New fic: "Motley Crew" POTC/TNG crossover
Title: MOTLEY CREW
Writer: veronica_rich
Rating: PG for implied ideas
Disclaimer: These are owned by Buena Vista, Bruckheimer Productions, and Paramount, as well as their own actors.
Summary: A brief unbetaed crossover between POTC and "Star Trek: The Next Generation" to fulfill two separate writing requests I received a couple of weeks ago from a_silver_rose ("Data becomes fascinated by pirate lore") and backinblack ("DATA/WESLEY. OH YEAH I WENT THERE"). Read at your own risk.
Eyeing himself critically in the mirror, Wesley Crusher readjusted the sword tucked through his worn leather belt (which wasn't really "worn" at all, it was something the computer had approximated for a poor, 20-year-old apprentice tradesman, recycling said belt - and the entire outfit - out of old eggshells and coffee filters and other substances it didn't bear to think too much upon). "I've never used one of these," he admitted, running a finger along the blade. "Mom always said such things were barbaric."
Data, in turn, was eyeing his visiting 17-year-old companion as he adjusted his own wig. "Humans did not always have phasers with which to protect themselves, nor transporters to remove them from dangerous situations," he pointed out. "Besides, there is a great amount of artistic and scientific knowledge that went into the manufacture of such weapons of the time. I believe your character was one such artisan."
"I thought he was a pirate." Wesley frowned at the drab brown ... well, what was that, anyway? Sacking? Canvas? REAL COTTON? "He doesn't look much like a pirate to me." He pointed at the buckled shoes on his feet. "And what's up with these? I thought pirates wore boots!"
"Pirates rarely began life as such," Data helpfully explained. "Many began as merchants or apprentices or seamen, or- Wesley, what is so amusing?" The young man snickered and shook his head, making shooing gestures with his arms to dismiss the questioning. Knowing the only action he'd taken worthy of humor was possibly speech, he ran through his language databases and found the homily. "Ah, you are confusing the word for a sailor with the term for male ejaculate." This only made Wesley snigger harder, and Data could've sworn if he were capable of emotion, annoyance might have crept into his sensory repertoire. "Your time at Starfleet Academy does not seem to be productively spent, if you are only learning such dubious associations," he opined.
Wesley bent at that and laughed so hard that he nearly stabbed himself through the foot with the tip of the dangerously-swaying sword. He stood straight, hopping about a bit, finally somber enough again to clear his throat. "Sorry, Data. You were saying?"
"Pirates were normally made, not born," he explained. "Many were introduced into the lifestyle via pressgang, or capture. Once they were forced to participate in piratical activities, they became pirates in the letter of the law, and chose to remain with the lifestyle rather than risk capture by the authorities and execution. Others chose to become free agents in order to escape what they believed were the harsh dictates of a military existence."
"Well, okay." Wesley reached around and touched his small ponytail once again, feeling odd with the hair of the wig brushing his neck. "So when does this guy become a pirate?" He lifted one skinny arm, eyeing the billowing material hanging from it. "Looks like he's got the right shirt, at least."
"According to the parameters of the holovid transfer I viewed, he chooses to aid the escape of a notorious pirate in order to save his ladylove, who has been kidnapped by other pirates, thereby putting him at odds with the local Royal Navy fort and its commander, a Commodore Norrington."
"And you're the notorious pirate, I gather?"
In a voice not his own, Data replied in perfect mimic of the vid he'd watched, "That's Captain Jack Sparrow, if ye please."
"Ohhhh, that notorious pirate." Wesley nodded in recognition. "We read something in Ancient Cultures about him a few months ago." He eyed himself in the mirror again. "That must mean I'm Will Turner, then."
"Aye." Data was maintaining character.
"But how did you get interested in all this, Data?"
