[M4F] The Ensigns (Redshirts/Star Trek/Generic Sci-fi Parody)
[MpA/GM 4 FpA/GM]
"Breathe, Flanders," Ensign Delaney says, placing a firm hand on the Sub-Ensign's thigh. "I've been on a dozen bug hunts just like this one."
"So this is lucky thirteen, huh?" mutters the red shirt sat opposite of Flanders in the cramped shuttle personnel compartment.
"Not helping, smart ass," Delaney snaps back at Sub-Ensign Calhoun.
"Just sayin' what we're all thinkin'..."
Delaney sneers and shakes her head before turning back to Flanders, who has finally exhaled the breath he didn't realize he had been holding. "It's nothing to be anxious about! We go in, zap some overgrown cockroaches, collect a sample or two for the eggheads, and before you know it, we're back aboard the Venture! Beers, booze, and blowjobs all around!"
"Pff, sure, if you don't get your face melted by corrosive bug puke..."
"Calhoun!"
"What!? Some xenos can spit acid! I've seen it before! Melted Smither's face right—!"
"SHUT IT! Consider that an order!"
Calhoun rolls his eyes, but keeps his mouth shut - for now. The cabin goes silent for a few awkward moments.
"Hey, Ensign Delaney?" starts the fourth occupant of the personnel compartment, Sub-Ensign Johanson.
"Just Delaney is fine," she responds,
"Right... Delaney, just wanted to say I got dibs on Flanders," she states, matter-of-factly.
"Huh?"
"I got dibs on Flanders - when we get back to the ship. Cuz I'm sure as hell not blowing Calhoun," she clarifies, arms crossed, head turned squarely away from her neighboring junior officer.
Flanders goes red in the cheeks. Delaney chuckles.
---
"C'MON! DON'T STOP RUNNING!" Johanson cries out breathlessly, sprinting for her life.
"WHY THE HELL WOULD I DO THAT!?" Calhoun retorts, firing his phaser wildly behind himself as he follows in Johanson in stride. The chasing xenos screech and hiss, their collective agitation escalating with each accelerated particle fired upon them.
"YOU'RE JUST MAKING THEM ANGRIER!"
"OH, RIGHT, BECAUSE THEY WERE SO CHIPPER BEFORE!"
"YOU'RE GONNA DIE A SMART ASS, YOU REALIZE THAT, RIGHT!?"
"YEAH! I KNOW..!" Calhoun acknowledges, the slightest hint of sincerity in his tone. Then, paradoxically, he skids to a halt.
"CALHOUN!? WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING!?" Johanson looks back to see Calhoun having assumed a stable stance; he carefully lines up a shot, and—
*ZZZZZRRRRAAAPPPP!*
The particle beam strikes true, frying the blast door panel! The emergency failsafe activates, and the heavy slabs of reinforced metal door slam shut nigh instantaneously, halving the lead xeno in its tracks. Johanson doubles back, joining Calhoun at his side.
"...but not today," Calhoun concludes, which is met with a squinting glare from Johanson. The two then look more closely at the bisected xeno. The thorax of the vaguely humanoid insect has spilled its contents on the deck, most notably copious amounts of glowing, neon orange blood that seems to be slowly eating away at everything it touches... "Goddamn it... Why am I always right..?" Calhoun laments as he catches his breath.
"Half right," Johanson corrects, recalling that Calhoun's derisive remark called for acid spit, not acid blood. There's no time to dwell on the petty semantics though, as the caustic goo is already eating through the blast door from both sides. "That won't hold for long; we need to keep moving. Where the hell are Flanders and Delaney?" She ponders aloud as the two continue on at a brisk pace.
"Does it really matter? It's not like we're in position to pull off some sort of daring rescue! Besides, it was Delaney's dumb idea to split up in the first place! As far as I'm concerned, they're on their own!"
"Really, Calhoun? That's cold, even for you. They wouldn't leave you to die!"
"Flanders would be rolled up in a fetal position, paralyzed with fear! And Delaney—!"
"Delaney..? Oh God..."
Calhoun rounds the corner of the corridor just a moment after Johanson, and feels an immediate sense of dread and remorse wash over him... Johanson reflexively snaps one hand over her mouth, the other guarding her nauseated stomach...
