something of a sigh, Boimler allows his superior to take his clipboard and begins to strip down to his undershirt and pants. She eyes him up as he unties his boots, setting them just off the mats. He’s lanky and quite a bit skinnier than she is. That’s not to say that he hasn’t built on some muscle—you really can’t be in this business without undergoing some form of physical activity—but it’s tightly packed and in only a few places.

In other words, he’s not a hunk like Ransom.

He picks a black bo staff, leaning against the wall, and cautiously steps onto the mats.

Beckett cracks her neck and walks toward him slowly, but assuredly. “Alright, Officer Doucherocket,” she says. “If it’s not a fight, then what is it?”

His eyebrows furrow. “Aren’t you the jaeger pilot?” He does something clever with his fingers that spins the bo staff in his hands in tandem with the fighting stance he drops into. That tight feeling in Beckett’s chest that had squeezed tightly when she first saw Boimler standing there, in the rain, skyrockets at that. “You tell me.”

The first hit is expected and she blocks it with a quick tap, sliding to the side so that she can get her own jab in at his side. Surprisingly, he seems to have accounted for that. He spins, managing to catch her staff before she can land it.

Ten seconds in and they’re both zero to zero.

Beckett draws back, breath already a little too fast for how early the match is. “Alright,” she says, circling him slowly. He stays grounded, moving just enough to accommodate her movements. “Not bad, for a farm boy.”

One eyebrow ticks upward. “Not bad for an army brat,” he tosses back.

Beckett has a reply for that and it involves poking him in the ribs. He lets out huff as she cheekily says, “One to zero.”

Boimler’s eyes narrow.

It’s on.

Boimler goes for the ankles, ensuring that Beckett won’t be able to attack while defending. She manages to hop over the swipe, but isn’t fast enough to block when he brings up his staff to tap her on the shoulder.

One to one .

Beckett goes for a couple of cross strikes and pokes in rapid enough succession that all Boimler can do is block. He moves backwards with each move, quickly losing ground as she lays into him a barrage of swift techniques. She finally manages to strike faster than he can parry, getting a faux blow to the head.

“Two to one,” she sing-songs. She twirls her staff in one hand, backing up a bit. Maybe she’s going a little too hard on him.

Brad flips his staff so that the short end of it is pointed toward her with the long length of it against his side. “You’re still thinking wrong” he says, before diving back in.

An upward strike and a few spin-assisted moves has her giving up ground to accommodate the sudden onslaught. He manages to tap her knee, much to her annoyance. Two-to-fucking-two. He doesn’t give up ground like they’ve been doing after getting a point in. He stays still, waiting for her next moves.

“And you still haven’t explained what you mean by that,” she snaps, right before she engages in a swarmer style. It involves throwing in so many moves—no matter how badly executed or landed—that your opponent has no choice but to concede.

Concede Boimler does, allowing himself to be backed up so far that when she finally delivers the finishing move—hooking an ankle behind his and delivering an elbow to his bicep—he almost falls off the mats when he rolls on his shoulder back into an upright position. As cool as the move is, she still gets a point when she tips the side of his head gently with her staff.

There’s a smattering of applause that is drowned out by the sound of her heart pounding in her ears when Boimler suddenly sweeps his staff in a wide motion that would have hit her head had she not quickly ducked. She blocks the move, side-stepping as to get in a strike of her own that is blocked just as quickly. Boimler spins on the balls of his feet, almost getting in a strike to her ribs that she parries with a downward block. This, unfortunately puts her in a precarious position with his staff under hers that allows her zero leverage when he twists own staff just so, making her flip onto her back.

She makes impact, air rushing out of her lungs, but rolls back onto her feet before he can get a point in.

“It’s a conversation,” Boimler says, as she slides from a graceful half split into a fighting stance. “But you know that already.”

The sound of the bo staff cutting through the air reminds Beckett of how it sounds to fly-the rushing of wind in her ears, the loud sound drowning out her thoughts. She catches Boimler’s strike and throws in a few of her own, delighted at how gracefully he parries them.

“Drift compatibility-” he says, between interchanging blocks, parries and strikes, “-is about connection.”

She spins, almost getting a strike to the collarbone in. “If you fight the person-”

“You fight the connection,” Boimler finishes, parrying a strike to the groin with a rueful grin. “It’s about trust.”

He pulls back out of hitting range, signaling a reprieve. “So, why aren’t you trusting your partner?” His eyes shift over her shoulder, most likely finding Ransom’s in the crowd.

She takes in a few breaths, trying not to heave. Sweat runs down her back and thighs and palms, making her skin burn with discomfort. Brad stands a few feet away, looking equally sweaty and exhausted. His eyes find hers again, questioningly.

“Maybe you’re shit a judging compatibility,” she says breathily, tilting her head. “You really found the first hunk with daddy issues and a savior complex and thought yeah nothing will ever go wrong with this -”

“Hey!” Ransom’s voice is easily ignorable, so she does just that.

“-and called it a fucking day?” She snorts, shaking her head. “Do you think I’m really that predictable? Tell me,” she jerks her chin toward her mother, toward that damn clipboard with all of Boimler’s stupid notes, “what’s your professional analysis on me, Officer Boimler.”

“Marin-”

She takes a step forward, well within range for him to take a point. “What has you so tied up in knots that you can’t even do your goddamn job and correctly pair-”

“You’re reckless ,” he hisses, getting up in her face. They’re almost the same height, but she still has to tilt her head upwards to maintain eye contact. “You put others in danger out in the field and you wait too long to finish the fight you could have ended three moves ago and there’s absolutely no way to find a compatible partner for you because no one is!”

His breath mingles with hers as they both heave. His eyes are wide, pupils dilated, and there’s a flush-from the heat and the anger—crawling up his neck and into his face—that stupid face that she wants to punch or slap or ki-

“That’s enough.” Her mother’s voice rings out through the silent room.

Boimler blinks in surprise, as if only just realizing that there are other people in the room. People that include an entire crowd of spectators and his commanding officer, who have been watching this strange back-and-forth the entire time.

He takes a step back, face going from a light pink flush to a deep red one, and runs a hand through his hair. “Marshal Freeman?” His posture has stiffened.

Beckett turns to face her mother, reluctance and exhaustion vying for dominance. “Ransom is a fine officer and a decent sparring partner, but if you’re going to pair me with him than you can forget it. I’m not even asking for vulnerability, but if my partner can’t drop the cocky attitude, there’s no way this is going to work.”

Freeman raises her eyebrows. “Vulnerability? I wasn’t aware that was a requirement for drifting.”

“Drifting is about connection,” Beckett says, tossing Boimler a smug look. “I can’t trust someone unwilling to be honest with me. I would rather someone look me in the eye and tell me what they think of me than put up a cocky front and a flirty attitude.”

