Alphabet Drabble Game

[Distracted]

Your mission, should you choose to accept it:

To create a continuing more-or-less coherent story, primarily featuring Star Trek characters and/or members of this board, in installments no longer than 100 words. Each installment must feature a character or plot element which begins with the next successive letter of the alphabet. You may identify this name or plot element by putting it in red to make the choice of the next letter easier for the next person. The next contributor must continue the storyline presented by the first person to post using the previous letter. This will prevent confusing multiple storylines... or at least I hope it will. I will start with the letter "A".

*******

Jonathan Archer blinked in confusion at the mild-mannered time traveler who'd once again turned his life completely upside-down. "You want us to do what?!"

Daniels smiled his annoyingly pleasant smile. "Our data indicate that an adjustment was made to the course of history in the early 21st century. This adjustment caused a resurgence of interest in space technology which indirectly improved the efficiency of contemporary radiation shelters. Newly discovered images confirm that Enterprise was the source. If this adjustment does not occur, humans will not survive Earth's third world war. Enterprise must go to the year 2012."

[lfvoy]

I'll bite, though I felt like it was probably a good idea to invent an OC here instead of picking on someone else as the main character. Subsequent writers: feel free to switch names around from the below.

************************

She told herself it was just because she was bored, but the truth was that she couldn’t wait to see the next post on Triaxian Silk. Somehow, despite the show being off the air, Marla Sue had found a lifeline among those who still loved the Trip and T’Pol relationship from Enterprise.

Even though she was pretty up-to-date with the posts on the boards, and thus with the general events in most posters’ lives, Marla was surprised when she saw the latest post from the ‘Randomness’ thread:

You are never going to BELIEVE what just landed in my back yard!

[Distracted]

Cogito closed his laptop, shaking his head at his own foolishness. With an honest-to-goodness adventure waiting for him in the back garden, how ridiculous was it for him to waste time going online? He propped the note he'd written (so no-one would worry) on the table in the kitchen against the salt cellar, picked up the satchel he'd packed with a change of clothing and a few gifts for the friends he knew that he would soon meet, slipped on his mac, gathered an umbrella to hand, and stepped out the back door into the misty fall morning.

[Distracted]

Hey, doesn't anybody want to play?

[Cogito]

Only a hundred words, you say? The story just doesn't seem to want to stop there.

[Cogito]

Meanwhile, several thousand miles away and a hundred miles up, the subject of water was also at the forefront of Malcolm's mind. His orbital insertion would bring him down somewhere over the western British Isles, but with pursuit so close behind Travis hadn't been able to promise more than that.

He could only hope that he made landfall, and that the natives would be friendly towards 'Dominic', his cover ID for the mission.

After one last tug on the jump harness straps he nodded farewell to his two companions, pulled down the ablative visor, and stepped out into the void.

[Distracted]

Eireann squinted upward at the misty clouds from her back garden in North Yorkshire. There was something up there, moving fast. A plane, maybe, or a meteor. It was hard to tell now that the sun was up. A parachute bloomed, but whatever it was, it was still falling horribly fast. It came closer and closer, until she realized how very close it was going to land.

Not land, she thought with sudden queasiness. Crash.

She watched the parachute disappear behind a hill out on the moor before she grabbed her keys and jumped into the Land Rover.

[Eireann]

I'm working on it, I'm working on it!

Me, Malcolm and the letter F.... er.... what rating did you say this story was going to be?

[Distracted]

The board needs to stay PG-13, please, but if you get an inspiration for a Decon story I certainly won't complain.

[Eireann]

Oh, drat, I had to rewrite at least 90% of it!

Anyway here's my (censored and rewritten) contribution:


It could have been worse. By luck or skill he’d landed in a patch of upland bog that cushioned the worst of the impact, and as she pulled up alongside him she saw that he was muddy but alive and conscious. Storm-grey eyes stared up at her dazedly as he sprawled among the bog-cotton tufts.

“Don’t move!” she ordered as she jumped out of the car, trying desperately to remember the First-Aid training she’d had years ago. At least he was breathing, so she wouldn’t have to resuscitate him.

Damn, a voice in her head said sadly.

[Distracted]

Meanwhile, Cogito inspected the new arrival in his back garden with some disappointment. From the window it had appeared to be some sort of space vessel. It certainly hadn't done the roses any good. But now that he was dressed and ready for company, he couldn't get the dratted thing to open up.

"Hello?" he inquired, and rapped on the hull. "Is anyone there?"

With a crack and a whoosh, a door opened, revealing the ugliest scaly-faced green fellow he'd ever seen. He smiled anyway, until the stun bolt hit him in the chest and the lights went out.

[Cogito]

Dammit, I knew I shouldn't have worn that red shirt today!


There was a moment of deja-vu as Malcolm got a look at his rescuer's face. "What the bloody hell are you doing here?" he exclaimed. In hindsight not the most tactful way to thank someone for pulling him from a watery grave, but he was hundreds of miles off course and the last thing he'd expected was to find his target right here; anyway, you couldn't blame a chap for being rattled, given the parts of her anatomy that his head was currently being held against. "You're in grave danger!" he said urgently. "When are we? What is the date?"

[Eireann]

“What am I doing here?” Eireann exclaimed indignantly, releasing him from the imminent threat of suffocation; she’d been so relieved he was unhurt that as soon as she’d managed to drag him clear she’d got a bit carried away. “I came to pick up the pieces of some silly berk who’d crashed his parachute, and if you’re that pleased to see me you can pull yourself out of the next damned bog you fall into!” She frowned as his urgent demand got through to her. “It’s the twenty-seventh of September. Why? And what d’you mean, I’m in ‘grave danger’?”

[Distracted]

The lovely, though rather muddy, fellow grimaced. "Please forgive me...ah..." He paused with an inquiring look.

"Eireann," she put in helpfully but distractedly, her attention diverted by misty grey eyes and plump, juicy-looking lips.

"Mal... er... Dominic," he replied. "I'm with... er... British Immigration... and... ah..." His eyes returned to her bosom for some reason, and he looked a bit crosseyed before recovering. "There are illegal aliens in the area who have been kidnapping local residents." The story sounded fishy to Eireann, but Mr. Dominic's expression seemed sincere.

"Have you seen any odd characters or unusual vehicles about?"

[Cogito]

"You mean, other than you? 'British Immigration' doesn't just drop out of the sky wearing body armour," she scowled, rapping his chestplate. "Who the hell are you really, and why are you so worried about the date?"

He hesitated. It was obvious that she wasn't buying his cover story. Instinct told him to trust her.

"They're looking for you - all of you. They've been on your trail for weeks. They must be close by now. If you'd been at home, they'd probably have got you already."

"Who are 'they'? Who is 'all of you'? Why would anyone want me?"