Meme
When you see this, post an excerpt from as many random works-in-progress as you can find lying around. Who knows? Maybe inspiration will burst forth and do something, um, inspiration-y.
Hahaha. Right.
Goin' through the WIP bucket . . . This is only the stuff that's actually been started. (Or finished, in a few cases.)
oc_bigbang bit; I can't even remember what the story is actually titled but I've been calling it 'alien sex pollen' in my head
“Jarvis, my office, five minutes,” Dr. Boyce ordered, a few days later, and ducked back into his office without waiting for a reply. Ally looked at the chrono; her shift ended in five minutes. Great.
Precisely five minutes later, she touched her fingers to the annunciator outside of his office; the door slid open, and she stepped in.
Dr. Boyce was turned away from the door, fiddling with something. “Have a seat,” he said, and Ally dropped into the chair, knees together, palms flat on her thighs. She had no idea why she was in here but it didn’t look good.
He kept her waiting for probably another thirty seconds, and then turned around, a martini glass in either hand. Ally’s jaw dropped, and then she closed it and swallowed.
McCoy treats another OFC
It was the third hour of an eight-hour shift, in the middle of the day, and McCoy's hands were tied, in that the stupid administration appeared to think he was a second-year cadet, not a fully-qualified trauma surgeon with years of experience. Well. Technically he was both, but when assigning him shifts, one would think the latter would weigh heavier than the former.
Oh, no. He was stuck, not in Starfleet Medical's actual hospital, but in the Academy clinic, where he got to listen to cadets whine about being uncomfortable in completely vague places and somehow use that information to determine exactly which fucking STI they'd managed to catch. The little shits.
Capt. One and Gaila meet
[T]he transporter techs opened the pod, revealing the curled-up form of a green-skinned, red-haired woman, wearing most of an operations-red uniform dress. She appeared to be unconscious, but when Dr. Boyce leaned down to touch her on the arm, she moaned and raised her head.
"You're safe," One said quickly in Orion Prime, and then repeated it in Standard.
"I think I'm going to throw up," the Orion woman said in Standard, and leaned over, retching bile onto the floor of the shuttle bay.
One of the security guys took a step back, but Dr. Boyce looked up and glared at him until he sidled back forward. "Do you know your name?" Dr. Boyce asked.
"Yes, of course. Cadet Gaila--or maybe Ensign Gaila. I haven't used my family name in years."
One's eyes flicked to Cait, who poked at her padd and then nodded.
"Cadet, you're on the U.S.S. Yorktown; I'm Phil Boyce, CMO, and she's Captain One. I'd like to get you down to sickbay," Dr. Boyce said. "We have a transport table right here. I'm going to ask my nurses to help you out of the pod, if that's all right."
"Oh, please," Cadet Gaila said, and with a sniff, burst into tears.
Titled 'Spatial Relations,' this one is killing me because I suck at, you guessed it, spatial relations.
>Zero-G ball at 2200?<
One looked down at her padd, saw the blinking message from Chris, and sent back, >I hope you're in the mood for a good old-fashioned ass-kicking.<
>Always. See you then.<
One smiled and got back to her reports.
[No, seriously, that's about all I have written on that one.]
I'm just going to post this one in its entirety. It was kind of for a trans characters fest that someone was having on DW but I'm not particularly happy with it because I don't really think Scotty sounds like Scotty.
Montgomery Scott walked into Dr. McCoy's office and swallowed nervously. Here it was, the moment of no return. "You asked to see me, doctor?"
McCoy looked up, faintly annoyed. "Lieutenant Scott. Your medical records are locked by the admiralty. I sent a comm to Admiral Pike; he couldn't unlock them for me and sent me to Dr. Boyce, who didn't know either."
"Yes, sir," Scotty said, and stopped.
"Well?" McCoy asked. "Who do I need to ask to see your medical files so I don't accidentally give you something that will kill you while you're knocked out from plasma burns?"
Scotty swallowed again, but said nothing.
The doctor's eyes narrowed. "Seriously, Scotty, what can you be hiding in there? It's just medical information, and I need it to do my job."
Scotty bit his lip, and McCoy's face softened a bit. "Scotty, I'm a doctor, not a judge. I don't care if you've had every STI known to Starfleet Medical, or if you've been in treatment for a mental illness, or if you were born with three arms. You're my patient, and I'd rather not screw up from lack of information."
"Admiral Archer, sir," he managed to say.
"The admiral whose beagle you lost?" McCoy's eyebrow flew up. Scotty hesitated. "That's . . . interesting." McCoy made a note on his padd. "That he'd still be in charge of your records after something like that. I mean, I know if I lost someone's prize dog, they'd probably be fixin' to lose me."
"It wasn't about his damned beagle," Scotty snapped. "The admiralty shuffled me off to Delta Vega because I had the audacity to get a major genetic and surgical procedure done after I graduated the academy rather than before like all the other boys." He turned on his heel and stomped to the door.
"Lieutenant Scott," McCoy said, before he got close enough to open the door.
"What," Scotty said, plainly insubordinate and not caring.
"It's just medical information, protected by Starfleet's health information privacy rules, and I need it to do my job, nothing more."
Scotty turned, and McCoy looked directly at him until he said, "Yeah. Well."
"You probably could have sued them, you know," the doctor said, shuffling the padds on his desk like he didn't have a care in the world.
"What, and have everyone know?" he said.
McCoy's lips twisted. "You have a point there."
