173: The Mikky

By Ensigns Dalca and Andraste
Almost Four Years Ago
Following Ebb and Flow

= Unknown Planet =

Days had passed, or so it seemed, but time moved differently on the moon Warren Dalca had named 'Firdous'. The food was better than Starfleet rations, and the company... well, he'd been in worse. Worry crept along his spine the longer they waited without rescue, but so many 'days' away from the rush of modern life and with so little technology save for the sad, ruptured husk of the shuttle, he'd felt like he'd reconnected with a home lost in memory so old it had to be genetic.

He laid there, hands behind his head, smelling the gathered fruit and playing with a curl of Nimue's hair. Even his had grown quickly, and was starting to take on a life of its own, but frequent trips to the lake ensured he would at least look presentable to rescuers.

"Did she actually tie you down?" He ventured, remembering something her mother had told him.

Nimue, who was lying with her head on his lap, plucking grass out of the ground, tearing it into little bits before tossing them away, titled her neck back and looked at him with her brown eyes, "Hmm? Oh - my mom? Yeah. People do that quite a bit on Stratos. You fall from a city in the clouds and...well, squish. And as a kid I was probably a little wild."

"I would never have guessed."

"Even with all the clues you've had? Wow. Maybe you should reconsider this whole Security thing."

His hand trailed up her neck, using the tips of his fingers lightly. "You must think you're pretty funny."

Nimue chucked some grass at him, "I have my moments." She arched her back as she yawned lazily, and then sat up leaning towards him a little, supporting her weight with one hand. "So...you never said why you and your mom don't talk so much."

He picked a thread of grass off his chest between his thumb and forefinger. Spinning the slender blade in his hand, he looked into her quicksand eyes, his own softening, then hardening. "You're right, of course." He casually slipped the grass just inside her ear and twisted it. "She is... not well. She's been that way since I was an infant."

Nimue looked at him quietly for a moment, then glanced away and smiled. "Okay," she said softly.

"Do you really want to know?" His voice wavered, but his body was still as the ancient trees nearby.

She shook head and the gentle wind caught her wavy brown hair. This thing with Warren on this planet...it was fun, it was physical...and it was nowhere near serious enough for her to expect him reveal his secrets, "Doesn't matter. Don't tell me unless you want to."

He watched her quietly. Then he leaned forward, and brushed his lips against her cheek in an intimacy that felt predictably distant. "I should check on Steve."

"Okay," Nimue chirped, "I'm going to stay here and keep punishing the grass for...well, no good reason."

He stood, produced his own fey-like smile, and walked away.

It was more than a little amazing that Gregson had held on as long as he did. Warren and Nimue had managed to construct a small canopy using the large low, hanging leaves, and it had kept him dry for the fierce, sudden rainstorms in this place. Having kept him fed and hydrated was also surprisingly easy, save for the less gratifying aspects of nursing the wounded cadet. Just one more debt to collect, although at this point Warren had stopped counting.

He froze.

It was large, feathered like the creatures by the lake, but the feathers created a pattern that seemed both menacing and artistic. It crept over the shuttle canopy, its attentions on the bundled Gregson, moving like a jungle cat and similar in appearance to a tiger, though with a longer stride. How it had come so close to the site without Warren or Nimue seeing it, he wasn’t sure. They’d witnessed some of the wildlife and set up the proper countermeasures. And she’d had either the clairvoyance or sheer luck of landing on an easily defendable purchase.

It stopped and turned to look at Warren, who’d gone still. Its back raised up, and he realized how it had gone undetected. The thing had wings. And it had been waiting for its chance for obviously, of the three of them, his fallen cadet was the weakest.

It was a flyer. With any luck, that meant Warren might have a slim chance; hollow bones would be easier to break. When it turned its attentions back to Gregson, a furious scream bubbled from Dalca’s chest and he ran towards it. Moving as swiftly as a predator himself, Warren hopped, found purchase on one of the broken nacelles, and leapt off of it, fingers spread and body ready to tackle.

It didn’t run. It turned to confront him, and being twice his size, the creature ducked its head, rolled on the ground, and shrugged him off like an insect. It flipped over and pushed its back claws into the dirt as it batted at his head.