Something in Freeman’s face sharpens. It’s an expression that Beckett knows well—that pleased feeling of having won. “Well then,” she says. “If that is the case. Officer Boimler, Ranger Beckett, you’re both expected to report to at 0500 to prep for the maiden flight of Cerritos -”

“Wait what—”

“Marshal you have to be joking—”

“Don’t interrupt me,” Freeman snaps. “We are on a time limit here. Every moment spent wasting time is another potential loss for millions and I cannot afford my team messing around.” She moves forward, coming to a stop just in front of the practice mats. “Ransom is a fine officer,” she nods at him respectfully, “but you’re right. He’s not a good fit. You need someone who challenges you, yes, but you also need someone who’s going to ground you.”

“And you think that—that he is going to-” Beckett sputters, waving a hand in Boimler’s direction.

“Usually I would be offended by that, but I’m on her side,” Boimler blurts out. Beckett gives him an almost grateful nod. “Marshal, you cannot be serious about-”

She cuts them both off with a glare. “This isn’t up for discussion. Billups, get them together before tomorrow, Shaxs I want Cerritos ready for launch in six hours, and you two-” she points at the two gaping new drift partners. “Take a shower, you both stink.”

As she power walks away, crowd dispersing in her wake and officers rushing off to comply with orders, Beckett turns back to Boimler.

He’s still staring after her mom, face ashen.

“Well don’t look too excited.”

He shifts his gaze toward her. “What.”

“Nevermind. Shit.” She drops her staff pressing her palms into her eyes. “I really have to drift with a bonehead farm boy.”

The noise Boimler makes in the back of his throat is unintelligible. “How do you think I feel? I have to drift with a cocky egomaniac who just tried to prove a point through the power of violence.”

Beckett can’t help it. She grins, dropping her hands. “Could be worse.” She picks up the staff and grabs Boimler’s out of his hand, walking them back to their resting place. “You could be drifting with Ransom.”

“Ugh.”

“See,” she points at him, scowling. “My exact point. Why the fuck would anyone want to be his copilot? I don’t want that man in my head.”

“You don’t want me in your head either,” Boimler points out.

“You're a damn sight better than him,” she grudgingly admits. “Even if you are scrawny as shit.”

His mouth twists into something between a smile and a grimace. “I’m not sure whether or not that was supposed to be a compliment, but I’ll take it.”

There’s a pause. A little awkward, although Boimler is still smiling at her. Something behind his eyes is searching, curious. As if he has a million questions that he’s not allowed to ask or that she won’t answer.

If the drift goes well, there’ll be no need for curiosity or questions.

“So,” Beckett sighs, resigning herself to the fact that this dweeb is going to fucking mind meld with her at 5 fucking am tomorrow. “Showers?”

His face turns red—again—and it’s almost endearing. “I-”

“Separate showers,” she clarifies, although for some stupid reason the back of her neck is heating up. “Duh.”

“Right. Right, separate-right.” He’s back to being flustered again, which is cute but-

Wait. Cute?

Oh no. Oh fuck. Oh sweet mother of aliens that rose from the ocean and ate San Francisco, Beckett Mariner thinks this lanky, purple haired, nerd is cute.

This cannot be happening.

“Shower!” she squeaks out, backing up as quickly toward the exit that she can while being exhausted as shit . “I’m just gonna-yeah. Shower. Bye.” She all but runs from the room, face steadily going warmer and warmer, heart pounding like she’s about to have a fucking attack or something.

Brad Boimler is about to be in her head and she thinks he’s cute.

She slides to a stop, back resting against the wall as she heaves in gasping breaths.

“Fuck.”

[prurientpuddlejumper]

Guerrerita, Part 3

 <- Part 2

Summary: The first time you met Nevada Ramirez was also in a dark alley. 

1,577 words

“You owe me.”

“What?” you hissed, whipping around to face the threatening voice. You kept your face hard, showing no sign of weakness, even as you saw the three intimidating men who had followed you into the alley outside a shady, semi-legal MMA tournament.

“I had a lot of money riding on that fight,” said the shortest of the three, tsk-tsking. His shoes were shiny black leather—expensive, but tacky. He held a cigarette between his teeth when he wasn’t speaking and wore all black except for the gold cross flashing around his neck, pendant resting in a bed of dark chest hair. The two flanking him were bulky heavyweights, over six feet, at least two hundred-fifty pounds a piece, which meant you probably couldn’t take them. Not both at once. They dwarfed the center guy, but they were waiting on his signal to do anything. The small one was the brains. The boss. He was the one you had to keep your eyes on.

“So what? Not my problem.”

You shrugged your gym bag over you shoulder and turned to leave, but his goons stepped forward sharply, ready to grab you, and you thought better of it. As much as you’d rather not show them you were scared, this was the kind of dangerous you didn’t turn your back on.

“Oh, sweetheart. You think I’m playing? You come into my town, looking like a nervous mousy little rookie. Oh, pobrecita bebita, que tierna,” he mocked baby-talk at you, pouting his lips. “Get everyone betting against you, then the bell rings and you turn into a wild fucking animal. You run a hustle on my turf? Way I see it, that is your problem.”

Your left nostril began to twitch and the corner of your mouth curled into a snarl. “Then get some fucking glasses.” A small voice inside begged frantically, don’t do this now, calm down, but it was already drowned out by a dark, reckless pulsing in your ears. You didn’t like being threatened. Somewhere along the line your stubborn refusal to take any more shit from assholes turned into a fury you couldn’t control, that overrode your own self-preservation. Your bruised fists curled for another fight.

The boss just laughed, a harsh, barking, sarcastic show of power. His men stayed put, for now. “What a dirty mouth. Little warrior here, huh? I like that, I like that.” He prowled toward you, a crooked smirk without teeth bending his neatly trimmed stubble. If he wasn’t such a scumbag you would have called him handsome. Maybe that was what kept you at bay, apart from the knowledge that the second you launched yourself at him in a hail of fists, the two big guys would kill you—because his face was too pretty to bloody up. “Guerrerita, you don’t know who you’re fucking with.”

“You want money, go after the bookies. They’re the ones making bank,” you challenged, taking a few backwards steps to keep distance from him. “I don’t know what kind of hustle you think I’m running, but I bet my last fifty bucks on myself and I’ll still be lucky to make rent. I am not giving a cut to some wannabe gangsters.” You planted your feet at the spot where the alley curved and some old shipping crates created a pinch-point where your smaller size might afford some advantage, and refused to back off another inch.

He stopped, keeping several feet of distance, too. Taking one last drag, he threw his cigarette butt down and crushed it out.

“I’m the King of the Heights, sweetheart,” he explained, as if that should mean anything to you. “Nevada Ramirez.” He extended a hand to shake, and you dropped into a defensive stance. You didn’t like the way he looked you up and down, scrutinizing you with a gaze that made goosebumps rise along your arms. Your muscles twitched in anger and terror, and you tried to balance the two emotions so you could maybe get home in one piece.

“Alright, Mr. Ramirez. Why don’t you and your boys back the fuck off and let me go home. Because you try to follow me, rough me up? I promise it won’t be worth your time. You watched me fight. Before your boys back there can take me down, I’ll have your balls shoved down your goddamn throat. And yeah, you can have your boys shoot me dead.” You noticed the muscle had reached for concealed weapons the moment their boss got within range of your fists. “But what a waste. I’ve never done anything to you. I’m not a threat to your… kingdom? Not unless you attack me first. So why don’t we both just go about our merry ways in peace?”

