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Story Notes:

This story was inspired by Beam Me Up Scotty, There Are Klingons Down Here (sequel to These Shoes My Huntress Wears) by Bucky LaFontaine. This story is not a sequel or a companion story, so you do not need to read the other stories to follow this one...although you should because they are great fun (and, I admit, I do make a reference here and there -and stole a line or two of dialogue from those stories as a tribute to Bucky's work). This story is all Bucky's fault.

The views about Star Trek conventions and the people who go to them represented in this story are Miss Parker's, not mine. Although I've never been to a Star Trek con, I have been to other genre cons. I even own one of the books that Jarod gives Parker. If anyone should be offended by Miss Parker's comments, it should be me. :)

Once the gang is at the convention, you can assume any dialogue in italics is spoken in Klingon. :)

The story is rated PG-13 because of Miss Parker's potty mouth.



Resistance is Futile.

 

 

"Good night, Miss - "

I shut the door in Broots' face, glad to be back in my hotel room and closer to the end of this evening. The day had been fine enough. Sydney, Broots and I had arrived in Columbus, Ohio by early afternoon and headed straight to the hotel that Jarod had lead us to. The lobby was bustling, and this vague knot formed in the pit of my stomach. It was either my ulcer flaring up or I was really going to hate what Jarod was up to. I knew it was the latter when I saw the banner hanging above the check-in counter. It said, Welcome TrekCON Guests! followed by indecipherable symbols and the equally indecipherable, (Qapla' Balth je'). I glanced at Broots and Sydney. Sydney was looking around, seeming vaguely interested in the people mingling about. Broots was fumbling with some papers. Neither had noticed the banner. The long line at the check-in counter made me decide to delegate.

"You two check us in. I'll be at the bar."

I didn't even give Sydney a chance to reprimand me about it.

One and half Scotches later, I saw Sydney and Broots walk into the bar. Sydney had that infuriating amused look, and Broots was talking excitedly. At least he had the good sense to calm down by the time they made it to my end of the bar.

"We're all checked in, Miss Parker. We had our luggage sent up." Broots gave me the pass key to my room. "You are in 307. We're below you in 205 and 207."

I raised an eyebrow. It was Centre SOP for us to be on the same floor and Broots knew it.

"Sorry. There's a convention and this is the Klingon headquarters so they're totally booked and...

Sydney, probably sensing Broots' imminent death, mercifully interrupted. "Jarod left us something."

He handed me an envelope. It was addressed to Broots in Jarod's neat block handwriting. Inside were three passes to this damned Star Trek convention (at the convention center just one block away, how considerate of you, Jarod) which started tomorrow. There was also a note: Have fun. J.

I stuffed everything back in the envelope and gave it back to Sydney. Before he could start theorizing why Jarod wanted us here, I said, "I don't want to hear it, Syd."

In truth, I didn't need to. It was pretty obvious to me why Jarod wanted us there: to annoy me. Sydney would be fascinated to observe the geeks in their natural habitat (and to contemplate why Jarod found it so interesting), and Broots would be in his natural habitat. Jarod probably felt that Sydney would see this trip as a pleasant diversion and Broots would accept it as a gift. But Jarod knew I would hate this.

I waived them away, a gesture that they both understood very well after so many years of working with me. Sydney pulled Broots away saying, "Call us later, when you are ready for dinner."

I vaguely nodded and watched them walk away. I finished my Scotch in one quick gulp and signaled the bartender for another. The bartender refilled my glass and said, "You're not here for the convention."

The only other customers were two couples seated at a table on the other side of the room. I had been in enough empty hotel bars to know that many bartenders chatted up customers either because of boredom or for better tips. I replied with a standard I-don't-want-to-talk response.

"No. Business."

"Ah." He chuckled, wiping the bar. "They're an interesting bunch."

For the first time, I took a good look at the bartender. He was an older man, late fifties maybe, with kind, chestnut eyes, a full head of graying hair and wrinkles that were better described as laugh lines. His name tag said his name was Frank, and I almost laughed at that. I found it amusing that the bartender's name was Frank, but I couldn't say why.

"Why is that, Frank?" I asked, not really interested in his answer.

"They are just people...who live their ordinary lives. Go to work or school. Raise a family. But for one weekend, they are not confined to the trappings of their everyday lives. They become a part of something they feel is greater than their lives. They can be someone else or, in most cases, who they want to be, if only for a few days. Here, a housewife can become a great warrior or a starship captain. They come here, surrounded by others who understand them, and they belong."

I took a sip of my Scotch and corrected him. "They pretend to belong."

I tried not to think of my choice of words as Frank said, "Perhaps. But you have to admit, there's a certain...freedom to it. The freedom to become whoever you want to be."

My initial reaction was to scoff, but instead I found myself saying, "Not everyone needs to be someone else. I'm pretty happy with me."

