Beauty & the Beast

Posted on 20 Apr 2015 @ 3:25pm by Lieutenant Olsam Mott & Commander Norvi Stace
Edited on on 21 Apr 2015 @ 3:40am

2,528 words; about a 13 minute read

Mission: Episode 08 - NIMBUS
Location: USS Galileo: Deck 1 - Captain's Ready Room
Timeline: MD -3 . 1300

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Olsam sauntered onto the bridge with his personal-sized cargo container as if he showed up there every day. In truth he'd only been in the ship's command center one other time but it didn't take a genius to find your way to the captain's ready room, even if he did accidentally go to a turbolift door first. Once at the correct door, he pushed the door chime once, twice, three times and ignored the feeling of eyes on his back.

"Come in!" Stace called for the third time, now getting up from her chair and walking with intent to the door sensor. She stood before it and, sighing to herself, began to wave her arms out in front of her to catch it. She shook her head and as she turned to make her way back to her console to log a report to Ops, it breathed open. "Typical!" she said as she waved Mott in, rounding her desk and powering up her console. "I'm still having some teething issues with the door," she muttered, not looking up to him fully as she logged her gripe.

The Bolian squeezed between the doors with the cargo container and plopped it down in the chair opposite the desk, choosing to stand instead of taking an uninvited seat with his former fake wife. "Hi, Norvi. How are things going? What's the problem with everyone out there? They're all..." Olsam's face went slack and stoic, and he stared off into the distance.

"It's called focus, Mr. Mott," Stace replied flippantly with a flourish of a sarcastic brow. "Perhaps you should try to engender something similar in sickbay." She looked up to him, realised who she was talking to and then cast off her bad mood with a subtle shake of the head. "Sorry, Mott," she then added, moving the console aside and smiling. "It's just one thing after another sometimes and it doesn't help the bridge's mood after I just chewed two of them out for talking while on duty." She looked up to the Bolian with wide, innocent eyes. "I didn't think commanding the Galileo would bring forth personality traits from my previous host that I'd rather leave behind with him. Anyway, what can I do for you, Doctor?"

"Wait, you don't let them talk?" Olsam asked. "Which host was that? Did you have a dictator host? I thought I read your whole medical file but maybe the parts from your dictatorship have been redacted. Sometimes that happens."

"That didn't happen, Mott," Stace replied with a frustrated edge to her voice. "But I was a little harsh on the crew when I first got my fourth golden pip. Janel wanted so much to be taken seriously as a commander, I just think in the early days he went about it the wrong way. And a sliver of that still resides in me. Anyway, what can I do for you? I won't ask again."

"Why would you ask again? You've already asked twice," Olsam said, chuckling as if to relieve any embarrassment she might feel from repeating herself. People were always repeating themselves around him. "I need your help with something, and I thought who better to consult than my ex-fakewife and commanding officer, right? Right. Plus, I haven't seen you in days. It's like people go to deck one and never come back." As he rambled, he opened and began unpacking the personal cargo container he'd brought with him, eventually covering her desk in an assortment of toupees. Some were surprisingly normal and some were predictably not. "It might come as a shock to you but I have a horrible sense of personal style, and I need you to help me pick one."

"Th-that... is not a shock," she stammered, her green eyes widening with confusion and shock at the assortment. "These, however, are. What are they, Mott? Are you looking at clothes for a pet cat you have yet to acquire?" She started to chuckle but then quashed the urge to laugh hysterically down to her belly. She snorted, turn to the side and stared out of the window, avoiding eye contact with him. But then she felt the well of hysteria build until it erupted with her shoulders shaking manically. Suddenly she stopped as a horrified look washed over her features. "Please tell me that these are wigs, Mott, and not merkins."

"Don't be absurd, I'd never leave my pubic area unshaven, you know that," Olsam scoffed, not really elaborating on how he might have expected her to know that. His brow drew together at her laughter, unsure whether to be offended or amused himself. "These are for my head, they're toupees. I replicated them from a variety of different cultures. When my family was visiting, they told me that hair of all the horrible things in the universe has become all the rage on Bolarus. And I don't want to be seen as behind the times for our diplomatic function with the Klingons, so I'm trying to pick one out. But I don't know which one looks best. What about this one?"