"Also," Scotty admitted, "I did actually lose the beagle."
McCoy's laughter followed him into the hallway.
Hahaha. Right.
Goin' through the WIP bucket . . . This is only the stuff that's actually been started. (Or finished, in a few cases.)
oc_bigbang bit; I can't even remember what the story is actually titled but I've been calling it 'alien sex pollen' in my head
“Jarvis, my office, five minutes,” Dr. Boyce ordered, a few days later, and ducked back into his office without waiting for a reply. Ally looked at the chrono; her shift ended in five minutes. Great.
Precisely five minutes later, she touched her fingers to the annunciator outside of his office; the door slid open, and she stepped in.
Dr. Boyce was turned away from the door, fiddling with something. “Have a seat,” he said, and Ally dropped into the chair, knees together, palms flat on her thighs. She had no idea why she was in here but it didn’t look good.
He kept her waiting for probably another thirty seconds, and then turned around, a martini glass in either hand. Ally’s jaw dropped, and then she closed it and swallowed.
McCoy treats another OFC
It was the third hour of an eight-hour shift, in the middle of the day, and McCoy's hands were tied, in that the stupid administration appeared to think he was a second-year cadet, not a fully-qualified trauma surgeon with years of experience. Well. Technically he was both, but when assigning him shifts, one would think the latter would weigh heavier than the former.
Oh, no. He was stuck, not in Starfleet Medical's actual hospital, but in the Academy clinic, where he got to listen to cadets whine about being uncomfortable in completely vague places and somehow use that information to determine exactly which fucking STI they'd managed to catch. The little shits.
Capt. One and Gaila meet
[T]he transporter techs opened the pod, revealing the curled-up form of a green-skinned, red-haired woman, wearing most of an operations-red uniform dress. She appeared to be unconscious, but when Dr. Boyce leaned down to touch her on the arm, she moaned and raised her head.
"You're safe," One said quickly in Orion Prime, and then repeated it in Standard.
"I think I'm going to throw up," the Orion woman said in Standard, and leaned over, retching bile onto the floor of the shuttle bay.
One of the security guys took a step back, but Dr. Boyce looked up and glared at him until he sidled back forward. "Do you know your name?" Dr. Boyce asked.
"Yes, of course. Cadet Gaila--or maybe Ensign Gaila. I haven't used my family name in years."
One's eyes flicked to Cait, who poked at her padd and then nodded.
"Cadet, you're on the U.S.S. Yorktown; I'm Phil Boyce, CMO, and she's Captain One. I'd like to get you down to sickbay," Dr. Boyce said. "We have a transport table right here. I'm going to ask my nurses to help you out of the pod, if that's all right."
"Oh, please," Cadet Gaila said, and with a sniff, burst into tears.
Titled 'Spatial Relations,' this one is killing me because I suck at, you guessed it, spatial relations.
>Zero-G ball at 2200?<
One looked down at her padd, saw the blinking message from Chris, and sent back, >I hope you're in the mood for a good old-fashioned ass-kicking.<
>Always. See you then.<
One smiled and got back to her reports.
[No, seriously, that's about all I have written on that one.]
I'm just going to post this one in its entirety. It was kind of for a trans characters fest that someone was having on DW but I'm not particularly happy with it because I don't really think Scotty sounds like Scotty.
Montgomery Scott walked into Dr. McCoy's office and swallowed nervously. Here it was, the moment of no return. "You asked to see me, doctor?"
McCoy looked up, faintly annoyed. "Lieutenant Scott. Your medical records are locked by the admiralty. I sent a comm to Admiral Pike; he couldn't unlock them for me and sent me to Dr. Boyce, who didn't know either."
"Yes, sir," Scotty said, and stopped.
"Well?" McCoy asked. "Who do I need to ask to see your medical files so I don't accidentally give you something that will kill you while you're knocked out from plasma burns?"
Scotty swallowed again, but said nothing.
The doctor's eyes narrowed. "Seriously, Scotty, what can you be hiding in there? It's just medical information, and I need it to do my job."
Scotty bit his lip, and McCoy's face softened a bit. "Scotty, I'm a doctor, not a judge. I don't care if you've had every STI known to Starfleet Medical, or if you've been in treatment for a mental illness, or if you were born with three arms. You're my patient, and I'd rather not screw up from lack of information."
"Admiral Archer, sir," he managed to say.
"The admiral whose beagle you lost?" McCoy's eyebrow flew up. Scotty hesitated. "That's . . . interesting." McCoy made a note on his padd. "That he'd still be in charge of your records after something like that. I mean, I know if I lost someone's prize dog, they'd probably be fixin' to lose me."
"It wasn't about his damned beagle," Scotty snapped. "The admiralty shuffled me off to Delta Vega because I had the audacity to get a major genetic and surgical procedure done after I graduated the academy rather than before like all the other boys." He turned on his heel and stomped to the door.
"Lieutenant Scott," McCoy said, before he got close enough to open the door.
"What," Scotty said, plainly insubordinate and not caring.
"It's just medical information, protected by Starfleet's health information privacy rules, and I need it to do my job, nothing more."
Scotty turned, and McCoy looked directly at him until he said, "Yeah. Well."
"You probably could have sued them, you know," the doctor said, shuffling the padds on his desk like he didn't have a care in the world.
"What, and have everyone know?" he said.
McCoy's lips twisted. "You have a point there."
"Also," Scotty admitted, "I did actually lose the beagle."
McCoy's laughter followed him into the hallway.