A Tellurite And A Leprechaun Walk Into A Bar

Posted on Sun Apr 14th, 2019 @ 10:42am by Ensign Fiona O'Dell & Ensign Briaar Gavarus

Mission: Detours
Location: USS Hera, Deck 10, Ten-Forward
Timeline: 2396
Tags: Odd Couple, Below Decks

Following their duty stink on the upper flight deck, the unlikely duo of engineer and pilot had made their way down to the common area lounge, where the pint-sized pilot insisted that they sit at the bar. A shorter stool was available for the rather large Tellurite, and a high chair was located for the rather short Mariposian. When they were both settled in, the bartender asked for their order.

"Scotch whiskey, single malt if ye have it, neat, two fingers, your'n, not mine, but not hers neither, aye?" the chirpy little officer ordered, chucking a thumb at the thick-fingered flight engineer. "What'll ye have, yeh great spalleen?"

Tilting her thick jowled face at the diminutive pilot, the pig snouted engineer had a flat expression. "Scotch? What a surprise. Behold, my 'surprised' face."

Ensign Gavarus turned back towards the bartender. "You know what I like. Vodka on ice." She dismissively waved the bartender away with her thick, three fingered hand.

"Whaaaat? I'm supposed ta drink some girly foo-foo cocktail? I'd be laughed oota the pub," The petite pilot took her tumbler of scotch delivered before her and began waving it about like a conductor's baton as she spoke. "Besoides, if I ordered somethin else people'd be disappointed, aye? All the pilots drink scotch, dinna ye know that? Want ta butter oop the Admniral? Bottle of scotch. Want to get the better duty? Bottle a' scotch. Chief offers ye a drink? I'll have scotch, neat. S'more polite than if ye ask fer it on the rocks and they dinna hae'any ice. S'politics, it is."

As the bartender brought the irritable looking Tellarite her drink, she took it without paying them much mind. "I don't rightly care what Commander sh'Zoarhi drinks. If I advance in my position, it will be based on my skills, not my ability to suck up with my choice of drink. And correct me if I'm wrong, but your direct superior is absolutely not a scotch woman?"

"Beatsa crap oota me. Woman's a mystery. At my level there's nae muster wi' the chief, it's muster wi' section leader. See if there's any actual flyin' ta be doon for the day, and if not ye kin field day, which is once a week mandatory innyway, or ye kin pess oaf ta the sims and fly yer arse off. I may fly shuttlecraft and worker bees today, boot there ever any action, I'm right ready fer a dogfight, aye?" The wee imp cheered with her glass, then took a tiny sip.

Taking a rather large sip of her vodka, Briaar smirked. "If you care about the politics of your career, you need to climb up on a step stool and look around a bit. The air may be thin up here, but it's where the department heads all drink. And yours drinks Romulan Ale."

Finishing her drink, Briaar gestured to the bartender, shaking her empty glass. "Not that I care about such things. But your name is now on the flight chart for the Thunderchicken. That's something that might get you out of the worker bees."

"Whaaat, are ye serious? I thought that stoof was still illegal in the Federation, and wait- hoooooly Mary mother'a yeesus are ye serious? She's a..." The shrinky-dink space jockey looked around before leaning into her porcine conversation partner and hissed "A Romulan? The chief? Yuir na poolin me leg, aye?"

That was when the image of the redheaded woman with the pointy ears and the sharply pointed brows came to mind, and two and two made four in the head of the lucky leprechaun.

"Well I'll be jiggered. Ahhh, doesnae matter innyway. M'foine w'me shuttles and bees and casual duties," O'Dell tapered off into a mumble as she didn't sound terribly convincing. Then, looking up, she bought her glass up, then eyed the Tellurite. "So what's so how aboot yuir career thet yer workin' on troubleshootin' fer the big flight control project, aye? Yuir a flight deck engineer, then?"

Sucking loudly on her empty glass to irritate the bartender as they brought a fresh drink, Briaar turned to the diminutive pilot with a bemused smirk. "I go where things need fixing. Your chief... Who, yes, is a Romulan... makes a lot of extra work for my chief. She fancies herself a wannabe engineer and screws around with the runabouts. And since the chief engineer is an extremely busy woman, I get sent to fix your chief's messes. And yes, I suppose I'm hoping that my efforts will draw attention to my skills."

