Cmdr. Shayne: An Armed Interlude

[Quinn Friedl]

((Deck 2, Shuttlebay, USS Arrow))

As Shayne watched the little craft, slick and sleek and black in color, descend gracefully upon his hanger deck, his mind suddenly reeled back, to another time and another place, long ago and far away from these wretched enclosures of space and subterfuge. 

 

((Flashback, 2391, 602 Club))

 

Shayne, as a rule, did not drink. It was, up until recently, illegal and impossible to obtain due to his age. But with that particular hurdle crossed some months ago, he’d still been reticent to pick up the bottle. He’d seen what it could do to others, and the chaos it could invoke, and the cruelty it could impart. Never before had he actually had an urge to imbibe. 

Until tonight.

 

He sat there, in his own corner of the primarily social bar, established hundreds of years before his birth. The pretty lady at the counter had brought him enough alcohol to bowel over a small horse, but while he felt sick and woozy, his mental faculties- the one thing he was hoping to effect- remained aggressively intact. 

How could he have been so stupid? The commandant had given an opportunity to pick any cadets he’d wanted, and he’d gone for the bottom of the barrel, the lowlifes, the ones that, by any sane measurement, did not deserve to wear the same uniform as him. Why had he felt the need to be so pious, so much more holy than everyone else? Surely not being accepted by any of the dozens of command candidates would raise enough warning flags to warrant their ejection. He hadn’t had to take them under his wing, and he certainly hadn’t had to tie their weighted anchors to his professional leg. He’d screwed himself, nice and royally. 

 

A particularly boisterous crowd had gathered at the other side of the bar, and with a particularly loud shout, the group got Shayne’s attention. Groggily, he turned to observe the hubbub. The throngs were gathered around a single table, and upon a slightly unbalance approach, Shayne found the source of their entertainment. Two men were locked in a time-honored duel to the shame before their peers. One of them Shayne was unfamiliar with, and was making a valiant, though futile attempt, to win the arm wrestle that he had undertaken unwisely. The other man, whom Shayne was confident would win this engagement, was immediately recognizable. 

Benson. 

 

The older man looked as if it were his constitution alone that kept him from jumping up on the table and tearing his opponent- even this friendly opponent- to shreds. But it mattered not, for as Shayne watched, Benson slowly and methodically forced his enemy’s arm to an unsavory and particularly uncomfortable position. Finally relenting, the unknown man sat back, as a sigh of both bemused wonderment and disappointment went up throughout the crowd. Benson sat back, brazenly morose as ever. 

Random person: Right, who’s next? 

 

At the lack of response- this had been going on for some time, after all- the summoner grew disdainful. 

Random person: Come on! He’s got to get tired some time. 

 

Before he even knew what had happened, Shayne was sitting across from Benson. It was only his inebriation that allowed him to keep a straight face as he looked into the beady, searching eyes of his subordinate. 

 

Benson: What do you want? 

Almost immediately, Shayne responded with rote wisdom. 

Shayne: Never ask that question. 

Benson seemed content at that, but as he brought his arm up, he hesitated. It was the look of a man who didn’t want to hurt. Whether it was because he truly felt empathetic to the potential pain he’d cause, or because he hated the prospect of the paperwork such an act would entail, it posed a problem for Shayne, one not easily rectified by discretion or caution. Before Benson could pull his hand away, Shayne slammed his elbow down onto the mahogany wood, bit off the desired scream, and spoke as clearly as he could. 

 

Benson: If I win, you leave me alone.

 

Shayne: And if I win, you reach firmly into your butt, firmly grasp whatever died in there, and pull it out. 

 

The snickering approval of the crowd answered before Benson could, and the two large men clasped hands. With a quick countdown they were off. 

Shayne preferred to play games of attrition; brute force where strength was concerned rarely worked. But Benson was not going to allow him to wait. He immediately plowed his full strength into the match, leaving Shayne already at a disadvantage. They didn’t look away from one another, as if trying to bore through the skull of the other, but it was clear early on that Benson was winning. 

There was too much at stake for Shayne to give up, but the pain in his shoulder and arm was exploding, magnified by the effort necessary to simply keep it straight, as the rules demanded. This was, he decided, a poor idea. 

 

But even as he was torqued to forty five degrees, he refused to give in. The fury was now outrageous, high pitched and excruciating, and Benson showed no signs of stopping. Neither, then, would Shayne, the stubborn pig. 

 

It was often overlooked that pain was the warning system for the body, a trigger to avoid danger. The pain itself was also overlooked here, and in the determination, the abject need to succeed, against all doubt, in this endeavor, Shayne refused to heed any cautions, until…

Crunch.

 

The first moments were silent, as no wounded animal would willingly give up its location. But an instant later, he couldn’t contain it, and he howled, while the rest of the crowd backpedaled in horror. His arm, his arm, and suddenly Benson was near him, tending to him, and then the beefy man was pushed back by two nursing cadets who immediately took to his mangled ligaments with proper instruments. 

 

He didn’t remember much about that evening- perhaps it was the hangover, or perhaps it was simply a desire to not recall the agony that he experienced. He did recall how Benson, no longer useful and the cause of more suffering, stood up and began to walk away. He remembered the crowds around, offering consolation or simply discussing the injury. He remembered the boiling hatred he had for the weakness of his flesh, and the spirit that was willing. 

 

But above all, he would never forget the look on Benson’s face when, upon hearing another thump from behind him, he turned to find Shayne, tears streaming freely down his cheeks, veins popping from his forehead, face purple with effort and pain…

 

...and his other arm beckoning for a rematch.

((Present Day))

 

With a hiss of steam, the shuttle’s compartment began to open, and at the same time, the tricorder Shayne carried with him buzzed insistently. Was it more readings from the planet? Potentially, but even something more urgent would have to wait. Their guest was beginning to disembark. 

 

Serinus/Ander: Response

 

Tag/TBC…

 

Commander Randal Shayne
Commanding Officer
USS Arrow
NCC 69829
G239202RS0