Hi, I'd like to introduce my face to my palm. Please get out of the way.
Title: Native Species' Territory Calls, Which When Anthropomorphized Resemble The Sound of Music
Author: gogollescent
Rating: ahahahaha I don't even know. What's the rating for RAPING YOUR CHILDHOOD?
Pairing: None yet. Later? Don't go there.
Summary/Prompt: Captain James T. von Kirk needs a governess for his seven children. Plz note: will only be funny if you have seen the Sound of Music and remember it well. Actually it might not be funny even then. But anyway. Yeah, basically, Star Trek meets the Sound of Music. This is the first act of probably at least five. *facepalm*
Note/Warnings: I'm an idiot. Did I mention the childhood-rape? Yeah. That.
II.I
[Morning. Or, er, well, not morning. But it's early, in any case, and the children are lined up in front of Spock's desk by height. They are not, however, color-coded. Yet. His room is austere, having none of the personal touches he could not help but notice on the night before (rotting pizza, holovids, etc.); this appears to disconcert the youths.]
SPOCK: [Sitting down] We will begin with - ng.
MCCOY: Something wrong, sir?
SPOCK: Ngh.
[The children exchange careful, inquisitive looks. Gary has the grace to look slightly apologetic, probably because he put that-which-we-shall-not-discuss on the seat. Spock does not stand; he closes his eyes briefly, and then opens them again.]
SPOCK: We will begin with a lesson in discipline.
[General groans.]
Namely, singing.
PAVEL: What?
MCCOY: Oh god.
HIKARU: What?
JANICE: Pardon?
LEE: I'm Gary!
GARY: You were supposed to make that joke last scene, Lee.
LEE: ...oh.
CHRISTINE: I've always wanted to take singing lessons!
[Her siblings gape.]
What? I can't spend all my time helping little injured birdies, and they're in short supply on starships, anyway. But Mr. Spock - Keenser doesn't have the right vocal cords to sing.
SPOCK: Ah. That does provide an obstacle. However...
[He rummages through the very small duffel bag at his feet for a time and comes up with a tambourine, which he hands to Keenser. Keenser shakes it with unhealthy enthusiasm.]
Satisfactory. Now... Simulations. Activate.
II.II
[Like magic, the screens fade into sight, and the floor is transformed into an acceptably yellow and rolling dune, under a copper, domed sky. Things tweet cheerily in the background, although there are clicks between tweets and it's all a wee bit surreal. Also, the way the light shines on the children's rather-too-large-and-rapidly-deteriorating Starfleet uniforms makes them look suspiciously like drapery. No one comments on this resemblance, for reasons beyond this narrator's comprehension.]
SPOCK:
Let us begin at the beginning,
a very logical place to commence;
in Earth literacy programs I understand the traditional initiation is A-B-C,
and in music it is the nonsense syllables do-re-mi.
Do-re-mi; repeat after me.
The first three notes in the octave are classically termed to be
do-re-mi. Do. Re. Mi.
(No, I do not know why, Mr. McCoy.)
(Muffle the tambourine if you please. Good boy.)
[To himself] How do humans have it? Do-re-mi-fa-so-la-ti.
Given the maturity levels of my pupils, I will have to simplify extremely.
Do, commonly placed as 120 hertz - no?
You will have to memorize the frequencies.
I know. I will spontaneously compose a musical mnemonic!
Repeat after me.
Do, a female Odocoileus hemionus,
Re, light in an idealized narrow lance,
Mi, the objective first person singular pronoun,
Fa, a subjective measure of distance,
So, an archaic form of clothings-production,
La, a particularly unfathomable name I cannot find a homophone for,
Ti, boiled water saturated with so much sugar it creates suction,
And do again, one octave higher, thanks to the organization of the diatonic cycle.
CHILDREN: ...can we skip the mnemonics?
SPOCK: Very well. Do-re-mi-fa-so-la-ti-do. Do it.
[The children do it.]
SPOCK: Acceptable. So-do-la-fa-mi-do-re?
CHILDREN: So-do-la-fa-mi-do-re.
SPOCK: So-do-la-ti-do-re-do?
CHILDREN: So-do-la-ti-do-re-do.
SPOCK: So-fa-do-mi-ma-ko-sen-so?
MCCOY: Now you're just fucking with us.
SPOCK: I don't know what you mean, Mr. McCoy. Put it all together.
ALL: So-do-la-fa-mi-do-re so-do-la-ti-do-re-do-so-fa-do-me-ma-ko-sen-sooooo!