"However, you handled that ridiculous contraption exceptionally well. You could be much... well... bigger isn't the right word, of course. But don't you want out of the worker bees?" Briaar sounded irritated for O'Dell at this point.

Taking an actual sip of the whiskey, O'Dell raised an eyebrow and stuck out her jaw a bit. "Are you besmirchin' the honest labors of the 'little people' of Starfleet, is that it Ensign Fixer-Upper? We should all be focused on our careers and getting ahead and working hard, aye?"

"Oh, what kind of nonsense is that? There are plenty of pilots to perform those tasks. Or was it some other garden gnome who just a half hour ago was proverbially crossing her finger for the chance to fly that experimental... thing... again?" Briaar pursed her wrinkled brow and snorted slightly as she spoke.

"You can fly it, you DID fly it and it's logged in an official report. So you can romanticize being a 'little person' all you want, but it's slop. Yes, you should be working harder to be seen."

"Aaaaand joost who are you ta be tellin' me how ta manage me career?" Taking another belt of whiskey, the sprightly shuttle pilot poked a finger at her half again as large companion. "If yuir so smart how come yuir still an ensign, hm?"

Leaning in until her snout was almost touching O'Dell's pointed finger, Briaar snapped back. "I'm still an ensign because I don't know how to NOT tell idiots when they're being idiots. And up until now it was largely due to my criticizing my superiors for not being worth their RANK! And I can't believe that now I'm yelling at someone because they refuse to act on their obvious potential!"

The irritated Tellarite downed her Vodka and slapped the empty glass on the bar as she waved two fingers at the bartender. "You exasperating little... I spend a lot.of time in your department, and let me tell you something. MacNielle is a sycophant, Paulson is a chauvinist, and Harnell is at best, competent. And if I have to spend time down there, I don't want to have to deal with those three idiots when you are their better and actually worth my damn time!"

There was a brief silence as the bartender put Briaar's vodka down and cleared his throat noticably. Slowly, the pair turned their heads towards the room, where MacNielle, Paulson and Harnell were sitting at a table together, staring with their jaws hanging slack.

Harrumphing, Briaar cocked an eyebrow as she didn't look the slightest bit embarrassed. "What? I'm not wrong. Drink your drinks."

"Well ain't you doin' me all sortsa favors for me career. Remember me section chief? Aye, that's him sittin right there. And me officer on deck down on the flight deck when Herself- oh, that was the bird o'prey joke, I get it now, aye- when the cvhief and assistant chief aren't there, yeah, that's the officer on deck sittin' next to him. So thanks a whole heapin bunch fer ye and yuir brilliant career advice, Gavarus. Wi'friends like you who needs enemies?"

"FINE! I'm a terrible friend and my advice is horrible and I don't know how to talk to... people!" Gavarus turned to the bar to complain. "And where's my... There it is! THANK YOU!"

She doubled down on her attitude as her drink had clearly been filled and refused to admit she was feeling rightly terrible at the moment. So instead, she just kept arguing. "So, yes, this is how I try and help and I'm clearly terrible at it! So, I'M SORRY!"

Amazingly, she somehow managed to apologize and argue at the same time as Briaar chugged down her drink.

Tossing back her own drink, or at least a good mouthful of it, O'Dell hiccuped slightly and her pale skin took on a warm pink glow. "Ahhh, s'alreet. Ye dinna ken they were sittin' right nearby, and yuir nae wrong. Pratts, the lot of 'em. Buncha highfalutin snobs. I dinna care. I got to be a test pilot today, aye! Cheers ta me!" The bite-sized banshee raised the remainder of her drink with a cheerful half-lidded grin that indicated she was surprisingly drunk already.

Finishing her latest round, Briaar wiped her thick lips and slapped the glass back on the bar. "It's not all right."

Stepping up, Briaar walked over to the other table and addressed MacNielle, Paulson and Harnell. "Look, I'm obviously a bitch and she's... inexplicably considering that it's synthahol... just drunk. So if you feel the need to take this up with my department head, feel free, but direct your attention to where it belongs, on me!"