The Bolian picked up what could only be described as a bright sapphire blue afro and wiggled it over the crown of his head until it seemed to fit snugly. He struck an unknown pose, perhaps his personal interpretation of "sexy," and then grinned at her.

"That's the one," Stace said with a twinkle in her eye, knowing the Bolian wouldn't detect her sarcastic undertone. "That's the one." She took a step back and admired the blue in its entirety. From head to toe, the rotund and decidedly flabby visage looked like a lollipop. She coughed a snigger and then had a change of heart. "Are you serious about wearing a rug, Mott? 'Cause we should try something a little less... uniform in colour."

"Of course I'm serious! I'm always serious," Olsam said, shrugging. Why did everyone ask him that all the time? Honestly. "I'm the acting Chief Medical Officer, so I should look my best and represent my people well. What do you mean, 'uniform in color'? Like, not blue? I didn't bring many non-blue ones... I like blue." He frowned as he reviewed the assembled toupees, finally settling on a surprisingly normal-looking blond one. "How's this? I bet I look like a human." He cleared his throat, did his best to drop his Bolian accent, and affected a standard Terran vernacular. "Why, good evening, my dear Trill. Welcome to the diplomatic function. It's simply smashing, isn't it?"

Stace remained silent as she took in a mouthful of air and blew it through her cheeks in almost exasperated release. Sometimes she loved the blue little bugger. His mannerisms were endearing, if not tiresome, and his heart was in the right place, if not backwards in coming forwards. But she did often wonder how any of his colleagues had medical faith in someone so bumbling and awkward. She walked over to him, placed her hands on his toupee and took the blond one off as though she was de-crowning him. "Is this really the fashion on Bolarus now, Mott? I can't say that I prescribe to any Bolian fashion magazines but I simply don't see it taking off." She topped for a beat as the shocking image of her youth careered into her mind. "Having said that, we all go astray at some point in our lives. Perhaps the blue ones are better for your complexion."

"I thought so, too," Olsam said, selecting a less outlandish blue wig. He adjusted the flop of hair on his head until he thought it looked close to 'normal' and turned to give Norvi a better look. "You don't subscribe to The Bald & The Beautiful? I guess that explains a lot about how you dress. I thought everyone read it! It's the galaxy's premier fashion publication, didn't you know? They cover everything. Trill hats, Zakdorn suits, Tellarite jackets, Andorian leather, Betazoid shoes, Bolian trousers, Vulcan robes-"

"I get the picture," Stace said, cutting him off and squinting with a nod. "And no, I haven't heard of The Bald & the Beautiful, despite your high opinion of it." She paused and then relaxed into a smile. "I think that one is the better one of the three I've seen, and looking at what you've laid out here, I can imagine it'll be best suited for something so... official as the diplomatic function. Don't forget, Klingons don't regard fashion as highly as yourself, Mott."

"Oh, I know all about Klingons. I minored in Klingon studies at the Academy," he said, removing the toupee to pack up with the others. "They all wear the same thing, which is ridiculous. How can you have a whole society of people wearing the same thing? Of course when you're so focused on fighting over every little thing there's really no time for fashion design, I guess." As usual, he seemed to be talking mostly to himself, beginning and ending half the conversation without having engaged her at all. "Are you ready for them? Maybe we should come up with a hand signal if you get in trouble... I could come intervene."

"I don't think that'll be necessary, Mott," she replied with a weak smile. "But I appreciate the thought. From what I know, when trouble brews with Klingons something as subtle as a hand-signal won't cut it. The table will be over before anyone knows it. But I'm not anticipating any trouble if everyone behaves themselves. Are you wearing your dress uniform?"

"No, I'm wearing my duty uniform," Olsam said, dropping a chin to get a look at his clothing just to make sure. His head jerked up as the light bulb went on. "Oh! To the reception. Yes, of course. Are we allowed to wear anything else? I guess I could wear a surgical gown. But that might be too flashy, best to stay traditional. Are you going to wear your dress uniform, too? We should probably do something with your hair." His eyes shifted to her hair, and he did a poor job of controlling his face and opinion. "It says, 'I work in a laboratory,' and not, 'I'm commanding officer of this vessel, petaQ.'"