Delaney is plastered to the wall of the corridor ahead; strands of hardened xeno webbing criss-cross over her outspread arms, like some sort of blasphemous, xenological crucifix. Her legs dangle limply, twitching involuntarily every so often without any discernable pattern or rhythm. Her uniform has been shredded, only haphazard strips of red and black cloth clinging to her limbs. Her torso is bare... Her large, natural breasts—typically supported by a dutiful sports bra—are hanging lewdly, her back arched and chest prominently forward, like some sort of perverse exhibition of exemplary mammary flesh. The arch in her back is due to the heavy burden of her belly weighing it down; her previously flat, toned abdomen is distended obscenely, bloated and swollen as if heavily pregnant. This is in spite of the fact that she was decidedly not pregnant a couple of hours ago when she and Flanders had split from Calhoun and Johanson. A large, grotesque, xenological sack protrudes from the ceiling above Delaney, from which extends some manner of exceedingly phallic feeding tube; this girthy, highly vascular alien tubule is jammed halfway down the Ensign's throat, distending with pulsing, peristaltic undulations as it pumps load after load of xeno sludge down her gullet. Her body squirms and convulses weakly in reflexive defiance as bolus after viscous bolus of nutrient slurry and genetic material are forced down her esophagus. Her eyes are fully rolled back in her skull, tears steaming, eyelids fluttering spastically with each sputtering, gurgling gag of unconscious protest. A cocktail of her own saliva, mucous, and alien juices seep from the seam formed by her full lips and the intruding xenological obscenity, and even more dribbles out of her nostrils. The resulting slurry pours down over her chin, layering her breasts and distended stomach in a glistening coat of slime, adding a lewd sheen to the already obscene display. Below, Delaney's anus dilates and contracts rhythmically, every few seconds gaping as a slimy, alien egg forces it's way past her heavily dilapidated sphincter. Once an egg passes, her rectum reflexively contracts, spasming violently in protest of such violation; her lower extremities react reflexively as well, feet turning inward, knees weakly attempting to contract, and toes curling intensely, before all going limp once again only moments later. Her vagina drips profusely, like the lazily drooling maw of an old bloodhound, sopping with involuntarily wetness. The streams of grool pour and pool over the heap of eggs that lay beneath her, a testament of Ensign Daphne Delaney's horrific fate: an alien ovum factory.
Seeing the Ensign like this... Her body violently spasming and convulsing... Neither officer bearing witness can even begin to fathom which possibility might be more disturbing: that Delaney's corpse could be so grotesquely animated, or that she could still be alive...
Meanwhile, Flanders is curled up in the corner of the corridor, in a fetal position, breathing shakily.
Calhoun is the first to regain enough of his composure to take action. He places a hand on Johanson's shoulder, causing her to nearly jump out of her own skin. "Johanson.. Johanson..!" He tries to reach her, but the Sub-Ensign can't tear her traumatized gaze from Delaney. "JOHANSON! JOHANSON!" Calhoun persists, grabbing a hold of her by the shoulders, inserting himself between her and the grotesque sight. "SNAP OUT OF IT! WE HAVE TO GO!" From down the corridor, hissing and screeching begin to echo; the blast door has been breached, and it won't be long before the xenos are upon them once more.
"Y-Yeah... Yeah... Right. Okay. Okay!" Johanson manages between ragged breathes, only just getting a hold of herself. "What about... What about Flanders? We can't just leave him, can we?"
Calhoun turns his attention to the crumpled crewmate in the corner; he hadn't even noticed him until Johanson pointed him out. Calhoun let's out an exasperated sigh... "Why... Why am I ALWAYS right!?"
Just as Calhoun starts to move towards Flanders, a blood curdling outburst emanates from Delaney. Her pupils roll back into view, and she gags even more violently as one eye makes contact with the Sub-Ensign. She sputters, choking as she desperately tries to say something, anything, yet the only sounds produced are wet, muffled, squelching, wretching moans. Her body squirms in a desperate effort to move, but her muscles are too weak to do anything besides spasm lewdly.
The pathetic display is cut short by a phaser blast to her temple, putting the away party leader out of her misery.
---
Calhoun and Johanson are on the move again, with Flanders being dragged behind Calhoun by the collar of his uniform. "God. Damnit!" Calhoun curses, seriously questioning what compelled him to be so uncharacteristically heroic at this fateful hour.
"Come on! The shuttle is just ahead!" Johanson calls back to him, leading once again.
Calhoun takes Flander's uniform in both hands, dragging his useless body with redoubled effort, nearly straining his back as he rapidly backpedals towards the shuttle. "Flanders... Fuck you."