He switched back to his normal voice. "I continue in my task of categorizing all recorded human computer-based communications, of course," he explained. "I was working on primitive Earth-limited Internet records when I came across a database of web logs from timestamp of the early 21st century. As I was sorting these, I came across a sizable cache of what was commonly known at the time as 'fan fiction' - stories people would write after watching motion pictures and television programs, about the characters they liked in those programs. I have been steadily working my way through various subsets of fan fiction through the Holodeck, in my free time, with help from other interested parties. At this time, I am working my way through various pirate- and sea-based fan fiction. I am working through a particular genre this week, in fact, and since you have always been willing to aid me in the past, I thought you might be interested as well, during your visit."
Wesley nodded. "Sure, I'll do what I can." He paused. "What are we doing, precisely?"
Just then, the Holodeck doors opened to admit a trio of men in various period dress. Worf was dressed like what could only closely be described as a Klingon-sized approximation of a half-crustacean, half-squid, wearing a sailor's clothing, while Captain Picard wore an old European naval uniform, crisp white breeches and waistcoat, blue overcoat with brocade and tassels and a tricorn hat with some white feathery plumage. Perhaps the oddest of all was Reg Barclay, all six-foot-four of him dressed in a mosaic-colored waistcoat and green wool greatcoat, green scarf around his head and large, broad-rimmed hat with a huge ostrich feather tucked into the hatband.
"ARRR!" Reg growled, sneering his lips to show off a set of teeth that looked like the past five hundred years of dentistry had never happened. And the stench! Wesley waved his hand over his nose to shoo the odor away, wrinkling it in distaste. Seeing his expression, Reg blinked rapidly, hastening to explain. "I-I wanted to be in character," he said apologetically, "so I d-didn't brush my teeth this morning. I'm sorry!"
"Reg," Data reminded him quite calmly, "Captain Barbossa does not apologize."
"Oh, sorry," Reg nodded, then scowled and deepened his voice. "I mean ... arrrr, ye impertinen' scurvy cur pup!"
Wesley turned to Data again, who was stroking his fake twin-braided beard, pondering all those before him and nodding to himself. "Data, what are you examining this week?" he asked again, getting a Bad Feeling.
"A literary genre once known as 'slash'..." he began to explain.
Really, Gary does not look at ALL mischievious to me *headshake*
Writer: veronica_rich
Rating: PG for implied ideas
Disclaimer: These are owned by Buena Vista, Bruckheimer Productions, and Paramount, as well as their own actors.
Summary: A brief unbetaed crossover between POTC and "Star Trek: The Next Generation" to fulfill two separate writing requests I received a couple of weeks ago from a_silver_rose ("Data becomes fascinated by pirate lore") and backinblack ("DATA/WESLEY. OH YEAH I WENT THERE"). Read at your own risk.
Eyeing himself critically in the mirror, Wesley Crusher readjusted the sword tucked through his worn leather belt (which wasn't really "worn" at all, it was something the computer had approximated for a poor, 20-year-old apprentice tradesman, recycling said belt - and the entire outfit - out of old eggshells and coffee filters and other substances it didn't bear to think too much upon). "I've never used one of these," he admitted, running a finger along the blade. "Mom always said such things were barbaric."
Data, in turn, was eyeing his visiting 17-year-old companion as he adjusted his own wig. "Humans did not always have phasers with which to protect themselves, nor transporters to remove them from dangerous situations," he pointed out. "Besides, there is a great amount of artistic and scientific knowledge that went into the manufacture of such weapons of the time. I believe your character was one such artisan."
"I thought he was a pirate." Wesley frowned at the drab brown ... well, what was that, anyway? Sacking? Canvas? REAL COTTON? "He doesn't look much like a pirate to me." He pointed at the buckled shoes on his feet. "And what's up with these? I thought pirates wore boots!"
"Pirates rarely began life as such," Data helpfully explained. "Many began as merchants or apprentices or seamen, or- Wesley, what is so amusing?" The young man snickered and shook his head, making shooing gestures with his arms to dismiss the questioning. Knowing the only action he'd taken worthy of humor was possibly speech, he ran through his language databases and found the homily. "Ah, you are confusing the word for a sailor with the term for male ejaculate." This only made Wesley snigger harder, and Data could've sworn if he were capable of emotion, annoyance might have crept into his sensory repertoire. "Your time at Starfleet Academy does not seem to be productively spent, if you are only learning such dubious associations," he opined.
