Frog Legs

Posted on Wed Aug 21st, 2019 @ 8:50pm by The Narrator & Lieutenant Commander Mara Ricci & Stephen Spires

Mission: S1E4: Upon A Darkening Tide
Location: USS Resolute, Brig
Timeline: MD1 1030

Unwilling to give up sleep just yet, Mara refused to open her eyes. She could hear Spires breathing into her ear and became conscious of his body pressed against hers, his limbs tangled with hers. She tried to will herself back to sleep, but it was no good. She was just not tired anymore.

With a sigh, she relented and opened her eyes. There was nothing for it. She was awake. But, there was no reason she couldn't stay here and be comfortable. And what was the point of waking Spires so early? No, she would just lay here and be comfortable for as long as she could.

Stephen's eyes soon fluttered open. At first he gave a start at realizing he wasn't alone, but soon recollection took hold of his senses. He was even... peaceful. "Morning, sunshine," he said with a grin.

"Good morning...." she trailed off, trying to think of a clever nickname, but coming up with nothing. "No, it's too early. I can't think of something adorable to call you.

"Hey, I got some actual work to do on this crazy trip. Wanna' come with?" Stephen looked at her askance with hopeful curiosity.

"Depends on what you have in mind," she replied. "Actually, never mind. Whatever it is, it's got to be more interesting than sitting around here fiddling with this thing," she added, holding up her prosthetic.

"I've only got one job, chere," Stephen said. "And I intend to do it with extreme prejudice."

---

Gasatrox was not a happy bipedal amphibian. Even with the humidity in his cell turned up his off green skin had an ill sheen to it. Though that might have something for being on the wrong side of a forcefield. Or possibly it was the somewhat crowded cell next door that held four of the surviving Reka mercenaries. There had been seven, to begin with. But security had not been able to intervene fast enough when the other four had turned on their wounded comrades and killed them.

They had been in time to stop the feeding frenzy that had been about to begin in the aftermath, and the bodies were in sickbay being studied. Now the four Reka sat on their haunches, their long limbs curled around them like nesting ravens on a phone wire, glowering through the forcefield at Gasatrox.

They were eyeing him like he was lunch. And he was well aware of that.

Mara and Stephen entered the brig together. While Mara cleared their visit with the brig officer, Stephen walked right up to Gastarox's cell, pulled up a seat, and cheerfully said, "Howdy, fucker! Care to answer some questions for posterity?"

"Fuuuucker..." The Reka in the opposite cell echoed in four-part harmony, a perfect mimicry of Spire's tone and phrasing.

"It would seem you have the liberty of asking your questions, mammal," Gasatrox said with a phlegmy cough. "You seek apology from me, I fear you will find yourself waiting some time for it."

Stephen grinned a death's head smile. "Do they not have journalists wherever you crawled from? Well, allow me to explain the power of the press where I come from. I'm going to take everything you say, add it to everything everyone else says, and then present the facts in such fashion that the hundred shipyards at our back from will want to bring peace and prosperity to all the places you've robbed, and they'll do so with a red hot poker straight up your ass and the asses of everyone who's got your back. And they will do so because I stoked the flames of their righteous fury by telling them about the remorseless toad Gasatrox and his band of cannibalistic mercenaries. Now, I'll repeat the question: care to make any statements for posterity?"

Gastarox made a low, rumbling gurgle deep in this throat as he thought about this. His bulbous eyes turned to look at Mara, narrowing to diamond cut slits.

"I might not know much about your species, but even I can tell you could do better than this pompous lexicon of mediocrity," he grumbled. He then turned his eyes to Spires. "If you seek words to print in your meagre ephemeral histories, then pay heed mammal. The Mercantile Academia has made the study of all things its trade in Messier 4 for well over four hundred thousand cycles. We have unravelled mysteries, uncovered lost histories, and come closer than many to unlocking the secrets of the Priors and their truly marvellous creations."

He hummed happily to himself, his throat poaches swelling slight as he did so.

"Your...broken World Flower on that rocky dry hell of a planet you're squatting on is a rare prize. The Censor is usually much more adamant about keeping trespassers at bay, but to be able to walk around it as the ancient builders must have done...you will find yourself the envy of the cluster. One space station, and a paltry collection of ships...against all who would covet what you have," he leaned forward. "Heed these words: your time in Messier 4 will be measured in the number of friends you cultivate. Many will be like me, hardly a shining example of your moral code, but reasonable. Others will not be so considerate. The way you reacted when I mentioned the Concordance makes me think you have seen their fiery work yes?"

Stephen watched the speech-to-text transcription create a written record of Gastarox's words. When the words stopped, Stephen looked up to goad him onward. "Don't you worry none, friend. The Concordance will have an entry right long side of yours. Now tell me more of this Mercantile Academia. Are they all a bunch of slimy assbags like you or is there a diversity among them?"

