The Quartermaster's Store
Enterprise is not mine, but Dave and Stacey are.
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The Quartermaster held up a shredded brown garment. “ I am going to have to talk to that doctor of ours about that bat. Every time it gets out we have to spend our valuable time repairing his clothes. He doesn’t seem to mind the pain, but does he realise that the creature wants him dead?”
The Quartermaster’s assistant, Stacey, looked up. “Will you stop bitching, Dave! Every time this happens you spend half an hour whining about it and only fifteen minutes repairing the bloody thing, so shurrup and get on with it.”
“Ooooooh. Hark at her. Who are you to talk about bitching? And anyway, telling a senior officer to shut up is probably insubordination.”
“Go on. Court marital me. I’ll end up as one of the doctor’s pets, and I can have a good time savaging him.”
“Interstellar travel has broadened your mind so much, hasn’t it Stacey dear?”
“Certainly broadened your arse. You should spend more time in the gym.”
“You little cow! Don’t see much of you in the gym. Probably been banned by the captain in case all that wobbling pulls us off course.”
“Oh, I’m so wounded. Really. Listen to me weep.” She sighed theatrically. “Lets see what strange new mending is in store for us today.”
Dave kicked a basket into the centre of the room, and took up compere pose. “Ladies and gentlemen, our first entry for today is a full length black spangly ball gown, named,” he looked at the attached label, “Hoshi Sato, bust zipper.”
“Give it ‘ere, that’s never Hoshi’s. It’s too big, she’s my size.”
“She may be your height, but don’t try and kid yourself she’s the same dress size. You could probably get two of her in that jump-suit.”
“What is wrong with you today? Lost your dirty magazines again? Oh, I’m sorry love, is it the wrong time of the month for you?” She looked at him in a condescending way.
“If you must know, I have been given the brush off by yet another buff crewman. So I am in a bad mood, yes.”
“Come on. Could be worse. You could be working with someone who gets laid more often than you do.”
“Thank you. You’re such a comfort in my distress.”
“Anyway, this is interesting. There’s not a cat’s chance in hell that that does belong to Hoshi, so whose is it?”
“Well, since I have the whole crew’s measurements on file...”
“Chuck us that tape measure then.”
There were a few minutes of concentrated activity and calling out of numbers. Then Dave sat back at the computer and laughed out loud.
“What? What? Tell me!”
“There is only one match to those measurements among the crew. And the name is... Jonathan Archer!”
Stacey’s jaw dropped. “No! I never saw him as a trannie.”
“Don’t make judgements, we don’t know which way he swings.” Dave switched to ‘outrageously camp’ mode. “We could both be serving under a drag queen, sweetie.”
“Wishful thinking. That’s just your idea of a good time.” She looked over to Dave and raised an eyebrow. “Does make for some very interesting mental images, though. Anyway, I’ll do the zipper, looks like an easy one.” She began to sew.
“And what else do we have in here? One regulation jump-suit and underpinnings, with multiple rips, from Commander Tucker.”
“Look, if he keeps doing this we’re going to have to tell him to sod off. I mean, he can get whoever it is that’s been ripping the clothes off of him with their teeth to sew them back up for him. It’s not like it’s normal wear and tear.”
“Strong teeth as well. These are hard wearing uniforms.”
“Wonder who he is?”
“You’re assuming it’s a man?”
“Well, yeah, course it’s a bloke if it takes strong teeth.”
“Don’t count on it. I’ve seen some of the women in engineering. They’re frighteningly muscular. Must be all those fires they have to put out.”
“Putting out fires with your teeth?”
“I mean, muscular in general.”
“Oh, sorry. Anyway, that’s being left ‘till last.”
“So you’re the Quartermaster now then are you?”
“Sir, please, sir, can we leave that ‘till last sir, to teach that daft ‘apeth of a engineer a lesson, sir.”
“Permission granted.”
“Zipper’s done, what else have you got?”
“One catsuit, Sub-Commander T’Pol, to be let out. Seems that she has been trying human food.”
“Trying? More than trying.”
“Who are you to speak, I’ve seen you when chef’s made ‘death by chocolate’. The way you eat it it’s more like genocide.’
“Yes, but I don’t turn up for work in a skin tight catsuit.”
Dave opened his mouth to say something and immediately decided against it. There were far too many things in the room that could be used as weapons. He just handed the catsuit over.
“And here we have yet another ripped, bloodstained and generally distressed uniform from Lt. Reed.”
Stacey looked up from her sewing. “That’s odd.”
“Why?”
“No away missions, no accidents in the Armory, nothing like that.”
Dave shrugged. “Perhaps he’s been keeping it back.”
“Wait, look at that stain, that’s not blood. It’s chocolate sauce.”
“So it is. I never realised how alike dried blood and chocolate looked; with the lieutenant, it’s more obvious to assume that it’s blood.”
Stacey smiled. “Ee’s having fun at least.”
“Not fun for us.”
“Better than when the captain asks us to run things up for away missions.”
“Oh, Mr. ‘could you make four outfits of complex and multilayered clothes, probably involving boning and other elaborate things, I’ll be down to collect them in half an hour’. He has no idea, does he?”
“No. Anything else?”
“One last thing, from Ensign Mayweather...”
“Let me guess, he spilt something in zero gravity again?”
Dave lifted another jumpsuit up. “No, another bust zipper. Must have been getting out of his uniform in a hurry.”
“Or someone was getting him out of his uniform in a hurry.”
“Get your mind out of the gutter. I don’t know how I tolerate these working conditions.”
“You don’t know how *you* can stand these conditions, well let me tell you...”
The interminable argument continued. In space, no-one can hear you bicker.