He laughed again. Dry. Harsh. Your defiance entertained him, but he was growing impatient.

“What makes you think you can tell me how to run this town?” The hard edge to his voice raised the hairs on the back of your neck. As much as you liked to think you’d hit rock bottom and didn’t give a damn anymore, you’d never been murdered. As many impulsive fights as you’d gotten yourself into, you had never been so sure that losing would result in your body in a bag. He smiled when you had no more snappy comebacks, relishing the growing fear in your eyes. His posture opened up, suddenly all friendly. “You’ve got me all wrong. No one’s gonna kill you, guerrerita.”

“Then what do you want?”

“I want to know what’s a high-class broad like you doing here?” He raised his eyebrows. His knowing grin sent a jolt down your spine, and he looked satisfied by your reaction, which confirmed his assumption.

Nevada could read people, and he could smell suburbs on you. Nice house. Good family. Educated. White picket fence and a dog. Apparently he couldn’t smell the trauma or the failed stint in the Marines thanks to your occasional but fun penchant for sucker punching assholes without thought to rank.

“What’s it to you?” Your teeth ground together. Like hell you’d ever tell him that story.

“You owe me for that stunt in there. And I know how you can pay me back.”

Now it was your turn to laugh. “Good luck if you think my family will pay you ransom. You think I’d be here if—”

“Work for me.”

Your mind went blank. For several seconds you stared, wondering if you’d heard him right. Finally you blurted incredulously, “What?”

“Come work for me, and we call your debt even.” He looked you up and down again with a smirk. “Bet you clean up into some nice arm candy, classy girl like you.”

You took another step back despite yourself, stomach turning. “No fucking way. I don’t need a pimp, and if you even think of touching me I swear to fucking god...” Your voice turned into a threatening snarl as disgust turned to rage. Your muscles twitched, ready to do as much damage to his handsome, jeering face as possible before being killed. You would rather die than go through that again.

“Whoah, easy,” Nevada laughed, putting his hands up in surrender, but with enough dripping mockery to make it a power move. “Nothing like that. Security.”

“Security?”

“You get knocked in the head too many times?” he raised his eyebrows over his shoulder back at his guys, and they laughed along like trained seals. “Think about where you are. You just won a contest for beating the shit outta people. Security.”

“You want me to be a bodyguard?”

“Now she gets it,” he smiled, and it was pure delight. “Enforcers that look the part are a dime a dozen—face full of scars, covered in macho tats. They send a certain message, don’t they? Usually the intimidating shit is what you want. But some situations call for a bit more… nuance than these pendejos.” He jerked his thumb toward the giant brawlers still lurking behind him. One of them sulked. “You could be subtle. When business requires I don’t advertise I brought muscle. Imagine it,” his tongue darted over his lower lip. “Put you in a dress two sizes too small, and nobody sees you coming until your fist is through their skull. I bet folks underestimate you all the time.”

You almost laughed that the idea of protecting him when he must have known you’d just as soon put a fist through his skull. Working with criminals didn’t sit well with you. Though your life had been one downhill spiral since all the shit that kicked you off your shining life trajectory, you had never done anything illegal. If you didn’t count misdemeanor battery. Which you didn’t. You only punched assholes who deserved it. And you were fairly sure this Nevada Ramirez character deserved it. You didn’t trust him, and you did not take well to being shaken down.

But then he said people underestimated you. His eyes were the color of the sky before thunder: bright, ominous, and flashing dangerously. And when he said it, his bright eyes locked straight onto yours, like he knew. For the first time in your life, it felt like someone was seeing you, the deepest parts of you, and actually liked what he saw.

You didn’t have much of a choice, anyway. It was either accept the job, or have some drug kingpin sic his enforcers on you for your last dollar. 

“What do you need me to do?”

• ● • ━━━━━─ ••●•• ─━━━━━ • ● •

Tags: @beccabarba  @caked-crusader @itsjustmyfantasyroom @thatesqcrush @dianilaws @permanentlydizzy @eclecticreader2020   @mrsrafaelbarba​ @da-po 

[ashdumpsterpile]

ao3

It’s a sexy, sexy day when Beckett gets her promotion to the Cerritos.

She’s been a lower decks officer on the USS Vulker for six slutty years and it’s been the closest thing to paradise that she’s experienced since that time Marvin tried to snort Dorito dust and ended up summoning an ancient wish giving god when he sneezed it out on an alien substance Dr. L’Vertiss was analyzing as a possible cure for the parasites that were infecting the Academy.

Being a lower decks officer meant three things: contraband, causal hookups and constant disrespect of Starfleet Protocol. Everything Beckett wanted in a career. Fortunately, the Vulker was the bottom of the barrel when it came to starships, so they weren’t exactly looking too close to her record. Which was fine by Beckett, who was trying to fly under the radar ever since her mother had demoted her so hard, she’d ended up on a whole other ship, quadrants away from the Cerritos.

Thanks Mom.

So anyway, it’s a sexy, sexy day when her mother calls her, mainly because she’d just gotten out of alien jail and gotten a cool tat out of the deal, but also because she hasn’t heard for her mother in a while and, okay, maybe she misses her just a little bit. Even if she’s probably calling for Not Good Reasons.

Beckett flips her comm open and steels herself to get yelled at for whatever.

“I’m retiring,” are not the words Beckett is expecting. She squints suspiciously at her comm, vaguely concerned that a shapeshifter has replaced her mom.

“No, you’re not.”

“Yes I am.”

“I’m pretty sure you’re not.”

“Beckett—”

“You love being Captain and sitting in the chair and telling Ransom to stop giving himself sexy eyes in every reflective surface! Why would you retire?”

Her mom pinches the bridge of her nose, looking tired. “This is why I wanted to tell you in person—”

“Tell me what in person—”

“—Shaxs is dead.”

Beckett stops walking. Blinks down at her comm. Once. Twice. “What.”

“So is half the crew. This is less of me retiring and more of me…cutting my losses before Starfleet officially demotes my ass.”

Beckett’s day is slowly turning into an unsexy day. “And you’re just letting them!? You’ve been a Captain for what—”

“Beck—”

“Fifteen years and a Starfleet Officer for even longer! They can’t demote you—”

“They can and they will. Look,” Mom sighs. “They’re putting together a new crew as soon as the Cerritos is given the clear. There’s barely anyone left from the main crew who even wants to stay after this mess.”

“What happened?”

“That’s classified,” Mom says, which Beckett takes to mean hack my official report if you want to know. “And don’t go digging for it,” she adds.

Beckett resists pouting, only because the situation is so. Weirdly serious.

“I’m not calling you because of that, however. Ransom is being transferred to the Titan. It’s only thanks to his initiative and Officer Boimler’s quick thinking that we’re even alive right now.”

The sound of the warp core, buzzing in the background, seems too loud, all of the sudden. Beckett swallows, feeling sick.

“Officer Boimler is being promoted to Captain. I’ve recommended you as his First Officer.”

Beckett doesn’t realize she’s laughing until she starts choking from it. A group of ensigns, clustered at the end of the hallway she’s standing in, give her weird looks before quickly vacating the area.