They just stared for a moment and nervously looked away back to their drinks, not quite knowing to make of the bizarre situation as Gavarus flumped back to the bar. "And how are you DRUNK? I swear, you are an enigma. And you are a test pilot."

Irritated, Briaar leaned over to yell over her shoulder to the now empty table. "And she's a damn good... where the hell did they? Cowards."

"Yuir arright fer a big angry space hog," the tiny test pilot grinned ear to ear, eyes barely open. "Cmon, I'll tan yer arse in darts!"

In attempting to climb off her stool, the drunken daredevil missed her handhold, and faceplanted into the deck. "Mm a'rrrrite..."

Staring down for a second in stunned disbelief, Briaar reached down to help pull the plastered pilot back to her feet.. "This is... It's synthahol, you ridiculous pixie. I don't think letting you near a dart board is a good idea. At this rate you'll somehow stab your eye out with one, and they're just holograms."

"M'allergic ta synthehol. Works like normal fer me, and I'll admit- to me eternal shame as a half Bringloidian- I canna hold me liquor. I dinna weigh enough ta be able to metablize. So I'm a cheap drunk, aye? Eh? Eh? Eh?" All smiles and good cheer, the drunken doll swayed on her feet, then began clambering back up onto her barstool.

Resisting the urge to snort out a chuckle, the sober Tellarite helped her diminutive new friend get settled. "Of course you are."

Sighing, Gavarus shook her head and smiled. "Bartender, coffee. You're not allergic to coffee, are you?"

"Irish coffee! Cuz I'm Irishish, right? Hah!" O'Dell continued to wrestle with her chair until she managed to clamber in and settle, then she blinked owlishly about. "So howcum nobody likes you? I like yez jus fine. Yer a right smartass ye are but ye knoow yuir stoof."

"You're drunk and I'm fairly certain you're insane, so you liking me is as much an enigma as anything else. But where I come from, we just say what we're thinking and we love a good argument." Gavarus took a sip of her newly arrived coffee.

"I know how that goes over in other cultures, but I frankly don't care to be someone I'm not. I'm an irritable, opinionated, arrogant, argumentative pain in the ass and I'm happy enough with that reality." In truth, Gavarus generally felt isolated and lonely, but she never wanted to give others the satisfaction of knowing she felt that way, but she found that she didn't want to hide that from O'Dell in that moment.

"But... I appreciate you... Liking me..." She admitted, as close to being emotionally vulnerable as she was comfortable being. "...Leprechaun."

"Aye! We're g'win ta be friends, ye and me! Because you need a friend who doesn't mind that ye're a horse's ass in a pig snout. And that's me, see? Everybody loves me cuz I'm wee and always smilin'. Always they ask if I'm sure I can reach the controls, and I say oh aye, least there's nae foot pedals, right?" O'Dell picked up her empty glass and peered into it, then set it aside with a sigh and picked up the cup of coffee the bartender delivered. "And they laugh, o'course, and they loove meh. But this one... it did have foot pedals. The cockpit was designed so adjustable even wee little me could strap in and work the foot pedals."

"I wan ta fly this bird, Gavarus. Ah kin do great things w'her, I can feel it. Boot I'm nae lucky, not at all. I want ta stay on this project, so what do I do?" Still drunk and more than a little rambling, the intoxicated ensign still managed to portray some urgency to the irascible engineer as the little redhead turned that mass of curls and blinked up at the Tellurite with those big green eyes.

"It made me feel... big," O'Dell practically whispered.

"Well, I don't like you because your 'wee'. And I sure as hell don't like you because of that ever-present grin from the seventh level of hell." Gavarus took a sip of her coffee, stopping just short of actually expressing why she liked the pint sized pilot.

"But luck is a crutch for the incompetent, and you have no need of such nonsense. You've got skills in that thing's cockpit. Your chief isn't that much taller than you. Fat little thing, really." Gavarus' tone got a bit quicker as she started talking more quietly, as if the two were hatching a plot.

"She's short as hell, too. And she's the chief flight control officer. So that means your height won't be a detriment to your career, here. So if you want back in that robot... thing... you need to show her what you can do. And, unless those three doorstops go and cry to Commander sh'Zoarhi that the mean old pig-girl called them names, she will keep assigning me to work the flight deck."

