#una with blue skin to pass as an andorian has a certain ‘mystique’ about her eh?

[curator-on-ao3]

pikeuna - "How did you get this scar?"

Thank you for this great prompt, @fiadorable! 💕 I considered a few different ideas, but decided to follow a little ENT canon to give Chris a day that starts out lousy but gets a lot better.

For those who prefer to read on AO3:

For those who prefer to read here:

Note: Content warning: Canon-consistent descriptions of an Orion slave market, as well as mention of what can be interpreted as (though not intended as) past, inadvertent branding.

Right Behind You

The red dust of Verex III swirls in Chris’ nose, grits in his eyelashes, catches in heavy patches of mud caked on his sweat-dampened shoulders and thighs. A neurolytic restraint buzzes just under his ear, its clamps in his neck a reminder that even if he somehow managed to escape the Orion Syndicate, the restraint would kill him.

Where would he go, anyway? The crew wouldn’t know where to look for him, and he doesn’t have his communicator.

Or his pants.

So Chris forces one weary leg in front of the other, his shoulders drooped with fatigue as he’s led into the slave market and up onto the slave auction circle. He squints, trying to see the traders who fill the dim room, but many of their faces are covered, and the few discernible faces … don’t look friendly.

A screen to Chris’ left lights up with his price in Federation credits, Klingon darseks, and nearly a dozen other currencies.

Whoa, even Chris couldn’t afford Chris.

Wait. Is that good?

The bidding begins, loud voices, harsh, one speaking over another, his price rising higher and higher, and Chris’ hands find the cool metal bars that ring the front of the slave auction circle — wide bars that don’t even reach waist-high, bars that he could squeeze his body over or under or even between if not for the neurolytic restraint rendering escape impossible — and he holds on tight. He needs to keep his body upright and his mind alert.

The bidding slows, his price stabilizing, and a new voice enters the contest for his ownership.

“You’ve all been had.” Heads turn as the source of the voice stands in the middle of the room, face covered, long legs moving quickly and confidently toward the slave auction circle. “That property you thought you wanted so badly is flawed.”

Is Chris hallucinating her voice, her walk, the contours of her body swathed in thick fabric?

“I’ll prove it.” She reaches the slave auction circle, the other side of the bars, close, so close, yet also an impossible distance away. “Turn so they can see your bare backside, slave.”

It’s her.

It has to be her.

Right?

Chris lets go of the bars, shuffles around … and there are gasps from within the room full of hardened traders.

Okay, that’s a bit much.

It’s not that bad.

“For those who wish to ask this slave, ‘How did you get that scar?’ I advise you to save your breath, as he would no doubt lie to you.” There’s a hand on his rear end, and that had darn well better be her. “But believe your eyes, as what I show you here is clearly a mark of madness … of trouble … of obsession gone terribly wrong.”

On the screen, Chris’ price begins to drop.

“Look at the scar. Look at it!” She’s enjoying herself, glee creeping into her voice as she delivers a stinging smack to his rear end. “Imagine knowing the scar is there and not being able to tell your friends — not being able to tell anyone — of the horror.”

It’s really not that bad.

It’s just … when he was ten years old, he accidentally sat on a just-forged, burning hot horseshoe.

She knows that.

Yet his price plummets.

Chris turns and her face is uncovered, blue with antenna to simulate the appearance of an Andorian. She has a scanner in her hand that’s twisted so he can see the display and she taps to finalize her purchase of him at a hefty discount but it’s still a lot of credits.

Someone removes his neurolytic restraint, incessant buzz silenced, muscles of his neck flexing in newfound freedom, and he walks with her into the dusty night.

“Sorry about that, Captain.” Her murmur is accompanied by a pair of pants she pulls from a pocket of the fabric that shifts around her as she hurries toward what he hopes are transport coordinates or even a shuttle. “Had to lay it on a little thick. You got more expensive than I expected.”

He hops as he pulls on one pants leg, then the other, dust and dirt and mud on his legs catching in the cloth, dislodging, falling down, down, down and out, his tired, sore muscles not as important as jogging a little to catch up with her as his thumbs hook around the waistband to smooth into place the glorious, luxurious comfort of pants. “Thanks. I think. I’m just glad to be out of there — and surprised Bob approved you to buy me out instead of taking weeks or even months to go through proper channels.”

She stops and turns, her smile soft with affection.

“Bob didn’t approve anything. That was from my personal account. You’re mine.” She winks, then pulls her communicator from another fabric pocket and there’s a familiar chirp as she flips it open. “Number One to Enterprise. Two to beam up.”

He was hers, anyway, but a chuckle lifts his chest as the transporter beam sparkles to take them home.

———

Send me an ask with character(s) and a prompt and I’ll do my best to write you a little something that will bid for your readerly heart. 💙

✨ All prompted Pikeuna and Pike & Una ficlets are also available on AO3 as Constellations of Possibility. ✨