“That,” she says, once she’s caught her breath, “is the dumbest fucking idea I’ve ever heard.”

Mom gives Beckett her Captain™ face.

“I’m an ensign. Lower decks. Bottom of the barrel.” Beckett continues, grinning. “Not officer material.”

“Top of your class. Present in the Dominion War. Only gets demoted because she cares more about people than rules.” Mom gives a smug smile. “Perfect match for the Cerritos.”

There’s a weird, hot pressure in the corner of Beckett’s eyes. “Mom.”

“Boimler has a stick up his ass, he could use someone who loosens him up a little. Pays less attention to protocol,” Mom adds.

Beckett shakes her head, smiling. “I’d give him a heart attack a week in.”

“I’m counting on it. At least think about it, will you? And for god’s sake, go shower. I can see the filth on you, light years away.”

Beckett laughs, but this time it’s real. “Yeah Mom, I will.” Then, “I’m glad you like. Didn’t die or whatever.”

Mom rolls her eyes. “Thank you, problem child. So am I. I’ll take to you later.”

The connection blacks out, leaving Beckett staring at her own dim reflection in the screen.

She does look like shit. Maybe a shower isn’t a bad idea after all.

_____

The letter stays in her inbox for six unslutty days before she finally clicks on it. Turns out, even though Mom is no longer a Captain, her recommendation must’ve meant something because there it is, a nice, shiny, transfer request.

It’s signed Captain Brad Boimler and that is where Beckett draws the line because she is not working for someone named Brad.

Maybe if you had been on the Cerritos, Shaxs wouldn’t have died, a snide voice sounds in her brain. Beckett immediately shuts that voice down because that’s fucked up and she didn’t go through four years of Starfleet mandated therapy to still be fucked up.

(She’s still kinda fucked up, but that’s okay.)

Dad finally starts spamming her inbox—and she really wants to know how Mom got him on her side, they’ve barely spoken since the divorce—so Beckett, with great reluctance, reviews the transfer request again.

It’s bullshit.

“This is bullshit,” she tells Dad.

“I know, but if I have to get one more message from your mother, demanding why you haven’t taken the position—”

“Okay, fine I’ll do it, but only because I want to see why Mom promoted Brad to Captain.”

_____

Mom either promoted Brad to Captain because he was that good of a suck up or because his hair is super distracting. Either way, Beckett is two seconds away from saying fuck this shit and demoting her own ass back to the Vulker.

He walked through the door like a minute ago and she’s already had him pegged. His clothes are neatly pressed, hair perfectly coiffed, and his hands nervously flutter around, as if he’s unsure what he should be doing with them. He can’t have been an officer longer than a few months before he was promoted Captain, that’s for sure. Beckett literally has no idea what Mom was thinking when she gave him the chair.

She waves him down toward her table.

Brad takes one look at her unbuttoned collar, nonregulation boots, and unkempt hair and sighs. “Captain Freeman recommended you?” his voice is disbelieving.

“That’s the word, my dude.” Beckett leans back, eyeing him over the half empty glass of whiskey she’s been nursing. “Captain Brad, take a seat,” she says, in her Serious voice.

Captain Brad sits across from her. “It’s Captain Boimler, actually.”

“Brad’s fine.”

His eye twitches. “Officer Mariner—”

“Ensign,” she interrupts, cheerfully.

Brad pauses. Blinks. She gestures to the single pin in her collar.

“Oh. Wait. What?”

“Yeah, I was lower decks on the Vulker before Captain Freeman emotionally blackmailed me into meeting with you.”

She snaps her fingers at the bartender and gestures toward Brad while she waits for the man in question to process the fact that a lower decks ensign was being offered a First Officer promotion.

It, surprisingly, takes only a few seconds before he bounces back. “I didn’t have time to look at your file,” he admits, sounding a bit frustrated. “I’m usually more on top of my work but—”

“Don’t sweat it, Bradthaniel. If you’d read my file, I seriously doubt you’d have agreed to meet with me.”

He raises an eyebrow. “You kill an Admiral or something?”

“Or something,” she agrees, mind flashing back to all of the redacted and classified sections of her file. The bartender places a glass of purple liquid in front of Brad and refills Beckett’s drink. Beckett salutes him lazily with her glass. “I’m more interested in you. How’d you land a captaincy at, what, twenty-six?”

“Twenty-nine,” he grits out, as if that still isn’t weirdly young to be that high in the chain of command. “How’d you get Freeman to recommend you?”

“Oh, I didn’t,” she flips her ponytail obnoxiously. “She called me.”

“Sure.”

“What, am I not ‘First Officer Material?’” she mocks, wrapping finger-quotes around her words.

He rolls his eyes. “No offense—”

“Complete offense already taken—”

“But you are the least promotable person I’ve ever met.”

Beckett grins. “Now you’re getting it. We got a Bridge Crew yet?”

“I—” he blinks at her for a moment. “I’m still trying to put the rest of the Bridge Crew together, but it’s been insane lining up schedules and—”

“Leave it to me.”

“Wait, what?”

“That’s my job. You manage me, I manage the crew. I’m basically a glorified secretary now.”

Brad looks like he’s seeing an error screen in front of his eyes. “So, you’re taking the job,” he concludes, voice hilariously defeated.

“Someone needs to make sure my M—uh, Captain Freeman’s ship doesn’t blow up.”

“I handled it fine the first time.” He rolls his eyes carelessly, which kind of pisses her off.

She gives him a smile. Knows it doesn’t reach her eyes. “Tell that to the 567 casualties.”

His face goes very pale. An incredible feat considering his already milky complexion. She can’t tell if he’s angry or about to cry. “Shut up. You weren’t even there, how would you know—"

“Yeah, you were there, so why the fuck didn’t you do something?” she hisses. All she can see is Shaxs’ scarred face in the back her head. She’d been a pain in the Bridge Crew’s asses, but most of them had been genuinely upset when she’d been transferred.

“You’re a pain in my ass, but you’ve got guts,” Shaxs had admitted once, looking impressed, which was his way of saying you’re fucking adopted go do 200 pushups.

Beckett has seen a lot of death in her 26 years, but this one hurts because this is her Mom’s family. Half of them are dead and she wasn’t there and fucking Brad was.

Fucking Brad is still staring at her, eyes unreadable, mouth set in a hard line. He snatches up the file and flips it open, fingers deftly shuffling through the printed-out paper documents she’d complied last night. “I’m overseeing ship repairs tomorrow. 0500 hours. Be there.”

“Wait what?” Beckett hears herself say, aware that she’s gaping at him.

“I’ll have to run these through background checks before I can approve them for transfer, and I’d like to meet with them in person before I make any decisions.”

“Dude.”

“What,” he snaps, eyes meeting hers defiantly.

“You’re seriously approving my transfer?”

“Do you not want me to?” his brow furrows in confusion.

“You called me the ‘least promotable person’ like ever! I just like insulted the fuck out of you!” she whisper-shrieks. “You’re supposed to get mad and tell me to fuck off back to whatever corner of the galaxy Freeman dragged my ass out of, not make me your First Fucking Officer.”

