DISCLAIMER: All things Trek, Reservoir Dogs and Prisoner are the property of someone else.

(The Aftermath)
By Odon

The first thing Captain Janeway saw when she woke up in Voyager’s sickbay was the smiling face of the Emergency Medical Hologram.

"Captain," said Doc, pleased that his medical brilliance had once again produced a last-minute solution to a crisis. "I have successfully removed most of the Borg implants from yourself, Commander Tuvok and Lieutenant Torres. I anticipate no long-term effects, and the neural suppressant has prevented any of the psychological damage we’ve seen in other former drones."

"The mission?" croaked Janeway, sitting up on the biobed. Her scalp itched and she had an incredible craving for a nice hot mug of coffee. This was the last time she was going to let herself be assimilated by the Borg! Apparently ‘liquid supplements’ were irrelevant. Picard was right; the Borg truly were the essence of evil.

"Commander Chakotay informs me that the individuality virus has been spread throughout the Borg Collective. He instructed me to tell you not to worry, he can handle Voyager for a few days." Janeway swung her legs off the biobed and Doc added significantly. "So I suggest you get some rest."

"I’m quite fine, Doctor," said Janeway, striding for the door and promptly stumbling in her unfamiliar shoes. She looked down…and screamed in sheer horror.


The Doctor was so startled he dropped his tricorder. "Captain?"


"The biosuit works as a dermaplastic graft," replied the Doctor soothingly. "It’s to help your skin regenerate. As for the boots well, fashion is hardly my forte but__"

"For God’s sake, you can tell my butt size in this! I’m not having every horny crewman on Voyager checking out my physical dimensions!" Janeway looked in a mirror and screamed again. "And what happened to my hair? I’m BALD!"

"Well don’t blame ME," said a miffed EMH. "The Borg were responsible for that! I didn’t see the need to change it. After all, some of Starfleet’s greatest leaders have been bald. Kirk, Picard, Sisko, and myself of course."

"I want my hair follicles regenerated IMMEDIATELY! And I want this biosuit removed AT ONCE!" Janeway shouted, cranking her Glare of Death up to full power.

"We can’t do that yet," protested the Doctor, as he prepared a hypospray of caffeine in a desperate attempt to placate the frantic captain. "The transporters are off line, and the only way to remove you from that biosuit is to beam you out of it."

"BEAM me out of it?"

"Yes, and then I’d just have to spraypaint it on again afterwards. Those grafts shouldn’t be removed until your skin has regenerated, and that can take some time. Seven of Nine is still wearing hers after three years! Mind you she does have an awful lot of skin to regenerate. Especially around her…uhm…chest region."

The sickbay doors hissed open and Tuvok minced through them in his high-heeled boots. "Captain, I fail to see the logic in wearing this ridiculous form of footwear. Furthermore, this biosuit is cutting off the circulation to my genitalia."

"Oh Tuvok," said Janeway. "If I ever let on that it was easy for Seven of Nine, remind me of today." To the Doctor’s alarm the captain reached out to embrace her long-time friend and companion.



The next time Captain Janeway woke up it was Chakotay’s concerned face staring down at her.

"Commander Chakotay," Janeway said whoozily. "I see the way your pupils dilate when you look at my body. Do you wish to copulate?"

"She’s coming around Doctor," said Chakotay. "What happened?"

"Two words," replied the Doctor. "Static discharge."




"It was a time long ago, the darkest days of the Klingon Empire," said Worf, leaning in so close over the fire that his beard started to smoulder. "It was called the time of nOmacH uP."

Alexander listened raptly, his eyes wide.

"The Klingon Gods, the Pau R's ThatBe, controlled everything. They refused to allow sufficient funds so that the Klingons could undergo their sacred macH uP ceremony, in which the warrior gains his mighty ridges. Our proud warriors had to face the evil Captain Kirk and his minions with smooth foreheads. The shame so overwhelmed them that they lost in every encounter they had with this human petaQ!" Worf's eyes shone with fire reflected from his burning beard. "One day it became too much. The mighty Kahless, the only warrior whose forehead was not smooth, rose up and destroyed the Gods."

Worf leaned back in satisfaction. "They were more trouble than they were worth."