I could just hear Jarod's voice, "Are you really, Miss Parker? Or is that just a façade? Who do you really want to be?" I'm not even sure I believed myself, and by the way Frank looked at my mid-afternoon Scotch, I'm pretty sure he didn't believe me either. He was a good bartender, though, because he was smart enough not to comment and sacrifice his tip. I did know that I wasn't going to talk to Frank (or Jarod) about it. In fact, I didn't even want to think about it. I swallowed a good bit of Scotch. Perhaps sensing my discomfort, Frank continued on, "I have to say, though, the Klingons tend to be the best guests."

I glanced at Frank, raising an eyebrow. He smiled. It was a gentle, somewhat impish smile. "The bloodwine, of course."

I had no idea what he was talking about, but I smiled anyway. I kinda liked Frank. He reminded me of Ben.

I considered just staying in the bar till Sydney hunted me down for dinner. But this little game of Jarod's was somehow much worse than usual. Not even the admittedly decent Scotch would numb this pain...no, this required something more therapeutic: a new pair of shoes. Ridiculously expensive and woefully impractical shoes. I asked Frank where the nearest mall was and off I went.

I returned to the hotel with the new shoes (red patent faux alligator heeled oxford Bandolinos with a respectable three inch heel - I even surprised myself that they were not the strappy stilettos that usually soothed my soul, but this pair was really, really exquisite), a few other purchases and the distinct feeling that Jarod had followed me all afternoon. I had dinner with Sydney and Broots, after waiting over an hour to be seated. (All restaurants in the area had a long wait because of the convention.) Then I had to suffer through the meal with a blissfully happy Broots. I think the only thing that would have made him happier was if Debbie could have been here with us. At least, the girl had been spared. (Note to self: take Debbie shopping when we get back.) By the time I made it back to my hotel room, I was done and slammed the door in Broots' face.

Waiting for me on the bed was a large box covered in shiny cobalt blue paper and a silver bow. Jarod. Of course. I sighed, kicking off my shoes and then sat on the bed. I slid the bow off the package and lifted the lid. I pulled each item out in order. First were three books; I glanced at the titles (The Klingon Dictionary, The Klingon Way: A Warrior's Guide and Klingon for the Galactic Traveler) then tossed them aside. Next, a note from Jarod:

Room 4A 11am.

They won't let you in if you are not dressed properly.

Love,

--J.

I flicked the note across the room and debated whether I needed more Scotch before continuing. The next item in the box was a three piece costume - pants, bodice and a cape. There was no question Jarod would die; the real question was where could I get the spoon to scoop out his eyeballs. The cape was made of an interesting material I could not identify; it wasn't too stiff and not too flowy. At first, I thought the rest of the costume was pleather but upon closer inspection, I realized it was genuine leather and handmade. The pants were simple enough; the bodice was tight-fitting, low-cut and designed to lift my girls in open defiance of the law of gravity. (Note to self: get pliers. I will wipe that smirk off his face by removing one tooth at a time.) The shoulders had these elaborate epaulets shaped somewhere between a scroll and a curved blade; the sleeves had a row of short rubber spikes on the forearm painted silver to look like blades. Returning to the box, I then removed the boots that would complete the ensemble - tall, thick rubber heels, more rubber spikes on the side and one large rubber talon in the front. I shrugged. If the spikes and talon had been real, I think I would have grudgingly admitted to liking the boots (or, at least, the damage I could do to the wayward Pretender with them). The last item in the box is what made me seriously consider handing Jarod over to Lyle: it was a wig, complete with the Klingon forehead ridges.

"What. The. Hell." I didn't even realize I had said that out loud. Before I had a chance to properly curse Jarod in four languages, my hotel phone rang. After the second ring, I grabbed it roughly. "What?!"

"Miss Parker," said Sydney (and I could just see that amused smile on his face), "did you receive a gift from Jarod?"

"Yes. What is your lab rat up to now?"

"I'm not sure. But his notes indicated that if we wore the costumes- "

"No, Sydney. I will not be humi- "

Sydney cut me off with a warning tone. "Parker. The note I received suggested that we would see him tomorrow in person if the three of us wear these costumes. I do not think you would want to pass up this opportunity to catch Jarod."

Dammit, dammit, dammit! I closed my eyes and let out a sigh. "I'll see you in the morning, Syd."

I hung up. I put my costume back in its box, changed into my pajamas and grabbed two bottles of Vodka from the minibar. I made myself comfortable in my bed and quickly downed the vodka. I looked at the books which still lay beside me. If I was going to battle Jarod tomorrow, I would be fully armed. I picked up one of them, The Klingon Way: A Warrior's Guide and began to read, already cursing my photographic memory for making the contents of the book a permanent part of my life.

 

 

 





Chapter End Notes:
SOP=standard operating procedure





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