[As they hold the last note, all lights black out with a crash and a curse from above.]
KIRK: [Over the comm] Why the hell have all the upper level functions of the computers on board been redirected towards... uh... a surround-sound holovid of a generic Vulcan landscape? Lights? LIGHTS! Is this some kind of sick joke?
SPOCK: I believe that concludes our lesson for today. Dismissed.
[Exeunt.]
II.III
[It is late in delta shift and Spock has retired to his quarters. The lights are dimmed, there is a distinct lack of drapes, so on and so forth. As he prepares to undress, he is interrupted by an announcement, and a thousand fangirls cry out in pain as he readjusts his uniform and listens.]
PAVEL: [Over the comm] ...we are encountering a phenomenon which resembles a lightning storm in space...
SPOCK: Fascinating.
[The door slides open, and Keenser waddles in.]
For what reason are you here, Keenser?
[Keenser bats his tambourine forlornly and mimics thunder via careful application of the wrist-wrist-elbow-wrist shake.]
Ah. You are experiencing sensations of trepidation in the face of an unknown encounter and desire illogical reassurance from the nearest mature individual because your... father... is busy manning the bridge?
[Keenser nods and looks pathetic. Also, wrinkly. Spock pats the side of the bed next to him, and Keenser climbs onto the headboard, totally ignoring him. There is a crash, as of thunder. McCoy enters at high speed, screaming.]
MCCOY: It has spikes! And tentacles! And tentacled spikes!
SPOCK: How would you feel about some illogically reassuring (but highly disciplined) vocal accompaniment!
[McCoy manages to inexplicably end up clinging to Spock's leg. Again, no one comments.]
MCCOY: That would just about make my day, you pointy-eared unpleasant-jelly-placed-on-seat-cushions-resistant bastard.
SPOCK: Hm. I understand that conjuring up memories with pleasant associations is the traditional Terran method of suppressing illogical levels of panic?
MCCOY: [Voice somewhat muffled by Spock's knee] Yeah.
SPOCK: What are a few of your preferred activities or images, Mr. -
[Pavel and Montgomery blow in. Pavel looks disgruntled, Montgomery looks unreasonably enthusiastic, and there is a general excess of wet flailing limbs.]
MCCOY: Gather round, we are going to have a musical interlude right about now.
PAVEL: Why -
SPOCK:
Precipitation on a waxy epidermis and spikes on native insects
Shiny new simulators and 18th century Earth writing-resurrects
Anonymous transitions in a mellifluous tone to sing
These are a selection of preferable things!
MCCOY: That's why.
PAVEL: Ah.
[Gary and Lee wander in, more or less unnoticed, and huddle by the foot of the bed. Janice and Christine are already there, having insinuated themselves while you were staring in horror.]
SPOCK:
Balanced differentials and qualified Vulcan lute players
Futuristic yet curiously retro technology and overendowed mayors
MCCOY: Okay, what did I say about the rhymes?
SPOCK: It seems to have slipped my mind, Mr. McCoy.
Buzzards that fly at night with an iridescent layer of oil on their wings
These are a selection of preferable things!
Vulcan girls in square bodices with muddy sashes
Sand that irritates my nostrils and eyelashes
Reddish-brown summers that melt into reddish-brown springs
These are a selection of preferable things!
When Klingons bite
When tentacled storms sting
When I am possessed with illogical grief
I recall a selection of preferable things
And go into an advanced form of denial which allows me to function through the crisis and then run into my room afterwards and break down and cry!
[Shocked silence. The children look each other, and then sing.]
ALL:
Precipitation on a waxy epidermis and spikes on native insects
Shiny new simulators and 18th century Earth writing-resurrects
Anonymous transitions in a mellifluous tone to sing
These are a selection of preferable things!
Balanced differentials and qualified Vulcan lute players
Futuristic yet curiously retro technology and overendowed mayors
Buzzards that fly at night with an iridescent layer of oil on their wings
These are a selection of preferable things!
Vulcan girls in square bodices with muddy sashes
Sand that irritates my nostrils and eyelashes
Reddish-brown summers that melt into reddish-brown springs
These are a selection of preferable things!
When Klingons bite
When tentacled storms sting
When I am possessed with illogical grief
I recall a selection of preferable things
And go into an advanced form of denial which allows me to function through the crisis and then run into my room afterwards and break down and cry!
[Fade to black.]