“Well I’m not. Congratulations First Officer Mariner, you’re expected to report for duty—”

“Oh fuck you—”

“On the Cerritos three weeks from now during her relaunch.”

Beckett is on the verge of stabbing this bastard in the eye with his own stylus. “But why?”

Brad pauses, halfway out of his seat, hands still clenched tightly around the file. “Why what?”

“Don’t be fucking coy, why are you approving my transfer, you absolute nugget,” she hisses.

“Captain Freeman recommended you.”

“Are you seriously that much of a suck up—”

“The Cerritos isn’t that great of a starship, but Captain Freeman is a good captain,” Brad interrupts. “We went through some real shit together. She didn’t deserve what happened to her. The least I can do is honor her last request.”

And with that, Brad stands up and sweeps out of the bar.

“Dramatic exits are my thing!” she shouts after him.

_____

She’s pissed, mostly because Brad had the actual audacity to approve her transfer, but also because how fucking dare he be an actual nice person?

Okay, maybe not a nice person, she decides, as she crawls out of bed at 4 fucking thirty am. Morning people are hell spawn, but he’s a decent person.

Whatever, it’s not as if she’s going to start liking him or trying to be his friend or whatever.

“If it doesn’t work out, I can get myself demoted in like two days,” she decides, out loud, tying her hair out of her eyes. Her reflection stares back at her, tired.

So of course, Brad is annoyingly awake.

“Of course you’re a fucking morning person,” she mutters, falling into step behind him.

“Haven’t had your coffee yet?” he snips back, eyes glued to his data padd.

She glares at his back, but makes no comment.

By the time Beckett is fully awake and functioning, she’s already dissociated three separate times and had a mini panic attack twice.

The ship is FUCKED.

The primary hull has been completely ripped apart, like something took a large bite out of the side, and both propulsion units are missing. Beckett peaks over Brad’s shoulder and gets a good look at the interior damage.

“You guys ejected the warp core?” she shrieks in his ear. “Dude that is so badass.”

Brad jumps and pushes her off him. “Wha—get off me, what are you doing—”

Beckett snatches the padd away from him and begins to rapidly scan through the damage reports. “Shit, it’s going to take weeks before we’re back in space. What’s the ETA on getting a new core in? Oooh, we should also add reflective panels, I hear the Enterprise is so bright, nothing ever gets done on there.”

Brad snatches his padd back. “Yeah, I think we can pass on that one.”

“You’re no fun.”

“Being a Starfleet Officer isn’t supposed to be fun—although I do find enjoyment in managing and organizing information—”

“Oh yawn, you’re a pencil pusher.”

“Did you just say ‘yawn’ out loud?”

“Do you need your hearing checked, Captain Brad?”

“It’s Boimler,” he hisses.

“Captain Boimler Brad,” she corrects, easily.

He stomps off, all huffy, but whatever. It’s not her fault Captain Brad doesn’t have a sense of humor.

_____

It takes about a month for the Cerritos to get back into working condition. Beckett would be impressed with how quickly Starfleet is able to get her back in commission, except for the fact that, well. It’s Starfleet. They’re great at what they do, even if what they do isn’t so great.

By then she’s already sent her Dad over seventeen furious voicemails and threatened her mother with six different kinds of legal action if she doesn’t “pick up her goddamn fucking comm.”

Mom does pick up her call and she does agree to meet with her.

“This is bullshit,” she says, after hugging the ever-living shit out of her favorite parent. “I can’t believe you’re making me do this.”

Mom rolls her eyes. It’s like looking in a mirror. “Kiddo, I’ve never been able to make you do anything.”

This was probably true, but Beckett needs someone to blame. “He’s worse than you. Or Dad. Mom he likes paperwork. He’s a morning person. Yesterday he asked me my opinion on the Oxford comma.”

Mom makes a complicated face. Beckett suspects she’s trying not to laugh. “That does sound like Boimler,” she admits, sighing. “Please tell me you’re playing nice.”

Beckett decides not to tell her about the whole “I was a bitch to him because I have no idea how to grieve” deal. “Hey, I can be nice.”

“Hmm.”

“Okay, maybe I’m giving him a hard time, but come on! You could have chosen anyone to promote. Hell, you should have picked Ransom, not transferred him!”

“Ransom doesn’t have the head to make tough calls.”

“And Brad does?”

Mom gives her a look that says she knows something Beckett doesn’t. Beckett hates that look. “I think he knows what he’s doing when he forgets he’s in charge.”

“What the fuck does that mean?”

“It means give him a chance before you decided to drop him in a wormhole,” is the dry response she’s given.

Beckett makes no promises.

_____

The Cerritos leaves Starbase 375 on an uneventful day. About eighty percent of the original crew has been completely replaced, most notably, the Bridge Crew. Senior staff is now complied of Officer’s Captain Freeman had promoted before her resignation, but there’s are a few that Beckett herself has recommended. Seems like Brad had actually taken a look at the file.

Beckett takes her seat next to Captain Brad and prepares herself for the madness that’s going to commence from being First Officer on the lamest ship in Starfleet.

The Cerritos has been in deep space for three boring, uneventful weeks.

The only fun Beckett has found in any of it is by torturing Brad. And she’s not even trying! Beckett just has one of those personalities that rubs well-organized people the wrong way. Yes, sometimes she thrives off chaos, and yeah she does things in her own time, but it’s just who she is.

Brad doesn’t seem to appreciate any of her suggestions, calling most of them illegal and dangerous and being all shouty about it.

He’s also a huge stickler for regulations and shit. It’s way, way worse than working with Mom. Beckett’s about to start climbing walls from the sheer boredom of being a First Officer. The only thing she does anymore is sleep, paperwork and fight with Brad, rinse, repeat.

And then she meets Lieutenant D’Vana Tendi.

The first thing Beckett thinks when she runs into the hyperactive Orion is that if Dr. T’Ana had retired along with the rest of the senior crew, Tendi could have easily picked up the mantle. The girl’s a fucking prodigy, mad scientist level of genius.

The second thing Beckett thinks when she meets Tendi is I am way gayer than I thought I was.

“Hey, you’re Mariner!” Tendi chirps, excitedly bouncing up to her. Dr. T’Ana, who had been discussing something medical and boring with the Orion, groans and stomps off the minute she lays eyes on Beckett. Which, rude. Beckett didn’t want to talk to her anyway.

“Oh nice, my reputation proceeds me,” Beckett grins, brushing off her hurt. “As does yours, Lieutenant Tendi.”

Tendi’s cheeks turn a little blue.

There’s an amused snort behind her. “Already flirting with the locals, Mariner?” a familiar voice dryly asks.

Beckett’s mouth drops open. “Rutherford?”

Rutherford, who was messing anxiously with a cyber implant over his eye that he definitely did not have three years ago, grins at her. “Long time, no see!”  

Tendi whirls around. “You know Mariner?”

“She used to be lower decks with me,” he explains.

“Yeah, back in the day,” Beckett agrees, examining her nails. “It was pretty badass.”