The tone was positively conspiratorial now, as the Tellarite's thick jowls we're barely concealing her widening smirk. "So you... my 'wee' friend... have an in. The Thunderchicken, the Runabouts, the CYCLONES... they will all need a pilot to check their systems and put them through their paces after I repair them."

Staring up the the platinum-haired Tellurite, the merry Mariposian blinked slowly. "So I should show the chief me line dancin?"

"You don't have to do anything different than what we did today. If I need a pilot, you think either of those three will volunteer? They didn't like working with me before tonight. So long as I'm still working the flight deck, I'll need test pilots. You just keep doing that job the way you have, and your chief will see it. Trust me."

Taking a long swig to finish her coffee, Briaar continued. "I've given her my reports after the end of her shift. She likes to watch all the feeds. Maybe it's a Romulan thing, but if you want to be noticed, you will be."

"Awwww, ye do like me, ya great grouchy grumbler!" The pixie beamed a cheery drunkely delighted smile up at the scowling countenance of the imposing Tellurite. "Alreet, I'll take yuir gamble that yuir loverly speechy there won't get me in troobul, and tha' maybe the chief might notice me antics wi' her wee pet project. Ma and Da said I was wastin' me potential headed off fer Starfleet, and surely would be nice ta write home ta tell 'em their wee Fiona is a test pilot now on a top-secret project that lets me learn to disco dance with a robotic exo-whatchacallit."

With her thick, pink skin it was nearly impossible to see that Briaar was blushing slightly, embarrassed but also working overtime to not show that she was happy. "Well, keep in mind that words 'top secret' there when writing home and... Wait?!"

As Briaar processed what O'Dell had just said, she got indignant again. "What do you mean, 'wasting your potential'? Where the hell else was a pilot going to show their potential? Crop dusting?"

“Waaaahhhhh, seein as my people only came back together only a few years before I was born, sticking around to keep the gene pool circulatin was high on the priority list.” The lilting leprechaun sipped her coffee, holding onto the mug with both hands, which just made it look that much larger by comparison. “But I’m a wee midget! I’m like the very definition of recessive genes in action, so who would want this passed on? Besides, kin ye imagine what I’d look like pregnant, smuggling a medicine ball in me belly? Nae, home and hearth kin wait. Maybe someday I’ll meet a nice lad and want to settle down, but fuir noow, I’m oot havin me an adventure and a career! Hic!”

"Breeding?! That was the potential they gave you crap about...? Oh, what nonsense. That they would... Uggh!" Briaar rolled her eyes, aggravated. "You're a pilot! On a Starship! That's the definition of living up to one’s potential well, except for being an engineer, of course." She ended on a smug smirk at her new friend.

“Ach, ye know how it is, duty to the colony, uphold tradition, ye break yuir mother’s heart, alla that rot. ‘Lookit yuir brothers, they’re all doin’ their part, why can’t ye?’ and so forth. Ye must know, aye?” The slowly sobering sprite eyed her taller compatriot. “Must be a whole passel of hogs-headed brutes back home missin the likes of ye, aye?”

Snorting out a laugh, Briaar slapped the bar. "Oh, that is sooooo not a priority for me. Besides, Tellarite's have an average of SIX children at a time. I have nine brothers and seven sisters to keep the family going back home. And I have less than no interest in the gods awful suitors my parents tried to marry me off to. Morons, each and every one."

“Ach, now yuir speakin me language,” the garrulous pygmy replied. “Me da an Mum paraded every possible suitor past me before I was e’en old enow to consider marriage. Short and tall, wide and thin, a worse lot of gingers ye nivvir did see. And all fuir what? ‘Tradition’ they sez to me. Tradition of settling down, raisin babies and watching some good for nothing lout nip off to the poob every night, leavin' me home ta do the cookin' and cleanin' and raisin of the young’uns? Nae, not this bonnie lass! I pessed off for the stars fast as me little legs could carry me, I did. E’en got a letter of recommendation from some muckity muck who me Aunt Brenna met during the Great Exodus.”