"The moral of this story is: Do not let any greater Pau R's interfere with who you are. If so they will turn you into a bumbling pu-cha!" The Klingon smiled in satisfaction over the intense way Alexander was staring at him. It appeared the boy was interested in the old tales after all. That was good. They contained valuable lessons which he could use in life...

"Father," cried Alexander. "Your beard is on fire!"

"My forehead macH up!" shouted Worf, leaping to his feet in alarm. "It's melting!"

And so ended another fire tale.



DELTA QUADRANT TARGS (A Reservoir Dogs crossover)

"Oh $%^#!" screamed Seven of Nine as she clutched her phaser-burned guts. "She killed me! The (^&% bitch killed me! I can’t %$#ing believe I was so %$#ing inefficient! I’m going to &(%ing die!"

"No you’re not!" yelled B’Elanna, holding Seven’s hand as she flew the stolen shuttle. "You’re not going to &(%ing die! Say after me, you’re not going to &(%ing die!"

"I’m…not…going to &(%ing die," gasped Seven before she passed out from the pain.

B’Elanna Torres staggered into Voyager’s sickbay with the wounded Seven of Nine over her shoulder. "Activate Mr Grouchy!"

The hologram known to her only as Mr Grouchy materialised. "Please state what the #%@ is going on."

"Mr Efficient here was gutshot by the Borg Queen during our attempt to steal the transwarp coil. Mr Flyboy was killed in the escape. It looks like it was a set-up. One of us…is a Borg."

"That’s a load of #%#!" grouched Mr Grouchy, running a tricorder over Mr Efficient. "Why is it so #(%ing dark in here? How am I supposed to diagnose a ^#&* patient in these conditions?"

"Take off those dark glasses you stupid #%#," growled B’Elanna as she paced up and down. "There was no %#)ing way those Borg spheres could have got there so fast. I know we were set up. One of us is a #%*ing drone."

"I’m not surprised she’s passed out," said Mr Grouchy, snapping shut his tricorder. "That wound must hurt like $^#$! Look, it’s all the fault of Mr Coffee. She went nuts and started phasering everybody."

"Are you referring to me?" They looked up to see a short redhead leaning against the sickbay doors, calmly sipping from a mug of coffee. Her jacket was open to reveal a shoulder-holstered phaser.

"Coffee, you #@% psycho!" yelled B’Elanna. "Why did you have to start shooting those #%#ing drones?"

"You going to bark little doggie, or are you going to bite my cheek?" sneered Mr Coffee. "I’ve got a drone in the trunk of the Delta Flyer who’ll answer all our questions. The two of you, go get Mr Tattoo and the others."

"We do not know of any set-up," protested Icheb, as he was tied to a biobed by Mr Coffee. The subspace radio was playing "Stuck in the Delta Quadrant with you."

"I don’t give a #$!^ what you know," Mr Coffee purred as she poured scalding hot coffee over the drone. "I’m going to torture you anyway." With a laser scalpel she cut off his auditory node.

Suddenly Mr Coffee went flying backwards as Mr Efficient emptied her phaser into the maniacal redhead.

"Why did you wait so @$%ing long, Seven?" yelled Icheb. "The Species 5618 bitch cut off our auditory node! Now we are inefficient!"

"Your node…is irrelevant," gasped Seven. "We must…wait until the other…Voyager crewmembers…arrive so we can assss…ssimilate them."

The doors hissed open and Mr Tattoo and the other Voyager crewmembers came in. Mr Tattoo stared in shock at the dead body of his friend Mr Coffee. "What the #$%^ happened here?"

"She went nuts and was going to kill the drone," gasped Seven of Nine.

"What, like this?" said Mr Tattoo furiously, as he disintegrated Icheb with his phaser. "It looks like Mr Temper was right. We were set up. Mr Efficient is a Borg! I’m going to waste her right now!"

"No, you’re wrong! She’s a good kid," protested B’Elanna, jumping in between Seven and Mr Tattoo. "What proof do you have?"

"To accuse someone without proof is not $#%ing logical," agreed Mr Ears.

"You don’t need logic when you’ve got instinct, Coffee always used to say," said Tattoo, glaring at the Vulcan. "I never wanted this ##!*ing bimbo on board in the first place. Now get out of my way, Temper!" Mr Tattoo pointed his phaser at the angry half-Klingon.