Wesley bent at that and laughed so hard that he nearly stabbed himself through the foot with the tip of the dangerously-swaying sword. He stood straight, hopping about a bit, finally somber enough again to clear his throat. "Sorry, Data. You were saying?"
"Pirates were normally made, not born," he explained. "Many were introduced into the lifestyle via pressgang, or capture. Once they were forced to participate in piratical activities, they became pirates in the letter of the law, and chose to remain with the lifestyle rather than risk capture by the authorities and execution. Others chose to become free agents in order to escape what they believed were the harsh dictates of a military existence."
"Well, okay." Wesley reached around and touched his small ponytail once again, feeling odd with the hair of the wig brushing his neck. "So when does this guy become a pirate?" He lifted one skinny arm, eyeing the billowing material hanging from it. "Looks like he's got the right shirt, at least."
"According to the parameters of the holovid transfer I viewed, he chooses to aid the escape of a notorious pirate in order to save his ladylove, who has been kidnapped by other pirates, thereby putting him at odds with the local Royal Navy fort and its commander, a Commodore Norrington."
"And you're the notorious pirate, I gather?"
In a voice not his own, Data replied in perfect mimic of the vid he'd watched, "That's Captain Jack Sparrow, if ye please."
"Ohhhh, that notorious pirate." Wesley nodded in recognition. "We read something in Ancient Cultures about him a few months ago." He eyed himself in the mirror again. "That must mean I'm Will Turner, then."
"Aye." Data was maintaining character.
"But how did you get interested in all this, Data?"
He switched back to his normal voice. "I continue in my task of categorizing all recorded human computer-based communications, of course," he explained. "I was working on primitive Earth-limited Internet records when I came across a database of web logs from timestamp of the early 21st century. As I was sorting these, I came across a sizable cache of what was commonly known at the time as 'fan fiction' - stories people would write after watching motion pictures and television programs, about the characters they liked in those programs. I have been steadily working my way through various subsets of fan fiction through the Holodeck, in my free time, with help from other interested parties. At this time, I am working my way through various pirate- and sea-based fan fiction. I am working through a particular genre this week, in fact, and since you have always been willing to aid me in the past, I thought you might be interested as well, during your visit."
Wesley nodded. "Sure, I'll do what I can." He paused. "What are we doing, precisely?"
Just then, the Holodeck doors opened to admit a trio of men in various period dress. Worf was dressed like what could only closely be described as a Klingon-sized approximation of a half-crustacean, half-squid, wearing a sailor's clothing, while Captain Picard wore an old European naval uniform, crisp white breeches and waistcoat, blue overcoat with brocade and tassels and a tricorn hat with some white feathery plumage. Perhaps the oddest of all was Reg Barclay, all six-foot-four of him dressed in a mosaic-colored waistcoat and green wool greatcoat, green scarf around his head and large, broad-rimmed hat with a huge ostrich feather tucked into the hatband.
"ARRR!" Reg growled, sneering his lips to show off a set of teeth that looked like the past five hundred years of dentistry had never happened. And the stench! Wesley waved his hand over his nose to shoo the odor away, wrinkling it in distaste. Seeing his expression, Reg blinked rapidly, hastening to explain. "I-I wanted to be in character," he said apologetically, "so I d-didn't brush my teeth this morning. I'm sorry!"
"Reg," Data reminded him quite calmly, "Captain Barbossa does not apologize."
"Oh, sorry," Reg nodded, then scowled and deepened his voice. "I mean ... arrrr, ye impertinen' scurvy cur pup!"
Wesley turned to Data again, who was stroking his fake twin-braided beard, pondering all those before him and nodding to himself. "Data, what are you examining this week?" he asked again, getting a Bad Feeling.
"A literary genre once known as 'slash'..." he began to explain.
Really, Gary does not look at ALL mischievious to me *headshake*