Assbags. So eloquent. Still, Mara couldn't help the grin that touched her lips. She had finished the check-in process with security and now hung back for a moment. She would have her chance to talk to the Vogon- she couldn't help thinking of him as the Vogon, even now- and she had plenty to say to him. But right now, she felt like being a jerk. "That's not very nice, Spires," she said in mock chastisement. "Assbags don't deserve to be compared to the likes of this- this-" she waved her hand around as if trying to pluck the word from the air, "this- well, a word has yet to be invented to describe... it."

"He," Gastarox grumbled. "Really must you be so petty in your victory? And no, the Mercantile Academia is an institution wholly crafted and owned by my noble species. As I said, it's been cataloguing Messier 4 since before your species gained the ability to write. It'll be here long after you have perished, and I will see to it the entry on your kind is lost. That sort of thing can happen from time to time, civilisations falling through the cracks of history to be forgotten."

He reached up with a webbed hand, and scratched at one of his neck folds, the rubbery flesh grating a little even in the humid air.

"But...they would not be opposed to a trade for my personage. You could make yourselves rich in my return, garner knowledge and maps of Messier 4," he said with a wave of his hand. "I'm sure the subspace frequencies could be provided for the right incentive."

Stephen shook his head in mock pity, as if he held a tragic truth to be revealed. "That's not how this works. You thought to sell us to those cybernetic carrion-feeders, so I'm sure you'll figure it out before the vivisection. Your attempt to bribe your way out of contributing to my people's science is... what would you call it, Mara? Cute? Totes adorbs?" He grinned at her to sell the amusement, but he quickly turned his gaze back on Gastarox with unrestrained ire. "No. Pathetic is the word for a bloated sack of entrails like you. Maybe your pets over there are impressed by your highly evolved viscera, but the only contributions you'll be making here is to medical science. Tell me, how much will your Academia pay for your autopsy report?"

“Huum. Allow me to educate you a little on what you have already told m about your species. You care overfondly for sentient life, a trait not uncommon in the warm blooded mammals of Messier 4. Your people moved the heavens themselves to get you back, putting their lives at risk to accomplish the goal no less. And then let us look upon this palatial holding facility?” He thumped a hand against the memory foam mattress “Quite comfortable all truth be told. The air is only slightly dry, and the food provided is not all that unappealing to my pallet. And then we look to my worthless Reka hirelings!”

The quartet of surviving Reka in the opposite cell stirred, throwing out a string of what sounded like Cantonese curse words picked up from their telepathic farming of language.

“They do not possess even the most rudimentary medical science save for first aid, they devour their wounded and unless a quick prize can be made of a prisoner them as well,” Gastarox grinned. “You like saving people, even from themselves. I doubt your society even condones capital punishment, let alone torture. And whilst vivisection would be most illuminating, I think your kind would baulk at it. Maybe in a hundred years of surviving in the wilds of Messier 4, you might begin to harden. But you're soft.”

“Soft. Soft. Soft!” the Reka chanted.

Mara laughed. “We still use the death penalty for certain crimes,” she informed him. “Slavery is one of those.” Not true, but she wanted to worry him. “But, as we’re nowhere near our government, we might just be able to get away with it. I could use someone to pick up my dog’s leavings for awhile. And we could pass it off as punishment, I think. Don’t you, Spires?” she asked, casting a dispassionate glance at the reporter.

"And if that were so you'd be doing it already...and yet here I sit," the amphibian said with a shrug. "Sooner or later use for me will be found that is better suited to my talents, either as a scholar of the Priors or in my value as an intelligence asset. Until then, I think I will use one of the more colourful expressions I heard you use."

He closed his eyes, a frown of concentration furrowing his brow before the Reka began to squawk in delight at the new phrase they had to hand.

"Fuck off! Fuck off!! FUCK OFF!" they gamely chatted in four-part harmony.

"Keep telling yourself that," Stephen said with a condescending chuckle. "I fooled you into thinking I was emperor, remember? And our ship had no problem tracking you down because you're using technology considered antiquated to what brought us here in the first place. Now, if you've taken a turn toward the humanitarian, then I'm sure we could fix you up as a fertility expert for imported animal species. Since you're too much of a dumbshit to use our standard tech, we'd have to truss you up in the old-fashioned sow suit and send you out among the livestock to collect boar semen the manual way. Seems about the speed of a bottom-feeding parasite like yourself."

Gastarox turned on his bunk, and laid his rotund flabby form back against the mattress. He waved a webbed hand lazily.

"Be seeing you then."

Mara rolled her eyes. "You owe me an arm," she said matter-of-factly. "And I will collect that debt one of these days, whether it's forcing you to pick up dog droppings or selling you for spare parts. And as for these four weirdoes," she added, turning towards the Reka. "We're gonna cook you for dinner. What wine goes well with Reka?"

In response one of the Reka, perhaps the nominal leader reached out a gangly arm and opened an closed its long-fingered claw in a farewell gesture. That or a 'step closer so I might rip out your throat'.

"Well, this idjit clearly wasn't the brains of the operation after all," Stephen said as he shifted over to the Reka cell. Looking to the the gesturing Reka, he said, "You were the mastermind all along, weren't you? Tell me truly, now. How much did you pay that fat, bloated mucosal melanoma to pretend to be your boss?"