The two manage to reach the shuttle without a second to spare; Johanson hits the door panel just as Calhoun manages to drag Flanders through the threshold, and he falls backward onto the deck as a xeno impacts against the closed panel with a resounding *THUD!* Many more *thuds* follow, in increasingly rapid succession. The shuttle door begins to dent, bulge, and bow from the repeated blunt force. "TIME TO GO!" Calhoun shouts as the two Sub-Ensigns eyes meet knowingly. They race to the cockpit to tell the pilot to take off - only to find the pilot deceased, half eaten and left for dead. "The pilot's dead!? The pilot's dead. Of course the pilot's dead!"
"That does explain the lack of comms," Johanson observes matter of factly, her tone surprisingly calm. Calhoun turns his attention to her, incredulous at her seeming nonchalanche regarding the very dead pilot.
"I take it you know how to fly one of these things then!?"
"As a matter of fact, I do," Johanson confirms. "Now help me remove the gentlemen from his seat, if you would be so kind?"
"Now who's the smart ass..."
Soon enough, the lot are situated accordingly - Johanson in the pilot's seat, Calhoun in the co-pilot's seat, and the pilot in a heap on the deck behind them. "Initiating pre-flight diagnostic sequence," Johanson declares simultaneously with the click of her seatbelt. More and louder *thuds* rattle the shuttle, causing both living occupants of the piloting compartment to jump in their seats.
"Maybe fuck the diagnostics!?"
"Right... Fucking the diagnostics," Johanson concurs, her focus intensifying as she preps for immediate takeoff. The shuttle begins to hum as the engines ignite, all while the hull is bombarded by the attacking xenos. The entire vessel feels as though it could fall apart at any moment. "Wait... Shit... Shit shit shit!"
"Shit? Shit!? SHIT!? NO, NO SHIT! WHAT SHIT!? SHIT!" Calhoun's eyes go wide as he reflects Johanson's sudden and unexplained panic.
"I don't-! I'm not sure-!?" Johanson tries to elaborate, but can't; in her haste to rush the takeoff, she can't help but feel she's forgotten something. And when you're operating a space faring vessel, the last thing you want to do is forget something. But it's too late now. Another moment and the xenos will breach the hull, and they'll be doomed. They're out of time. All that's left to do is gun it, and hope for the best... "I feel like... I feel like I'm forgetting something!"
Calhoun goes silent, eyes still wide. Johanson closes her eyes, resigning herself to whatever fate has in store... Calhoun follows suit, clenching his eyelids shut... She rams the main thrust throttle forward...
*THUUUUNK!*
A pathetic whimper emanates from the personnel compartment. Johanson and Calhoun both open their eyes, and look to each other.
"*FLANDERS,*" they realize in unison. They had forgotten to secure Flanders. They both exhale heavy sighs of relief... Then break into hysterical laughter.
---
*GLAWK GLAWK GLAWK GLAWK, GUCK GUCK GLUCK GLUCK GLUCK GAAACK!*
Her head bobs messily in his lap, her typically neat brunette bun having devolved into a disheveled ponytail in his grasp.
"Shit... Heather... Fuck..!" It's all he can manage to mutter amidst the sensationally sloppy performance. He takes a sip of his cocktail before just lying back and basking in the pleasure.
*GAWK GAWK GAWK GAWK GAWK, HAWK-TUAH*
She gasps raggedly as she takes a moment to catch her breath, hawking a wad of spit on his shaft before noisely slurping it right back up and continuing right where she left off.
*SSSSSHLLUUURP! GLUCK GLUCK GLUCK GLUCK GLUCK!*
It isn't long before he's sent careening over the edge. "Shit... Shit..! Shit! SHIII—!"
*GLUP! GLUP! GULP! GULP! GULP. Gulp. Gulp. Gulp. Ahhhhhh!*
Johanson pulls her head back with an intense look of satisfaction on her face, lolling her tongue from her mouth to proudly present that every drop had been dutifully swallowed.
"Christ... Heather—"
"That's Johanson, to you. Smart ass," Johanson interrupts playfully, biting her lip as she holds back a chuckle.
"Christ... Johanson..." Calhoun says, smirking as he holds back a chuckle of his own. Johanson smirks back, pleased with herself, and takes Calhoun's cocktail from his hand, downing what's left all in one go. "You're really good at swallowing."
"You're really good at... Stating the obvious?" Johanson responds, as if she had reached into the bottom of the barrel and that backhanded compliment was quite literally the *only* thing she could manage to scrape out.