A flare of anger sparked in her emerald eyes as she pursed her lips to stop herself from saying something that she didn't mean. She coughed a disapproving interjection and then, her eyes trained on him, walked slowly over to the chairs by her desk. Gripping one firmly by its back, maintaining eye contact, she hinged it back and with intent dragged it back to Mott in silence. Still looking at him, she lowered herself into its supporting seat and then looked off into the middle-distance, slowly drawing the grip that held her fiery locks in its standard ponytail out. "Okay," she finally said, "show me what you suggest."

"Well, I just happen to have brought my beautility belt with me," Olsam said, rummaging through the personal cargo container until he pulled out a belt with several pouches filled with combs and scissors and the like. He strapped it around his mid-section, unholstered a mirror like he was drawing a phaser and handed it over to her.

"When you pull it back like that it doesn't do a thing for all the angles in your face. They just go every which way, cheekbones there and jaw bone over there. They're all exposed, like big giant rocky crags jutting out into the ocean. Your hair should create harmony, but you don't let it." He seemed to have little problem with the easy familiarity of fluffing up her hair and afterward began pulling pins from the beautility belt to hold certain strands in place. By the time he was finished it had the look of a very refined cut, which was no doubt shocking given its creator. "There. We'll cut it like that. You'll finally look gorgeous."

At the word 'finally', Stace cramped a little. Sometimes, it took everything in her being not to tower over him and land a cold, hard slap on his sapphire cheek. She took into herself a breath that steadied her anger and stayed her heart. "The unfortunate thing is, Mott," she said through clenched teeth, "my 'craggy face' and severe hair have to remain this way whilst on-duty. I don't have all that much choice in the matter. Especially now as commanding officer. But," she pondered, having said what she had said and now admiring herself in the hand-mirror, "it is actually rather lovely; what you have managed with me so quickly. I didn't realise you had a talent for fashion." Her retort was barbed as she squinted to him when she said it. "How come you don't utilise your efforts on yourself?"

"Are you calling me ugly?" Olsam gasped.

"I believe I am, Mister Mott," Stace replied with a flick of a nod and a questioning furrow of her spotted brow. "If nothing else, I'd rather quite like to teach you not only humility, but also some social consideration for others. Not nice, is it?"

"Why is everyone always trying to teach me humility and social consideration for others? I'm the most humble and socially considerate person I know," Mott said defensively, huffing even as he made a sort of pout. "And I know a lot of people! All of whom are less humble and less considerate than me. I'm most certainly not ugly, either. I'm quite handsome. My momma said so."

"You see how those words can wound you somewhat, Mr. Mott?" Stace replied with an honest scrunch of her nose. "That's all I'm getting you to see. That everything you say can affect other people. I'm not trying to hurt you myself. Just show you how easy it is."

"Everything you say can affect other people," Olsam repeated slowly, narrowing his eyes as if he was trying to perceive if there was any truth to the statement. It sounded like total nonsense, the sort of stuff counselors were always telling people to make them feel better, but he supposed there might be something to it. He trusted Norvi's opinion, so he resolved to give it due consideration. Later. "So..." He rocked on his heels, mirror still in his hand. "I guess I should...go? Stay? Do you need makeup? I'm not suggesting you do. I'm just asking if you'd like it. You look fine the way you are. Mostly. You know what? I should probably just go back to Sickbay."

Stace's face softened as she looked upon the blue lump. "You can do a little bit of make-up, so long as you stick within the regulations for on-duty officers," she smiled, taking the mirror from him and admiring herself briefly in its reflection. "Just a smidge."

"Right, just a smidge," Olsam said, grinning. "A Bolian smidge."

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Lieutenant Olsam Mott, M.D.
Assistant Medical Officer
USS Galileo

Lieutenant Commander Norvi Stace
Commanding Officer / Chief Science Officer
USS Galileo

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