II.IV
[It's not long after that Pavel creeps out of the freakish place where Spock is cradling Keenser and lining up the rest of the children in military (if short) ranks and files. He tiptoes down to the airlock, where a shuttle, unnoticed by the flustered and bewildered crew, has docked. He stands in the bay for a moment, regarding with caught fascination the visage that emerges from the metal box - an alien, humanoid, greenish, with Vulcan physiology, but bald and tattooed and ravishingly handsome.]
PAVEL: Hello. My name is Chekov. Pavel Andreievich Chekov. Who...are you?
AYEL: I am Ayel. And I think I'm in love. With homo sapiens jailbaitus. [He stares.] How old are you, kid?
PAVEL: [Proudly] Sixteen going on sewenteen!
AYEL: Hey, no kidding? You're legal on Tellar! I mean. Uh. Let's start again.
You are sixteen going on seventeen
Baby, it's time to think
Better beware, be canny and careful
Baby, you're on the brink.
PAVEL: [Clasping hands to breast] Is a night for musical interludes!
AYEL: [Taking Pavel's hand]
You wait, little boy, on an empty stage
For fate to turn the light on
Your life, little boy, is an empty padd
That men will want to write on.
PAVEL: [Dizzily] To write on...
AYEL:
You are sixteen going on seventeen
Fellows will arrive by mail
Eager cadets and alien cads
Will offer you Romulan ale.
[They twirl, and do the tango as it was meant to be done.]
Totally unprepared are you
To face a galaxy
Timid and shy and scared are you
Of things beyond what you can see (in the navigator window)
You need someone older and wiser
Telling you where to steer
I am one hundred and thirty nine going on eighteen
With me, you need have no fear
(...when we blow the rest of your ship to smithereens. But anyway.)
[Pavel falls back over Ayel's arm, does a high-kick, rights himself, and resumes crossing back and forth the airlock in a frenzy of excitement (and hints of drapery, for no apparent reason).]
PAVEL:
I am sixteen going on sewenteen
I know that I'm naive
Orions I meet may tell me I'm sweet
And willingly I believe
I am sixteen going on seventeen
Innocent as a (Russian, vodka-drenched) rose
Confirmed bachelor fail, drinkers of ale
What do I know of those?
Totally unprepared am I
To face a galaxy
Timid and shy and scared am I
Of things beyond what I can see (in the navigator window)
I need someone older and wiser
Telling me where to steer
You are one hundred and thirty nine going on eighteen
With you, I need have no fear
AYEL: [Leaning forward] Yes, you -
PAVEL: What was that noise?
AYEL: I do not...
PAVEL: I think, I think that was your ship, is putting a hole in my ship.
AYEL: Uh.
PAVEL: Run. Tell your captain to hold truce, for a little while, or leave us alone. And then I can see you again. [He flutters his eyelashes convincingly.]
AYEL: Oh, yes!
[He scuttles off to the shuttle and departs in record time.]
II.V
[Elsewhere: on the bridge of the Enterprise, all hell has broken loose, not least because Kirk has just discovered that Spock is now engaging in an entertaining game of soldiers with his children as chess pieces - for educational purposes! -- and, also, has been teaching Keenser the basics of warp technology. Plus, there's a hole in his ship.]
KIRK: Also, when I ask Gary a question, he responds with “Yes”, “Maybe”, “Prospects not so good”, or a number! You've turned him into some kind of magic 8-ball!
SPOCK: Are his eyes glowing silver?
KIRK: Er. Yes!
SPOCK: Do not be anxious, Captain. Perfectly normal side effect of the appropriate medications.
KIRK: [Rallying] And Montgomery has started pronouncing equations and mathematical symbols aloud! You're turning them into soldiers!
SPOCK: Was that not your intention in obtaining for them a Vulcan tutor?
KIRK: Well... yes... but not like this!
SPOCK: I count six exclamation points in your last seven spoken sentences, Captain. Calm yourself.
KIRK: ...
MCCOY: [Stage whispering] This is the bit where you shout: easy for you to say, you green-blooded hobgoblin!
KIRK: ...no, no, I'm pretty sure that's all you, Lenny boy.
MCCOY: Oh. Pointy-eared bastard, then?
KIRK: Right! Easy for you to say, you pointy-eared bastard!
[The scintillating conversation is interrupted when the Enterprise takes a second blow and we pan over to the lower decks, where screams and fire fill the stage. Through the raging tumult, it is possible to make out some poor toasty cadet holding up a sign, which, while crisping, reads 'TO BE CONTI--' (illegible due to burns).]
