Disclaimer: Sing along everyone! Not Mine, da dahhh da. Might Paramount, da dahhh da. No disrespect, da dahh da. *click* Resistance is Futile.
Code: T/7.
Rating: PG13
Archiving: Yes please. just tell me where it's going.
Feedback: Hellllll yes. Just please refrain from throwing rotten vegetables.
Any feedback or other comments should be sent to katelin_b@hotmail.com
Description: Okay. this is a response to the *fluff* challenge piece made when Wyld threw down the marshmellow gauntlet. Thanks it was tasty. ==) I don't usually write stuff like this, so consider that fair warning that this might cause strong homicidal urges toward the writer. That being said, please don't kill me. I have two kitties who would miss me dearly.. Okay, they wouldn't miss me, they just can't open cat food tins by themselves.
A short story
25 February 2001
Tossing and turning in her bunk, B'Elanna Torres sighed, muttering yet another expletive. She kicked the sheets off and ordered lights up one quarter, deciding that perhaps a nightcap would help her sleep. Checking the time as she trudged across the floor in her bare feet, she noted with a groan that it was well into Gamma shift, and the Mess Hall would be closed by now. At 3am, she didn't have many options available to her, other than going to the Doctor for a sedative. "A sedative would probably make me sleep right through the alarm," she grumbled out loud, rubbing her ridges in frustration.
"You're probably right."
B'Elanna jerked in surprise and backed up a step, holding her arms out in a Klingon defense stance. "Who are you and how did you get in here!" she growled, her eyes darting for her combadge. Security would need to scrape up the pieces left over when she was done with the woman who had invaded her privacy.
"Trust me, you don't wanna know how I got here," the woman grumbled, putting her feet up on B'Elanna's coffee table, and leaning back on the sofa, "As for who I am. I am `the Writer'."
B'Elanna's eye widened and she immediately reaches for the bat'leth on the wall.
"Whoa!" the woman said, holding up her hands, "Not the Paramount writer! `THE' Writer."
B'Elanna relaxed and took a hesitant step forward. "Lisa Countryman?" she whispered, her eyes widening in awe.
The Writer groaned and rolled her eyes. "No not that writer," she answered, watching in disgust as B'Elanna's awe was replaced instantly with a bored expression, "But a Writer none the less."
"So what do you want?" B'Elanna grumbled, flopping down in an over stuffed chair and glaring. She knew the drill. The Writer's showed up, asked questions, then went off on their merry way to mess with her life. yet again. They were worse than the Q. At least `those' all powerful beings let you know when they were going play roulette with your ass.
"I want to talk about why you can't sleep," the Writer said, lacing her fingers on her lap.
B'Elanna suddenly clued in and leaned forward. "You did this to me didn't you?" she growled, her fists clenching.
"Guilty as charged I'm afraid," the Writer grinned, not looking at all sorry for her actions, "But let's face it, B'Elanna. We both know there's a simple solution."
"Yeah, yeah," B'Elanna grumbled tossing her hands up in the air, "A solution that the Paramount exec's won't let me use. Every time I head for Cargo Bay 2, the damn paramount writer's step in, and I'm off on another date with Tom Paris."
"Oh, so that's why you seem to be going out with him more and more these days," the Writer said, realizing the true meaning behind the action.
"Yeah, and it's pissing Tom off too," the Klingon muttered, "Because he usually gets pulled away from some compromising position with Harry."
"Time out," the Writer shuddered, holding up a hand, "I don't need that image."
"What?" B'Elanna bristled, "Ferret-boy and Harry?" She might be annoyed with Paris, the one she had nicknamed ferret-boy, but Harry Kim was her friend.
"No," the Writer clarified, "Ferret-boy naked." She shuddered again and made a gagging motion.
B'Elanna shuddered along with her and nodded. "Trust me," she groaned, "Even your worse nightmares about that can't compare to the live and in color version. He really needs some sun."
"Okay, we're getting off topic," the Writer steered them back to the problem at hand, "Ignore the Paramount writers. They're amateur hacks."
"Yeah but.." B'Elanna wanted to argue but she was cut off again.
"But nothing," the Writer grinned, "There's a loop hole for everything. They won't let you go to Cargo Bay 2." She paused as the door chime sounded and watched Seven of Nine enter the room with a questioning expression on her face. The Writer grinned evilly at B'Elanna. "But they didn't say anything about Cargo Bay 2 coming to you."
B'Elanna blinked at the Writer for a very long moment, and then turned to Seven, and smiled widely. Seven returned the smile with a brilliant one of her own, and they looked to the Writer. "Well lookie there," she said with a sly grin, "The mountain came to Mohammed."
"Clarify," Seven said, not understanding what the strange woman meant.
"Never mind," the Writer said, waving her hand dismissively and then picking up her notebook and pen. She paused and looked at the two of them, still standing there with several feet of empty space between them, grinning like idiots at each other. "What? I gotta write THAT too?" she groused, pointing to B'Elanna's bedroom, "Get in there and make with the hot monkey love already!"
B'Elanna and Seven blinked at her for a long moment, and then amused the Writer to no end, by sprinting for the bedroom, closing the door behind them. Deep growls and high pitched moans immediately began filtering through.
"Paramount," she grumbled, using the word like a curse, "Can't live with `em, can't terminate their contracts." She sighed and left B'Elanna's darkened quarters, looking one way and then the other down the corridor. "Now, which way to Captain Celibate's quarters," she muttered, turning left and letting the doors close behind her.
The End?