"Brains....of the operation..." the Reacher said in perfect mimicry of Stephens voice, curling its arm back towards itself as it's head cock to one side.

"Mastermind?" The one next to it said, it's beak chittering with a rapid-fire clacking that might have been a chuckle. Reacher hissed and bit at Chitter in that way that suggested thuggish brutality instead of outright murderous intent. The one in between them gave Stephen a look that transcended species lines and broadcast a general sense of loathing and tiredness.

"Fuck Off." Old Bird said in Gastarox's voice.

The Rekas’ antics made Mara laugh. “We could sell tickets to this,” she said. “Do you have a recording device on you?”

Stephen patted his thigh and gave a smirk.

"Idjit." Old Bird grunted as Reacher and Chitter moved their squabble off the bench at the back of the cell and onto the floor in a growing flurry of feathers and claws.

"Fascinating!" Stephen said to Mara with mock enthusiasm. "Not only did it confirm it's the real mastermind, but the other also confirmed that Gastarox is an idjit. We can only conclude that all his talk of a Mercantile Academia is gibberish from a retarded base lifeform." Looking back to Reacher, he asked, "Can you confirm the existence of Gastarox's primitive homeworld, or was he merely birthed from the frozen anus of a gigantic space-borne parasite?"

At that, Mara was giggling so hard, she had to lean against the nearest bulkhead to keep from falling over. "Space-born!" she gasped, still laughing. "Anus! Oh, my-!" And she had to wipe tears of mirth from her cheeks.

"Sell..." Old Bird said, before balling up its fist and slamming it into the skull of Reacher, who squawked indignantly and stopped the fight. "...tickets."

"Sell tickets," Stephen repeated thoughtfully. "As in giant ticks, right? I'll take that as confirmation of the gigantic space parasite origin." Since Old Bird was more talkative, Stephen directed his next question to it. "Are there any other slimy turds like Gastarox crawling around nearby or is he an only butthole baby?"

"Sell." Old Bird said in Stephen's voice, before reaching back and tapping its chest. "Sell origin."

"You're the origin?!" Stephen exclaimed. He turned to Gastarox. "Why didn't you say earlier that you crawled out of this creature's feathered ass?" He turned back to Old Bird without awaiting a reply. "Are you glad that you birthed him? Well, not birthed so much as shat. Regardless, it must have been a horrible disappointment to watch him not only fail but to lead you into captivity. Can you speak to what happens to cognitively deficient ass-spawn like Gastarox where you come from?" He eyed the scarce remnant of the injured Reka in the cell. "Is it like that?"

Something about the Reka’s stance and posture stopped Mara from laughing at once. “Hang on, Spires,” she said, brow wrinkling. “Sell origin. Do you mean his homeworld? It is sold or you want it to be sold?”

"Want." Old Feathers said, tapping its chest in perfect mimicry of Mara's voice. "Homeworld, want to sold to you."

"You want us to buy...?" Mara started, brow wrinkling further. "But, we- oh! Alliance! You want to be allies. Is that it?"

"No," Old Feather's said, its beak clacking in a loud chuckling staccato. "Sell homeworld of ass-spawn, we free to fly. We home, you know."

"Sounds like your mother here is still purveying the universe's oldest profession, Gastarox." Spires chuckled at his quip before thinking to explain. "It's clearly not the first time she's sold her body for sexual relations since we've got the displeasure of your horrid presence."

"Must you be so crude?" Mara asked, half exasperated, half amused. "They want liberation. I don't know if the whole species feels this way, but it's worth looking into. We should probably inform Ingram."

"Hey, I'm only after the truth!" Spires insisted. "If Gastarox is the unwanted offspring of sex slaves turned mercenaries, then that is the story I will write."

"I always found the phrase 'freedom of the press' a little sour on the tongue."

Ingram's voice boomed from the brig's PA.

"Chief Ricci you are correct. This is news I would very much like to discuss at length with our Reka guests, given we have few contacts within Messier 4." there was the unmistakable purr of a smile in the station CO's voice. "To which, Mr Spires, I am invoking Article 6 paragraph 4 of the Offical Secrets Act, which in the short form is a gagging order on any information gleaned during your session that I deem of strategic importance to station security. I've taken the liberty of uploading the writ directly to the FNS offices on Vega via the Phase Space Transceiver, as well as copying you that same writ."

"But of course," Spires muttered. "I'm sure you'll find the ballad of Gloryhole Gastarox here to be of immense strategic importance."

"I will not trouble you with strategic matters, and you will do me the honour of not reminding me why you were blacklisted from the Palais de Concorde Correspondences Dinner." Ingram replied sharply. "Chief Ricci, when you have a spare moment I would enjoy your company in Station Operations. Sans the press corp. Ingram, clear."

"Clearly Gastarox isn't the only ass-spawn around here," Spires muttered.

"Can you please not piss off my boss?" asked Mara, exasperatedly. "I'll see if I can't get you an exclusive on this liberation thing, but it would really help if you didn't antagonize him."

Spires stole a kiss from Mara and hopped to his feet. "If I'm not pissing somebody off, then I'm not doing my job. But I'll see what I can do."