Author: gogollescent
Rating: ahahahaha I don't even know. What's the rating for RAPING YOUR CHILDHOOD?
Pairing: None yet. Later? Don't go there.
Summary/Prompt: Captain James T. von Kirk needs a governess for his seven children. Plz note: will only be funny if you have seen the Sound of Music and remember it well. Actually it might not be funny even then. But anyway. Yeah, basically, Star Trek meets the Sound of Music. This is the first act of probably at least five. *facepalm*
Note/Warnings: I'm an idiot. Did I mention the childhood-rape? Yeah. That.
II.I
[Morning. Or, er, well, not morning. But it's early, in any case, and the children are lined up in front of Spock's desk by height. They are not, however, color-coded. Yet. His room is austere, having none of the personal touches he could not help but notice on the night before (rotting pizza, holovids, etc.); this appears to disconcert the youths.]
SPOCK: [Sitting down] We will begin with - ng.
MCCOY: Something wrong, sir?
SPOCK: Ngh.
[The children exchange careful, inquisitive looks. Gary has the grace to look slightly apologetic, probably because he put that-which-we-shall-not-discuss on the seat. Spock does not stand; he closes his eyes briefly, and then opens them again.]
SPOCK: We will begin with a lesson in discipline.
[General groans.]
Namely, singing.
PAVEL: What?
MCCOY: Oh god.
HIKARU: What?
JANICE: Pardon?
LEE: I'm Gary!
GARY: You were supposed to make that joke last scene, Lee.
LEE: ...oh.
CHRISTINE: I've always wanted to take singing lessons!
[Her siblings gape.]
What? I can't spend all my time helping little injured birdies, and they're in short supply on starships, anyway. But Mr. Spock - Keenser doesn't have the right vocal cords to sing.
SPOCK: Ah. That does provide an obstacle. However...
[He rummages through the very small duffel bag at his feet for a time and comes up with a tambourine, which he hands to Keenser. Keenser shakes it with unhealthy enthusiasm.]
Satisfactory. Now... Simulations. Activate.
II.II
[Like magic, the screens fade into sight, and the floor is transformed into an acceptably yellow and rolling dune, under a copper, domed sky. Things tweet cheerily in the background, although there are clicks between tweets and it's all a wee bit surreal. Also, the way the light shines on the children's rather-too-large-and-rapidly-deteriorating Starfleet uniforms makes them look suspiciously like drapery. No one comments on this resemblance, for reasons beyond this narrator's comprehension.]
SPOCK:
Let us begin at the beginning,
a very logical place to commence;
in Earth literacy programs I understand the traditional initiation is A-B-C,
and in music it is the nonsense syllables do-re-mi.
Do-re-mi; repeat after me.
The first three notes in the octave are classically termed to be
do-re-mi. Do. Re. Mi.
(No, I do not know why, Mr. McCoy.)
(Muffle the tambourine if you please. Good boy.)
[To himself] How do humans have it? Do-re-mi-fa-so-la-ti.
Given the maturity levels of my pupils, I will have to simplify extremely.
Do, commonly placed as 120 hertz - no?
You will have to memorize the frequencies.
I know. I will spontaneously compose a musical mnemonic!
Repeat after me.
Do, a female Odocoileus hemionus,
Re, light in an idealized narrow lance,
Mi, the objective first person singular pronoun,
Fa, a subjective measure of distance,
So, an archaic form of clothings-production,
La, a particularly unfathomable name I cannot find a homophone for,
Ti, boiled water saturated with so much sugar it creates suction,
And do again, one octave higher, thanks to the organization of the diatonic cycle.
CHILDREN: ...can we skip the mnemonics?
SPOCK: Very well. Do-re-mi-fa-so-la-ti-do. Do it.
[The children do it.]
SPOCK: Acceptable. So-do-la-fa-mi-do-re?
CHILDREN: So-do-la-fa-mi-do-re.
SPOCK: So-do-la-ti-do-re-do?
CHILDREN: So-do-la-ti-do-re-do.
SPOCK: So-fa-do-mi-ma-ko-sen-so?
MCCOY: Now you're just fucking with us.
SPOCK: I don't know what you mean, Mr. McCoy. Put it all together.
ALL: So-do-la-fa-mi-do-re so-do-la-ti-do-re-do-so-fa-do-me-ma-ko-sen-sooooo!