"@^% you, you $#%ing #%@!" yelled B’Elanna, pointing her own phaser back. They both fired, wounding each other fatally.

The doors burst open and Borg drones poured in, intoning: "You will be assimilated! Resistance is futile!"

The dying B’Elanna clutched Seven of Nine in her arms, stroking her beautiful blonde hair. Seven knew that this woman had given her life to save one insignificant drone ­ she couldn’t lie to her any longer. "I’m a Borg. We are Borg!"

"NOOOO!!!!" wailed B’Elanna, putting her phaser to Seven’s head.

"Drop the $%^ing weapon! Resistance is @!#ing futile!" the Borg drone’s droned, waving their assimilation tubules in B’Elanna’s face.

B’Elanna fired, turning this into an angst fanfic.



If you’re not familiar with the 1960’s British sci-fi/espionage series “The Prisoner” you might not get this.  Don’t worry.  Most people who saw “The Prisoner” didn’t get it either.


The tall blonde female walks through endless grey-metal corridors, all of which look exactly the same.  The entire ship has a surreal atmosphere to it.  Doors open automatically without her touching them.  Men and woman dressed in brightly coloured pyjama-like uniforms stride the decks, but do not speak to each other.  The blonde is dressed in a highly unusual manner herself, a skin-tight silver outfit that covers her from the neck down.

Going through one door, she finds herself in an enormous room filled with row upon row of shuttlecraft.  Another room contains hundreds of stasis tubes, full of expendable ensigns.

Entering a small circular room, she finds herself exiting in a completely different place.  Like every other place on the ship it is spotlessly clean.  Sitting across from her is a short redhead with four pips on her collar, sipping from a mug of coffee.

“I am Number Two,” says the redhead. 

The blonde raises an eyebrow.  “Where’s Number One?”

Number Two smirks and flicks a glance into the corner, where sits a Native American totem pole, a carved wooden man with a bizarre tattoo marking his intriguing facial structure.  “There can be only one Number One on MY ship!”

“And what ship is that?”


“Whose side are you on?  Are you on the side of Roddenberry  . . . or the Ratings?”

“That would be telling,” replies the auburn-haired female, her lip curling up in a smirk.  “I want obedience . . . obedience . . . obedience . . .”

Her blonde captive raises her chin in defiance.  “Well you won’t get it!”

“By Berman or by Braga we will.”  She smiles with an amiability that the blonde doesn’t believe for a second.  “Now let’s be practical.  Your only chance to get out is to give me what I want . . . and if you don’t give it, I’ll take it.  It’s up to you; think about it.  Good day, Seven.”

“What?” asks the blonde, frowning in puzzlement.

“For official purposes, everyone has a number.  Yours is Number Seven of Nine.”

“I am not a number,” says the blonde in an icy tone.  “I am an individual.”

On exciting the corridor, she observes a large white ball approaching her.  “What’s that?”

“That’s Rover,” says a non-descript ensign.  “But we call him Doc.”

To the blonde’s horror, the non-descript ensign is dead moments after he has spoken, killed by a rampaging Alien of the Week.

As the white object comes closer, she sees it is actually the bald head of a man dressed in the uniform of a Chief Medical Officer.  “Be seeing you,” he says in greeting.  “Probably in every second episode from now on.  You’ll find there’s a lot that we can offer you here.  Opera, lessons in interpersonal skills, and my skin-tight outfits will ensure that you have the complete and undivided attention of every man on board the ship.”

The blonde turns and flees in panic through the door from which she came.  The redhead looks up at her from the padd she is reading.

“I am the new Number Two,” she says coldly.  “What can I do for you?”

The blonde gapes in surprise.  The person sitting in the captain’s chair looks the same, but has a completely different personality and hairstyle.

“What am I doing here?” the young woman blurts out.

“Well that’s the question isn’t it?  A lot of people have been asking that.  Some say it’s merely a question of ratings.”  Number Two studies the blonde in a questioning manner.  She remains tight-lipped.

“Of course, all this could be ended if you answered one simple question . . . ”

The blonde shivers as Number Two asks her the one question she’d sworn never to answer.

“Why did Kes resign?”

The End

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