Would Wood Hurt if Wood Would Feel Hurt?

Posted on 29 Jun 2024 @ 12:44pm by Ensign Alan Roberts
Edited on on 29 Jun 2024 @ 12:57pm

1,198 words; about a 6 minute read

Mission: Stranded
Location: Fat Alice's Crew Lounge, Deck 19
Timeline: Concurrent with "Tugboat"

ON

Alan stepped through the doors to Fat Alice's, the swanky crew lounge down on deck 19 and was met with loud music, the smell of stale synthohol and belly laughter. Immediately a smile had appeared on his face. This bar felt like the bar just outside of Sturgis, South Dakota, called The Pigs Wallow that he and his pilot buddies would go to on Friday nights when he was at the Academy. He had so many drinks, so many laughs, and so many, ahem, conquests there, and so far, this place had been no different.

The bar was poorly lit, lined with real wood beams along the walls and ceilings, where a great many liquor advertisements were nailed to them, several bra's that had been left behind by owners no longer needing them, and several pictures of patrons that had not been able to hold their liquor and had passed out in various hilarious poses, some with things written on their faces, others being buried under cups, plates and other items from the room.

Along the far wall was a large window that looked starboard. If you were up on the window, you could look forward or aft, where the crimson red ramscoop collector and the starboard warp nacelle could be seen. The wall to the left was where the bar and bartender, a bloke that always has some smart-ass response to any question, comment or request you made of him, stood and served the patrons. Behind him was a very large assortment of alcohols, both real and synth, from all over the Federation. Rumor had it there was a stash under the counter of various cultures outside the Federation that were, well, less than legal, but any attempt to get behind said counter was met with a painful and embarrassing end, even when the barkeep was initially nowhere to be seen. Somehow, he was always there. To the right was a stage where karaoke or bands could be performed for the room at large, and off in the corner, an actual ancient jukebox from Earth's mid-twentieth century. For whatever reason, the most popular song played on the machine was Magic Carpet Ride by a band called Steppenwolf. Alan had no idea what a 'Steppenwolf' was, nor did he really care. It sounded mean, though, so was, therefore, damned cool. In the center of the room were assortments of tables and chairs, almost all of which at this time of day were either occupied, or had abandoned drinks and glasses, and spilled liquids. There were also several dart boards, a dom jot table and three billiards tables, and one video game that Alan had never seen anyone touch, that had its roots in fishing on Trill, of all places. Behind the billiards and dom jot tables were posters advertising lagers with very appealing-looking Orion girls on them.

It was, for every sense and meaning of the word, paradise.

Ordering himself a lager (a Tall Boy), he turned and leaned up against the bar, just in time to see the pinpoints of lights that were stars turn into rainbow streaks. They had gone to warp. Good thing, too. Alan had a hot date with a Dabo Girl at Quarks on Deep Space 9 when he got back, and he was ready for it. It had only been eight months since they had been gone, but it had felt like a lifetime. Taking a pull from his drink, a long, deep one, he could already feel the comfortable buzz in his head. Stepping away from the bar, he made his way over to the dom jot table and placed a token on the railing, indicating he wanted to play next, then stood back to watch the two players work their sticks like the amateurs they were (not that Alan was any better, but he would never admit that, not even to himself).

Lost in watching the game, he did not feel the vibrations of the deck change. Had he been on duty, he would have felt it, the clear indication that the warp engine power output had changed dramatically. The ship had increased velocity to warp 2. The strain on the power distribution system was great, which caused the vibrations in the deck. It lasted only a few moments before it tapered off. Nor did he really notice the lights dim; it was already poorly lit in here, by design, so a little less didn't phase him, nor the patrons, one bit. The barkeep noticed, though kept working. Taking another pull from his drink (now about 75% drank in less than two minutes), Roberts was feeling just fine. He was happy. He was having a good time. He was anticipating kicking the shit out of someone in dom jot. And he was anticipating getting laid tonight, and again with that hottie Dabo girl when they got back to port. He had a good job, great friends and was relatively well respected by his superior.

Just as the ship increased to warp 3, Alan had finished his beer and was feeling fine, and even better, his turn was finally up. Taking the dom jot cue, his opponent, a Bolian who Alan didn't care to learn his name or what he did on the ship, set up the balls. Alan stepped to his left to get a better view of the table when he was suddenly stumbling hard. He heard glass breaking, and briefly thought he had lost his balance and was drunker than what he thought he was (the Tall Boy was heavy in alcohol content). He crashed to the deck, and realized so had everyone else. Alan went from confused to concern when the computer console behind the bar exploded and the lights went out, killing the music. He went from concern to alarm when screams started. The Red Alert klaxon went off, bathing the room in a slow flashing red just as the room upended itself. Everyone in the room was lifted, tossed, tumbled and thrown about, landing hard on tables, chairs, the deck, other people. Alan landed roughly in the same spot he had been standing, except on his back, the air knocked out of him.

Right as he landed, he heard a loud crack, the sound of wood breaking. He just had time to realize one of the wood beams going across the ceiling had broken and was falling. In the next instant, he was in the most excruciating pain he had ever been in his life, the wood beam landing on top of him, across his chest. He felt the breaking of his ribs, felt his lungs be punctured by the shards that used to be his ribcage. He tried to breathe in a gasp of air from the pain, but nothing happened. His head rolled over, and his last thought before his vision faded forever was that the giant wooden splinter protruding through his right palm would hurt like hell when he got to Sickbay to get it pulled out.


OFF
END

Ensign Alan Robert
Conn Officer
USS Cygnus

 

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