[As they hold the last note, all lights black out with a crash and a curse from above.]
KIRK: [Over the comm] Why the hell have all the upper level functions of the computers on board been redirected towards... uh... a surround-sound holovid of a generic Vulcan landscape? Lights? LIGHTS! Is this some kind of sick joke?
SPOCK: I believe that concludes our lesson for today. Dismissed.
[Exeunt.]
II.III
[It is late in delta shift and Spock has retired to his quarters. The lights are dimmed, there is a distinct lack of drapes, so on and so forth. As he prepares to undress, he is interrupted by an announcement, and a thousand fangirls cry out in pain as he readjusts his uniform and listens.]
PAVEL: [Over the comm] ...we are encountering a phenomenon which resembles a lightning storm in space...
SPOCK: Fascinating.
[The door slides open, and Keenser waddles in.]
For what reason are you here, Keenser?
[Keenser bats his tambourine forlornly and mimics thunder via careful application of the wrist-wrist-elbow-wrist shake.]
Ah. You are experiencing sensations of trepidation in the face of an unknown encounter and desire illogical reassurance from the nearest mature individual because your... father... is busy manning the bridge?
[Keenser nods and looks pathetic. Also, wrinkly. Spock pats the side of the bed next to him, and Keenser climbs onto the headboard, totally ignoring him. There is a crash, as of thunder. McCoy enters at high speed, screaming.]
MCCOY: It has spikes! And tentacles! And tentacled spikes!
SPOCK: How would you feel about some illogically reassuring (but highly disciplined) vocal accompaniment!
[McCoy manages to inexplicably end up clinging to Spock's leg. Again, no one comments.]
MCCOY: That would just about make my day, you pointy-eared unpleasant-jelly-placed-on-seat-cushions-resistant bastard.
SPOCK: Hm. I understand that conjuring up memories with pleasant associations is the traditional Terran method of suppressing illogical levels of panic?
MCCOY: [Voice somewhat muffled by Spock's knee] Yeah.
SPOCK: What are a few of your preferred activities or images, Mr. -
[Pavel and Montgomery blow in. Pavel looks disgruntled, Montgomery looks unreasonably enthusiastic, and there is a general excess of wet flailing limbs.]
MCCOY: Gather round, we are going to have a musical interlude right about now.
PAVEL: Why -
SPOCK:
Precipitation on a waxy epidermis and spikes on native insects
Shiny new simulators and 18th century Earth writing-resurrects
Anonymous transitions in a mellifluous tone to sing
These are a selection of preferable things!
MCCOY: That's why.
PAVEL: Ah.
[Gary and Lee wander in, more or less unnoticed, and huddle by the foot of the bed. Janice and Christine are already there, having insinuated themselves while you were staring in horror.]
SPOCK:
Balanced differentials and qualified Vulcan lute players
Futuristic yet curiously retro technology and overendowed mayors
MCCOY: Okay, what did I say about the rhymes?
SPOCK: It seems to have slipped my mind, Mr. McCoy.
Buzzards that fly at night with an iridescent layer of oil on their wings
These are a selection of preferable things!
Vulcan girls in square bodices with muddy sashes
Sand that irritates my nostrils and eyelashes
Reddish-brown summers that melt into reddish-brown springs
These are a selection of preferable things!
When Klingons bite
When tentacled storms sting
When I am possessed with illogical grief
I recall a selection of preferable things
And go into an advanced form of denial which allows me to function through the crisis and then run into my room afterwards and break down and cry!
[Shocked silence. The children look each other, and then sing.]
ALL:
Precipitation on a waxy epidermis and spikes on native insects
Shiny new simulators and 18th century Earth writing-resurrects
Anonymous transitions in a mellifluous tone to sing
These are a selection of preferable things!
Balanced differentials and qualified Vulcan lute players
Futuristic yet curiously retro technology and overendowed mayors
Buzzards that fly at night with an iridescent layer of oil on their wings
These are a selection of preferable things!
Vulcan girls in square bodices with muddy sashes
Sand that irritates my nostrils and eyelashes
Reddish-brown summers that melt into reddish-brown springs
These are a selection of preferable things!
When Klingons bite
When tentacled storms sting
When I am possessed with illogical grief
I recall a selection of preferable things
And go into an advanced form of denial which allows me to function through the crisis and then run into my room afterwards and break down and cry!
[Fade to black.]