Rutherford snorts and gives her a look which clearly conveys I know why you were transferred dumbass. Beckett gives him a look back and hopes it communicates to shut the fuck up.

“You driving Boimler crazy yet?” Rutherford asks, instead of spilling her dirty secrets.

Tendi does this cute snort/giggle thing behind her Padd. “Like you haven’t been present for his ‘daily complain about Marin—‘”

Rutherford lightly kicks Tendi who quite promptly shuts up.

Beckett frowns suspiciously at them.

“Anyway, it’s great to see you Mariner!” Rutherford continues. “Congrats on making First Officer by the way,” he adds in a tone of voice that implies that she will be telling him exactly how she had landed the position later.

“I guess my record speaks for itself.” Beckett smirks.

“Uh hu,” he eyes her disbelievingly. “See you at the bar after our shifts?”

Beckett sighs. “I’ll have to pass. Brad gave me so much fucking paperwork to do that I’ll never get a day off again.”

“Look at you following the rules!” Rutherford punches the air. “I knew you had it in you. I guess I’ll see you around!” He hops off the bio-bed and heads off toward Engineering.

Tendi frowns after him. “At least he still sounds like himself, right?”

That’s a weird thing to say. “Huh?”

The Orion blinks up at her, startled. “Oh, you don’t know? He was in an accident. Full year of his memory completely wiped. He remembers Brad, and you, I guess, but.” She looks down, defeated.

“Oh.” Beckett feels squeamish at the sudden emotion present in the conversation. “That, uh, that really sucks.”

“Yeah.” Tendi shakes herself. “Well, enough buffer time, I’d better get back to work. It was great meeting you, Mariner!”

“Likewise, Lieutenant Tendi,” Beckett flashes her most charming grin. “See you on the Bridge?”

Tendi glances back at Dr. T’Ana, who’s impatiently glaring at them. “Yeah, we’ll see about that.”

_____

The next few weeks go by in rapid succession. It’s either very very boring and leaves Mariner missing her life as a lower decks officer or it’s incredibly fast pace with weird shit that leaves her chasing the next adrenaline rush.

But of course most days it’s just Brad yelling at her.

“If you could have your report for Second Contact with the Diququeue’s by tomorrow morning, that would be great.”

“Uh huh.”

“Also, I need you to stop trying to pet J’viv, his culture finds it offensive.”

“Sure thing.”

 “Are you even listening to what I’m saying?!

_____

“Officer Mariner could you—what the fuck are you wearing.”

“Oh yeah, the Padroiques gave me this cool jacket.”

“I don’t even—what—Mariner, go take it off!”

“But it’s pink!”

“It’s putting hair all over my Bridge!”

“That’s not hair it’s—”

 “Oh my god just get rid of it.”

_____

“What the fuck was that!”

“That was me. Doing my job. First Officer stuff.”

“That was you practically starting a war with the Gorgonvians. Again.”

“Dude, their government is super corrupt!”

“That’s their problem! Stop antagonizing alien Ambassadors!”

_____

“Why would you tell them to go fuck themselves?!”

“They pissed me off!”

“I actually can’t handle you right now. Get off my Bridge and go irritate someone else.”

“Fine!”

“Fine!”

_____

“This isn’t working,” she tells Rutherford, snatching at his drink. He gives it up with a sigh and wearily watches her down the purple liquid.

“Maybe start listening to him for once? He is the captain.”

“And that isn’t weird to you? Dude, didn’t he start out lower decks?”

This gets an eye roll out of her usually positive friend. “We all started lower decks. That’s how Starfleet works.”

Beckett decides not to mention that it was definitely not how it worked for her, as that explanation would include revealing that she’s. Well. A Starfleet brat.

“Besides, he’s been a Lieutenant for about a year now and he really handled the Parkled crisis really well. Not that I remember,” he adds, looking a little downcast.

Beckett wrinkles her nose. “Wait, the Cerritos was taken down by Parkleds? No fucking way.” She pulls her data padd out and began tapping away.

“Please don’t hack any mission re—”

“Too late.”

“—ports. Oh shit.” Rutherford rubs at his human eye with one hand. “See this? This is why you’re driving Boimler up a wall.”

Beckett glares at him. “Brad needs to chill out.”

“You need to chill out,” he corrects and then winces. “Sorry, that came out mean. I mean, maybe just try being nice to him? Like what’s the worst that could happen?”

Beckett’s eyes narrow.

_____

“Here, Jen made coffee.”

“If you’re trying to poison me—”

“Why would I poison you?!”

Brad gives her a deadpan stare.

“With coffee!” she adds, for good measure. “I would never defile the gods’ nectar!”

“Ugh, fine,” he snatches at the mug. “Just please stop shouting.”

_____

“I don’t get it!” Beckett rants to Tendi, who’s frowning down at her data padd like it holds the secrets of the universe. “I’m being like super chill for once and he’s still mad!”

Rutherford, who’s doing something cool and science-y to the transporter pad, glances up. “Your version of chill involves way more stabbing than most peoples.”

Tendi nods, eyes still glued to her padd. “Maybe try not challenging Klingons to duels and Boimler will calm down.”

“Uh, he challenged me and then was a sore loser. Not my fault. And I bought Brad a milkshake afterwards to make up for it!”

“Boimler did say that it was unfairly delicious,” Tendi says, pensively.

“I don’t think that was a milkshake,” Rutherford mumbles.

“Point is, why doesn’t he like me yet! Everyone likes me except lame people!”

“So, you don’t think Boimler is lame anymore,” Tendi inquires, grinning at her.

“Shut up, he’s the lamest.”

Rutherford and Tendi share a conspiring look. “Sure.”

_____

So, Brad almost dies. And so do Tendi and Rutherford, because it seems that even though Brad is captain now, apparently the three of them are a tight little trio who’ve been getting up to no good the whole time Beckett was on the Vulker.

That explains a lot actually.

Anyway, there’s some Away Mission nonsense and Beckett just happens to be on the Cerritos because Brad claims that she’s too high strung and that he hasn’t had enough coffee to handle her.

Whatever.

Some shit goes down—again, Beckett isn’t there and doesn’t bother to find out the exact details until much much later—that involves Rutherford and Brad getting infected by some alien disease and suddenly Tendi is dealing with an outright war between the local Camisitites and the Federation and by the time Beckett gets their asses beamed back onto the Cerritos, it’s almost too late.

Rutherford is going to be fine, thanks to his cyborg implants but Brad isn’t looking too hot which means Beckett is Acting Captain.

Fucking great.

It takes her maybe two, three days tops to settle everything out with the irate Camisitite nation and find a cure, but it all works out in the end.

“If you want a Missions Report you can have it after I’ve taken a shower,” she informs a groggy Brad. He blinks up at her from his bio-bed, taking in her disheveled hair, bloodstained shirt, and exhausted expression.

“…cool,” he mutters. “Go away.”

She scoffs at him, dragging a seat up. “I’m good here, actually.”

Brad wakes himself up enough to give her a half-hearted scowl. “Do you ever do as you’re told?”

“Not really, no.” She examines her nails. “Your fault for signing my transfer.”