"Well, I don't know if anyone is speaking your version of the language, but absolutely understand." Briaar gestured to the bartender for a refill on her Coffee. "I swear, you'd question that we’re on the cusp of the 25th century, sometimes. Antiquated, patriarchal, misogynistic tripe. And to hell with little legs, you have warp drive, now."

“Well, I did mention that we were in a bit of a genetic bind, at least me ancestors were. And me Da’s side of the tribe were the backwards country cousins, so… aye, a bit behind the times, maybe,” the stereotypical siren admitted. “But they’ve six sons ahead of me already, so not like I was going to be the salvation of the line, aye?”

“Now ye want to talk about the short legs, Starfleet Academy and Flight School I nivvir heard the end of it. Allays double-timing it joost ta watch me scurry along, but I made it, aye? I’m a certified pilot and in the fleet!” Looking down, her own legs dangling above the floor while the Tellurite amazon’s feet firmly planted, O’Dell nodded sagely. “Not yuir challenge I kin see…”

Snorting slightly, Briaar smirked. "Not even a little. To get to my first assignment on Starbase 467, I spent 36 hours in a type 15 shuttlecraft. The entire time, sitting like this."

As she spoke, the tall Tellarite brought her knees up and tilted her head to the side in a clearly uncomfortable position for a few seconds before resuming a normal posture. But as her thick tipped hooves hit the bottom of the bar they made a sharp clapping sound.

"Then there's the sounding like a damn tap dancer when I walk. That went over wonderfully at the Academy."

“I think it’s keen! Ye’re easy to hear, and ye kin tap dance like a dervish, aye? Nae wrong wi’that! Plus ye know how hard it is tryin ta find women’s shoes in a size 4?” Looking on the bright side was a particularly obnoxious trait that tended to shine through the little leprechaun at the most unlikely times. Contemplating her coffee, the reductive rocketeer asked in a quiet voice, “Ye really think I have a shot at doin’ better? At really getting ta be a test pilot?”

"You already are, O'Dell. Try and keep up." Briaar smirked as she spoke. "One of the Cyclones had some minor surface damage that, I swear, looks like a giant spider was climbing on it. I'll be working on that tomorrow and I'll need to run a full systems check to ensure it's flight ready. It might not be all that fun, but it's logged time with the systems and those add up. I'll need a pilot, unless you have something better to do?"

Gavarus was smiling as she added some meaningless ribbing to her comment.

While her eyes lit up and the petite pilot seemed fairly ready to burst with joy, she remembered her audience and toned it down. “Wahhhhl, it might cut into me sim time, but I suppose if it’d help ye out, tis the least I could do for ye, aye?” The pearly-toothed grin that spread across her face belied the cool disaffected exterior O’Dell was trying to emulate. Then her eyes opened wide as she made an internal realization.

“Ye know, I nivvir did proper introduce meself, and if we’re g’win ta be friends, that’s important.” Sticking out her sift pink fleshy hand, which was literally half the size of her shipmate’s, she offered a close-lipped smile up the gigantic grease monkey. “Fiona Mary Margaret Josephine Campbell O’Dell, at your service.”

Looking at O'Dell's outstretched hand for a second with an almost suspicious expression, the tall Tellarite smirked slightly. "That's... entirely too many names. Really... six names for a third of a person. I've just got the two. Briaar Gavarus."

The contrived smirk quickly transitioned to a more authentic, warm smile as Gavarus took the diminutive pilots hand into her own rather enormous, three fingered one.

“Well, pleased ta make yuir acquaintance, Briarr Gavarus, e’en if ye dinna have a proper fool name like we Mariposians.” With a definitive shake, the wee wonder removed her small hand from the thigh calloused grip of the engineer, who she was relieved had not tried to crush her hand as most seemed to when she offered a handshake. “So, another round? I think I mighta sobered up enough ta walk agin!”

"The hangover will be yours to deal with, Fiona. But if I have to carry you back to your quarters, know I will do so in as embarrassing fashion as I can imagine. So, the choice is yours." Briaar leaned in with a sarcastic but playful grin while holding up two fingers to the exasperated bartender as she pumped her thick eyebrows at the pint sized pilot.