II.IV
[It's not long after that Pavel creeps out of the freakish place where Spock is cradling Keenser and lining up the rest of the children in military (if short) ranks and files. He tiptoes down to the airlock, where a shuttle, unnoticed by the flustered and bewildered crew, has docked. He stands in the bay for a moment, regarding with caught fascination the visage that emerges from the metal box - an alien, humanoid, greenish, with Vulcan physiology, but bald and tattooed and ravishingly handsome.]
PAVEL: Hello. My name is Chekov. Pavel Andreievich Chekov. Who...are you?
AYEL: I am Ayel. And I think I'm in love. With homo sapiens jailbaitus. [He stares.] How old are you, kid?
PAVEL: [Proudly] Sixteen going on sewenteen!
AYEL: Hey, no kidding? You're legal on Tellar! I mean. Uh. Let's start again.
You are sixteen going on seventeen
Baby, it's time to think
Better beware, be canny and careful
Baby, you're on the brink.
PAVEL: [Clasping hands to breast] Is a night for musical interludes!
AYEL: [Taking Pavel's hand]
You wait, little boy, on an empty stage
For fate to turn the light on
Your life, little boy, is an empty padd
That men will want to write on.
PAVEL: [Dizzily] To write on...
AYEL:
You are sixteen going on seventeen
Fellows will arrive by mail
Eager cadets and alien cads
Will offer you Romulan ale.
[They twirl, and do the tango as it was meant to be done.]
Totally unprepared are you
To face a galaxy
Timid and shy and scared are you
Of things beyond what you can see (in the navigator window)
You need someone older and wiser
Telling you where to steer
I am one hundred and thirty nine going on eighteen
With me, you need have no fear
(...when we blow the rest of your ship to smithereens. But anyway.)
[Pavel falls back over Ayel's arm, does a high-kick, rights himself, and resumes crossing back and forth the airlock in a frenzy of excitement (and hints of drapery, for no apparent reason).]
PAVEL:
I am sixteen going on sewenteen
I know that I'm naive
Orions I meet may tell me I'm sweet
And willingly I believe
I am sixteen going on seventeen
Innocent as a (Russian, vodka-drenched) rose
Confirmed bachelor fail, drinkers of ale
What do I know of those?
Totally unprepared am I
To face a galaxy
Timid and shy and scared am I
Of things beyond what I can see (in the navigator window)
I need someone older and wiser
Telling me where to steer
You are one hundred and thirty nine going on eighteen
With you, I need have no fear
AYEL: [Leaning forward] Yes, you -
PAVEL: What was that noise?
AYEL: I do not...
PAVEL: I think, I think that was your ship, is putting a hole in my ship.
AYEL: Uh.
PAVEL: Run. Tell your captain to hold truce, for a little while, or leave us alone. And then I can see you again. [He flutters his eyelashes convincingly.]
AYEL: Oh, yes!
[He scuttles off to the shuttle and departs in record time.]
II.V
[Elsewhere: on the bridge of the Enterprise, all hell has broken loose, not least because Kirk has just discovered that Spock is now engaging in an entertaining game of soldiers with his children as chess pieces - for educational purposes! -- and, also, has been teaching Keenser the basics of warp technology. Plus, there's a hole in his ship.]
KIRK: Also, when I ask Gary a question, he responds with “Yes”, “Maybe”, “Prospects not so good”, or a number! You've turned him into some kind of magic 8-ball!
SPOCK: Are his eyes glowing silver?
KIRK: Er. Yes!
SPOCK: Do not be anxious, Captain. Perfectly normal side effect of the appropriate medications.
KIRK: [Rallying] And Montgomery has started pronouncing equations and mathematical symbols aloud! You're turning them into soldiers!
SPOCK: Was that not your intention in obtaining for them a Vulcan tutor?
KIRK: Well... yes... but not like this!
SPOCK: I count six exclamation points in your last seven spoken sentences, Captain. Calm yourself.
KIRK: ...
MCCOY: [Stage whispering] This is the bit where you shout: easy for you to say, you green-blooded hobgoblin!
KIRK: ...no, no, I'm pretty sure that's all you, Lenny boy.
MCCOY: Oh. Pointy-eared bastard, then?
KIRK: Right! Easy for you to say, you pointy-eared bastard!
[The scintillating conversation is interrupted when the Enterprise takes a second blow and we pan over to the lower decks, where screams and fire fill the stage. Through the raging tumult, it is possible to make out some poor toasty cadet holding up a sign, which, while crisping, reads 'TO BE CONTI--' (illegible due to burns).]