“So this has all been punishment? Because a good person talked you into a nice, well paying job that I signed off on. I don’t get you.”

“I don’t get you,” she retorts. “Command fucking sucks. It was way cooler when I was an ensign.”

“But you’re really good at it,” he says, surprised. “You’re smart and badass and like way better at everything than everyone else.”

“Wait what?”

“You could have everything! And you’re just wasting it? Do you want me to kick you off ship?”

“Maybe!”

“Well I’m not going to!”

“Why not?!”

He glares at her sullenly. “Figure it out yourself, if you’re so smart.”

_____

“I can’t figure it out!” she snaps, resuming her wild pacing.

Rutherford, who looks like his unending patience is finally, for once, running out, sighs.

(People seem to be doing that a lot around her recently.)

“Figure what out, Mariner?”

“Why did the bastard make me his First Officer?”

“Maybe he’s hot for you,” Tendi suggests, eyebrows wiggling up and down. Beckett shoves her face away.

“Shut up, no way.”

“Just ask him?” Rutherford suggests.

“I did! Like twice! First time he gave me stupid answer and second time he deflected.”

“He gave it to you because he likes you, dummy,” Rutherford says, giving her a friendly shove. “Not like that,” he adds, as Tendi began make kissy faces. “But like. He thinks you’re cool.”

“He thinks I’m cool,” Beckett parrots, unimpressed.

“You are pretty cool,” Tendi agrees. “You like kick everyone’s ass and are super smart and you have street cred.”

“Street cred,” Beckett repeats, trying not to laugh. “Yeah, we’ll go with that.”

“Point is,” Rutherford went on. “He thinks you’re cool. And you know what? I think you think he’s pretty cool.”

Beckett makes a face. “I do not, take that back.”

“You think it’s impressive that Freeman promoted him and it has you all pissy because she threw you off the ship, but you secretly think he’s smart and you think it’s funny that he gets all tied up in knots over protocol,” Rutherford summarizes.

“What are you, my therapist?” Beckett snaps.

“I’m you’re friend. And I think you could be his too if you tried?”

Beckett groans, dropping her face into Tendi’s shoulder. “Fine maybe you’re a little bit right. He hates me though.”

“Trust me, he doesn’t hate you,” Rutherford says, grin in her voice. “You annoy the fuck out of him, sure. But he likes you plenty or he’d have gotten rid of you already.”

“So what do I do?” she mumbles into Tendi’s uniform.

“Go apologize, dumbass,” Tendi advises, shrugging her off her shoulder.

“Ugh.”

_____

She finds him laying on one of the Observation Deck floors, a half-drained bottle of blue substance beside him. Before she can change her mind, she flops down into a seated position next to him. They’re drifting through hyperspace, creating that weird blue effect as their ship speeds past distant stars.

Beckett takes a swig of his contraband, grimacing at the bitter taste.

“I have no idea what I’m doing,” he says, staring blankly out into space.

Beckett feels surprise at his admission—yeah, this man is a bit of a wreck, but he seemed to the type of guy whose contingency plans had contingency plans—but decides not to show it.

“Congrats dumbass, neither to the rest of us.”

Brad frowns. “You always know what you’re doing.”

This actually coaxes a surprised laugh out of her. She collapses backward, laying on the cold deck beside him. “That’s where you’re definitely wrong, dude. I never know what I’m going to do until I do it. Could be committing arson today, could adopt one of those turtle-puppies we saw on Karklon III last week, the list goes on. We’re Starfleet Officers, we have to be flexible about shit,” she adds, turning her head look at him.

He continues to stare straight ahead of him. “I think you make a better Captain.”

Okay, so he’s in a brutally honest mood. She can chill with that.

“I think I’d get us killed in a week,” she counters, truthfully. “I’m way too impulsive to be in charge. For every badass rule breaker, we need pencil pushing stickler, ya know?”

“So what,” Brad turns his head to the side, squints at her skeptically. “Now you want to work together?”

She drops her chin into the palm of her hand, leaning on her elbow. “I’m just saying, maybe I could get myself demoted back to the fucking Vulkner again and maybe you resign your position and become one of those sad sad researchers that get eaten by their own plants and Starfleet discovers your remains six years later when they have to find a cure for a face-eating parasite or whatever. Or,” she continues, before he can interrupt, all pissy, “maybe you need to loosen up, and maybe I need to suck up to command a bit more.”

It’s the closest to an apology as he’s going to get from her.

(He’s been kind of a bitch too, and they both know it.)

Brad turns back to the window—if you can call the entire wall being made of glass a window—and sighs.

“I guess it couldn’t hurt to give it a shot,” he muses—his version of an apology as well, she notes—and then adds, “I can always demote you.”

“Ha! You couldn’t last a day in the chair without me and you know it,” she replies, smugly. “You pretend like you want constant order and everything to be perfectly organized and on schedule, but I know the truth.”

“Really now?” he dryly says. “And what’s that.”

She grins, leaning in. “You’re secretly a rebel.”

“Fuck off.”

“Pffft, I saw your eye twitching during our report to Admiral Travional. You were practically begging me to spill my coffee on him.”

“Okay, I did not tell you to do that—”

“Oh, and that sexy, sexy moment when Tendi punched Captain Lohnersen out? You never once wrote her up for—”

“He was harassing her, I wasn’t going to write her up when he clearly was disrespecting—”

Beckett dangles the bottle of ale in front of him. “Why Captain Brad. Is this. Gasp! Contraband?!”

Brad laughs, snatching the bottle away from her. “I found it in your quarters.”

“And just what were you doing in my quarters, my good sir?”

“I’ll have you know I was dropping off paperwork. That you still haven’t done. From three weeks ago.”

“And you just swiped it off my desk. Tsk, tsk.”

“Confiscated it,” he corrects, still grinning up at her. “For research purposes, of course.”

“Of course.” Beckett grabs the bottle again. Takes another swig. “Surprised you’re still conscious. This shit can blind you, ya know.”

“Yeah, I know.” He grabs the bottle back. “So maybe slow down.”

She rolls her eyes because she has clearly proven numerous times that she can hold her liquor but decides not the start anything. It’s weird, getting along with Brad, but not…unpleasant.

“Hey,” she says, poking his shoulder. “I’m glad you didn’t die.”

His face looks pinched. “Thanks for not letting me die,” he replies, suddenly wary.

She scoffs. “Like I’d let anyone die under my watch.”

Brad sits up. “You mean like I did.”

“Oh.” Beckett blinks at him. “Oh shit. Dude, I was just being an asshole then, I didn’t mean it.”

“But you weren’t wrong. If I had been smarter or—”

“Dude, you cannot think like that,” Beckett grabs his shoulders and makes uncomfortably steady eye-contact. “Even if I had been on the Cerritos when shit went down, I don’t think I could have saved him. You guys were on a time crunch with no backup and I’m surprised Rutherford survived the explosion.”

Brad’s eyebrows furrow. “Wha—did you read Freeman’s Mission Report? I told you to stop—”

She waves him off.  “Doesn’t matter. Point is, stop beating yourself up over it. And stop letting assholes like me make you feel bad,” she adds, as an afterthought.