"We can't both be the resident smart asses around here. This ship only has one opening for that role."
"Well, don't worry, your job is safe. I'm transferring next week."
"Excuse me!?" When were you gonna tell me!?"
"I'm telling you now!?"
"You know what I meant!"
"What!? It's not like we're a thing! We're barely even friends!"
"Yeah, but, like... We went through some serious shit together!"
"And we're gonna continue to go through serious shit, again and again, until we either die or get promoted! That's what Ensigns do!"
"Well..!"
"Well!?"
"Well then, what the hell is this!?" Calhoun gestures between the two of them, particularly directing attention at his now softening cock and her glistening lips.
"This? This!? Delaney prescribed booze and blowjobs after the mission. That was the booze," she says, pointing at the now empty whiskey glass. "And this was the blowjob," She points to her face, and down toward her topless torso, tracing the strands of spit connecting her chin to the cleavage of her bra.
"Okay! But... Seriously? You seriously feel... nothing..? No chemistry? At all?"
Heather rolls her eyes, "Of course there's chemistry! There's a reason I'm blowing you, and not Flanders right now!" At this, Calhoun only looks more betrayed and confused. Heather sighs. "Look. I like you. But we just went through some fucked up shit. You said it yourself. And the last thing I want to do is see Delaney every time I look at you. So sure, there's a connection here, or something, but it isn't going anywhere. We're here, we're having fun, relieving some stress... But..."
"But..?"
"But I'm transferring next week. It's not up for discussion," Johanson avoids eye contact as she stands, reaching for her red uniform top.
Before she can get dressed, the Venture's emergency response alarm sounds. Over the intercom, the voice of Chief Science Officer Seers commands: "Attention! We have lost contact with the science team on the ground! We need to dispatch an away team for immediate search and rescue! Ensign Calhoun, Ensign Johanson, Ensign Flanders, and Sub-Ensign Jablinskey, report to the shuttle bay immediately!"
"You've got to be shitting me..." Johanson mutters.
"I know, right!? Fucking Flanders got promoted too!?"
---
Wow... I... Got... Super carried away! But I had no Internet access at the time of writing this, and am currently reading Redshirts, so I just started writing, and here we are!
So I've never even really been a big Star Trek fan. The new ones with Chris Pine and Zachary Quinto are fine. I acknowledge Leonard Nemoy as a sci-fi pop culture legend. But the concept just never really appealed to me all that much. What does appeal to me is the comedically expendable nature of low ranking federation officer (the Redshirts), and freaky sci Fi alien smut! Add a bit of drama, and you've got a recipe for some seriously gut punching action!
I want someone that is going to work hand in hand with me, a co-GM of sorts, to develop new characters, flesh them out, and then subsequently kill them off in unceremonious and Irreverent fashion! Okay, maybe a *bit* of ceremony for the smuttier demises (poor Delaney)! No Ensign will be safe! All manner of depraved and lewd threats await to terrorize the more expendable crew aboard the Venture!
I had a lot of fun doing the dialogue and plot stuff here, but for the actual play, I'm very open to leaning a little harder towards the smut side of the plot:smut ratio. It can be tricky to get lots of good, snappy back and forth dialogue in a long term roleplay with potentially conflicting real world schedules. (Oh, and the password to prove you read the prompt will be Delaney's first name, and what you feel her initials are meant to represent. Throw in Johanson's first name as well. And tell me what first name you would give Flanders & Calhoun). Occasional snappy back and forth dialogue can work at times, as long as there are plenty of substantive long form responses outside of dialogue to flesh out the meat of the story.
Something I DIDN'T get into much with this little write up was character physical descriptions. I just didn't feel compelled to try to fit overly detailed character descriptions into the narrative. But I would absolutely want to take the time to provide more detail for characters we create together (and for these prompt characters, if we choose to continue using them). Obviously the outfit designs will all be the same - red shirts. But race/species (def can include non-humans), bodily dimensions, hair color, eye color, etc can be fun additions! Fleshed out backstories and personalities will also make the deaths hit harder! Oh, and if you're a diehard for visual refs for characters, we might not be a great match. I'm trying to get away from using images and instead exercising my imagination and written descriptions!
I'm also down for silly plot contrivances, like characters inexplicably knowing things/suddenly having previously unexplored talents for the sake of advancing the narrative! I don't want to go full meta though and portray it as if the characters are literally living in a TV show.