It was then that his martial arts practice kicked in. Backpedaling out of its reach, Warren balled his hands into phoenix fists, the middle knuckles raised. It could fly. He prayed the bones were hollow. He was scared to death, but he didn’t have time to let the fear immobilize him. The important thing was Gregson was no longer the target. His feet started to move, left to right, and he steeled himself, flowing like water, a wave ready to crash hard.

When it attacked again, he was ready, his blows intercepted each swipe, but barely. The cat-bird was strong, and his counteroffensive only served to keep it at bay. Barely.

He struck at its leg with all of his might. It didn’t break. It was then that he knew he was dead.

It leapt from the ground, wings batting dirt and pollen up from the ground, and he dropped and rolled. He pushed himself up with his hands, scrambling on all fours. Warren nearly tripped and fell, and had to correct his movements to keep from falling back down. He started to run away from Gregson into the thick copse of jungle nearby.

He felt claws on his shoulders, the weight of the creature brought him to his knees, and then his chin hit dirt. The flesh on his arms tore easily, and he knew the creature’s mouth was coming down.

And then it howled, and he smelled ionized air, and its entire mass crashed down on him. Its breath was hot on his ear, fast, then slower. With a final sigh, it stopped moving, and he was pushed further into the dirt.

“Ouch.” He spat dirt out of his mouth, and tried to move, but he was pinned in place. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Nimue climb out of their crashed shuttle and run towards him. She must have heard the battle cries and come back to investigate. Upon seeing him in a hopeless battle, she had apparently used the shuttle’s phasers to kill the attacking large creature.

She was gasping for air when she rain up to him and knelt down beside him, “You okay?”

"Except for the giant cat-bird that's crushing me?" His eyes closed, tears dripping from the pain. "Dandy," he choked.

“Don’t be a baby,” Nimue snapped, her trembling voice, however, gave her concern away. “Just…stay put.”

Before he could respond, she was running towards the shuttle again. A few moments after she disappeared into the fallen craft, the griffin-like creature dematerialized and reappeared a few feet away.

Dalca sighed with relief, closed his eyes, and rested his face in the dirt. A minute later, he felt his new lover's light touch pushing his hair out of his face.

"Wow," Nimue joked quietly, "I am so much smarter than you."

"You said the ship was broken."

"I said it couldn't fly."

He lay there silently for a long moment. "You did." He laughed, and tried to move, but the cuts on his arms hurt terribly. Instead, he focused on just her hand, and how it felt on his face. Warren sighed again. "How bad is it?"

“Oh – it’s a very bad shuttle. I’d spank it, but I might break a fingernail.”

"I meant... my arms. Do they look as bad as they feel?"

“I know – I mean, you know, I don’t know. They don’t look so bad. But I’m a pilot, Starfleet, not a doctor.”

He gritted his teeth, pushed himself up, decided moving hurt more, and rested his head on her lap. "Next time we crash, we should have a more balanced Away Team."

“And beer.”

He laughed. "I love... that about you."

She bent forward and kissed his forehead, her silken hair cascading down around his face. “I think we still have some stuff in the first aid kit. I’ll be back.”

"Right back?"

"No," she whispered, "I think I'm going to take my time."

Warren relented, and pushed himself off of her lap. "And I don't mean to be critical," he looked up at her, dark eyes sparkling. "But your legs are just a tad bit prickly."

“Said the hairy Deltan living in a jungle,” she retorted, “You know you’ll pay for that later.”

"That's a comforting thought," he whispered, satisfied, and lay on his chest again.

“Idiot,” Nimue declared, slapping him upside the head as she got to her feet. “Lie still. And don’t worry – I won’t leave you.”

"What, me worry?" he mumbled into a patch of grass.

He heard a chirping sound, and hoped this moon didn't also have vultures. When he heard it again, he realized it was his combadge. Flipping over carefully, he tapped it.

"Hurry back," Warren whispered. "I miss your prickly leg hair."

[Is this a prank?]

Warren sat up. "No! No sir."

[Good. We have no patience for those. This is the Pakled transport Mikky. We only want things. Things that make us strong. Things that make us go. Salvage rights for passage to nearest Starbase.]

"Done."

[Good. And thank you for the leg compliment.]

Ensign Warren Dalca

And

Ensign Nimue Andraste