“Only if you stop challenging people to duels in the Jefferies Tubes,” he counters.

“Deal,” she lies. “You should get in on some of those duels, though. You seem like a sword guy.”

“I can’t even tell if that’s a euphemism or not,” he mumbles. “Are we cool?”

“The coolest,” she confirms. “At least until you see my Missions Report.”

Brad sighs deeply and flops back down. “I’m not even worrying about that right now.”

“Good, because I definitely broke like every protocol ever.”

“Of course you did.”

“And I told the Camisitite’s to call me Captain Mariner, First of her Name.”

“Oh my god—”

“And I challenged their leader to a duel.”

“Mariner what the fuck.”  

[thugnan]

Danger on Deception Island (PC 2003)

Story: 5/10

Characters: 5/10

Puzzles: 4/10

Chores: 6/10

Final Rating: 5/10

This game wasn’t memorable for me but I don’t have any complaints about it. There aren’t any unnecessary puzzles, and it isn’t information heavy (although the plot is education driven imo). The characters I didn’t find particularly engaging but I didn’t find them annoying either. Perhaps I wasn’t excited about it because I played The Creature of Kapu Cave, Ransom of the Seven Ships and Phantom of Venice first which were also sea based plots. I did die a lot in this game because apparently safety was v important.

Plot (spoilers obviously):

Thug Nan heads to Washington for a whale watching vacation. But we all know how these vacations tend to go, you don’t even get the chance to start it before George’s friend get’s her whale boat ransacked.

Upon further sleuthing you learn that this is not a one time thing, many people at Snake Horse Harbor have been victims of this boat part snatching thief. Considering Thug Nan can’t even look at whales now, we have no other option but to do a lil snooping.

You get your helmet and get biking, you meet:

Katie: George’s friend, not very chatty, some sort of marine biologist. She’s kinda cute, I think it’s the freckles but no thnx, I’m loyal to frank joy mattie Ned. She gives whale watching tours, but has major competition with another local Andy Jason.  Recently a whale came into the area and she’s all about protecting it.

Holt Scotto: Local fisherman old guy who is running for harbormaster, he’s salt about the whale and thinks it needs to gtfo so people can fish. Something something about the economy. He thinks Katie needs to stop shoving herself in everyone’s business.

Jenna: Owns the Hot Kettle Cafe, and no offense to this sad town, it’s the only thing that’s ‘happenin’ ‘round here. Her fam has lived here for generations, and she doesn’t seem to like Katie either. She believes that the orca should be reunited with its family.

Andy Jason: Owns the whale watching business that competes with Katie’s. His has a lil museum that I think is p cute. He’s been trying to get Katie to join him for a while now, but it’s because she has access to the whale, where he has to stay 500ft away from it at all times. I guess you could say that they’ve got beef.

As you explore, you find a bunch of bottles with notes in them. Jenna spills the tea on the ex harbormaster and his wife um… shoot what was her name… Hilda Swanson or something close to that. Apparently she went batshit when the harbormaster passed, and lives on some distant island, throwing shit into the ocean. I don’t think that is good for the ocean, but you do you.

I don’t know how this helps the main plot, but I ain't got nothing better to do since I can’t see any whales, I solve her cute little puzzles, this old lady is probably just bored. At some point tho you need some gift that Hilda gave everyone on this island. Altho idk she must not like Katie either because only Andy, Holt and Jenna got a gift.

Because this is a Nancy Drew game, they make you run a bunch of errands before they can let you in on that. Getting your hands on Andy’s is a little tough because you gotta go thru his museum bs, and take his dumb tour to get the complimentary keychain in order to figure out his letters. He also tries to rip me off which just doesn’t sit well with Thug Nan. Thug Nan will remember this.

When you a clammin for Jenna’s task, she gets robbed. Which is like what okay that’s not a boat? U naturally take a gander, and using the information you hustled out of 1-800-askalibrarian and Dr. assistantdirectoroftheNATIONALWOODLIBRARY (wtf),  you finddddddd A SECRET TUNNEL.

Down there you find that it connects to a lot of different stores, the lighthouse, and the sea caves. That’s dope I guess, you find some oil down there, which is great cause that means I can use the morse code thing to send Hilda my phone number so she can call me.

Hilda is allegedly not batshit, there’s apparently a method to her madness? Thug Nan: *doubt* She makes you run around solving poems and she’s vague as faq. I got really annoyed at one so I just looked it up. I’m sorry Hilda but also I’m not sorry.

Somehow this begins to tie back to the boat robber thing, so I’m glad we went on her loony scavenger hunt, because we had absolutely no leads. As I get closer to figuring out the culprit, I get the impression that Hilda knows exactly who the culprit is. B I T C H I ain’t got time to be playing scooby doo, these people are literally about to escape. CALL THE POLICE, CALL THE COAST GUARD, why you wasting time messing with a teenager Hilda??

Anyway Thug Nan has to do all the work around here, as per usual. You find a super secret hide out in the sea caves, where you find the Orca, and a bunch of stolen shit. I KNEW IT, IT WAS THE ORCA ALL ALONG. I kid, but it looks like someone has been training the Orca to steal shit from a shipwreck. Convoluted but ok. You find Katie’s gloves and you’re like “bitch u didn’t

You hightail back to Katie’s boat… and it’s gone. What a filthy ho. You go tattle on her to the townspeople, and apparently no one cares. Except Andy, bless his soul.

You sneak onto a suspect boat, and after much a sneaking you find Katie… tied up. Oh shit… and then you also find ANDY U CHEAPO BUTTFACE LIAR. He’s been a smuggling furs from the shipwreck. I don’t know how old this shipwreck is, but would fur really be okay being underwater for so long?

Well Andy, remember when I told u that I would remember? Well u bet ur butt I remember. I KO dis b wit help of my handy dandy orca friend. And Holt shows up after all with the Coast Guard so I guess he’s not that bad.

Katie votes for Holt, and the military trained whale is released into the wild- wait WHAT? Isn’t that the opposite of what you want to do with whales that weren’t raised in the wild???

The End.

[faithful-grigori]

”#thinking about Marisom again, #I just think like Ransom finally gets his own ship, #and he goes through like 5 first officers in a year, #they're all kiss ass brown nosers who never have any good input on what to do, #because they're to busy trying to agree with him, #and finally Ransoms like 'you know who WILL call me on my shit? Mariner. Mariner has never once had a problem telling me what for', #so he specifically requests her as a first officer, #and she's like 'You're an idiot! Why would you want that?! Yeah no of course I'll do it., #btw you have to transfer all my friends to your ship too. I'm refuse to put up with you if I can't bitch to Brad about it over drinks later', #and like it takes them a year or so#but they really are a good team, #Beckett is often the only person who can actually break through Jacks ego when that needs to happen, #He's the only commander she's ever had who genuinely does believe in her ability to be a good officer, #they just make each other better, #and eventually they realize they want to be romantic partners not just work partners, #idk idk, #I just think it's cute 🥺🥺, #(also very funny to me if they end up having kids and refer to their ship as their 'eldest child'/ 'problem child')”

.