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enterprisetrampstamp · 4 years

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The Martinstown WIP Part 1

Here's the opening salvo of what will hopefully be a sprawling expanse of a t'pura fic once I'm done. I think I'd like to try out posting bits and pieces here and there for feedback, so for the love of god: tell me what you think.

***

The Martinstown is an odd ship.

It is manned by a mere seven crew members, and does not provide a home to scientists or diplomats, nor even negotiators--certainly not to soldiers. Occasionally, its crew makes their money as journalists, traders, freighters, or messengers, but mostly they are dime store novelists and amateur explorers, insubordinate mechanics and semi-retired medical practitioners, cinematographers and humanitarians.

Adventurers, to be colorful; misfits, to be succinct. There is something each of them is running from.

(Ex-lovers, poor childhoods, mistakes and misdeeds, tragedies and trauma--for T’Pring it is some combination of them all. The frustration of demanding a divorce from the marriage her parents had so carefully arranged for her; the desperation of fleeing their rage; the raw agony of surviving the genocide of her people. The guilt of refusing to return to a planet she will never call home.)

The Martinstown drifts brilliant and white through the near-endless void of space; its shape is more egg-like than oblong or circular. Underneath, its lines are marred by four gentle bumps bracketing the smooth lateral depression that is the only visual indicator of the ship’s limited capabilities for atmospheric travel. In size, it more closely rivals a yacht than a cruise liner--and certainly comes nowhere near the obscene mass of the starship its Captain used to serve upon.

Fatima Abbasi- ex-Starfleet commander turned civilian Captain- is straight backed and round shouldered, with thick, wavy hair bundled at the nape of her neck in a messy bun. Her closet is composed of supple leather boots and stiff canvas overalls and an assortment of cotton shirts, eternally paired with a squint-eyed glare and her hands on her hips. She does not so much demand respect as effortlessly command it, and her people would follow her to the edge of documented space and beyond--in fact, they have.

Technically, this is illegal, of course; there are Prime Directives to be followed, Starfleet authorizations to obtain, and yet the Martinstown deviated from its approved flight plan five years earlier and has not bothered to file a new one since. Who notices a ship this small in a galaxy this large?

(Plenty of people ought to, of course. But the Martinstown is an odd ship.)

#basically... it's kelvin timeline star trek with a firefly conceit by way of an original series star trek vibe #so y'know.#Simple As It Comes Really agahdjhajf #t'pura #t'pring #a tramp stamp original

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enterprisetrampstamp · 4 years

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The Martinstown WIP Part 2

Part 1

This is Part 2 of what is likely to be a nice, long t’pura fic once I’ve banged it out. It’s a bizarre length and actual amount of plot by my standards, so I’m in want of comments and breaking my usual rules to post sections of it before it’s fully complete. Please, holler at your ambiguously gendered author with any #thoughts you have!

***

“For Pete's sake,” Kevin says, as T’Pring calmly sweeps the pot of assorted trinkets and other random items that they’ve been betting from the center of the table to join the rest of the pile in front of her. “Who invited the Vulcan?”

She blinks, pausing in her movements. “This is a weekly poker game.”

Kevin’s face does something complicated. “Yes, but--”

“I was not invited,” T’Pring tells him. “None of us were invited. This is a recreational activity intended to facilitate the formation of strong bonds amongst the crew; it occurs during a pre-established, recurring timeslot.”

“It’s a figure of speech,” Kevin tries, eyes roving about the table as he attempts to find a sympathetic face. (He does not. The most sympathetic among them, Cristobal, fell asleep nearly an hour earlier. A thin blanket has been draped across his shoulders, and his gentle snores undergird their conversation.)

T'Pring continues to gaze at Kevin. “I do not understand," she says.

“Except that you do.” Kevin sets his hand flat on the table, fingers spread wide and his eyebrows rising, as he attempts to keep his voice calm. “I’ve been on this ship for nearly two years, so I know you, and I know that you know what figures of speech are, and I know, and you know, that you are trying to fuck with me.”

“I am a Vulcan,” T’Pring says, managing to convey an air of vast insult without modulating her voice or altering her expression. “I do not ‘try to fuck with’ people.”

"No," Pinga agrees. Her eyes glitter with amusement, and she brushes a strand of her thick dark hair- shot through with streaks of grey- back over her shoulder. "You do not try to fuck with people."

The corner of T'Pring's mouth raises, momentarily and minutely, into a smile. She inclines her head, stating solemnly, "I accept your compliment as intended."

Laughter runs around the table.

“I’m going to cry.” Kevin runs a hand over his face, his own laughter a little fraught and helpless. “I’m--Lainey, I am, literally, I’m going to cry.”

“You can’t cry; you already bet your handkerchief.” Lainey snickers as he groans, leaning forward to thunk his forehead lightly against the table. She reaches out to pat his shoulder, and where it should be sympathetic, instead it is mildly condescending.

Such is the way of younger siblings, or so T'Pring has been led to assume.

She finishes collecting her winnings. It all means little to her, of course, but most of it means little to any of them, and what items may be missed by their original owners usually find their way back to them before the end of the night. The collection of material goods is not the point of this activity--regardless of whether or not T'Pring excels at it.

“I shall provide you the opportunity to win it back,” she tells Kevin magnanimously, picking the handkerchief out to toss into the center of the table as the ante.

The rest of the table follows suit; Lainey selects a battery to add to the pot, then reaches across her brother to grab a piece of candy from his pile. Elina adds a pack of saltine crackers, and Pinga- who has been playing for Cristobal since she herself ran out of items a couple of hands earlier- raids his pockets for the little slip of fabric he uses to clean his glasses, before ruffling his hair fondly and adjusting the blanket about his shoulders.

"How motherly," Elina teases, the words warm and taunting in her thick Georgian accent, and Pinga doesn't even look over at her.

"Bite me, grease monkey."

Cristobal snuffles in his sleep.

"Whatever," Kevin says, voice muffled. "Thanks, T'Pring. You're a real mensch."

She tilts her head slightly in agreement. "It is only logical, as I have no need of a handkerchief."

"Naturally."

T'Pring glances up as the door slides, silently, open on the far end of the kitchen. Their captain pauses on the threshold; not in need of their service but simply to observe, and so she returns her attention to the human bonding ritual of mild teasing and humiliation.

"Yes," she says. "It is in fact natural that Vulcans do not cry."

(This is not, strictly, an accurate statement; Vulcans are capable of tears, although they are rarely shed due to the obdurate cultural norms requiring mastery of their emotional expressions. But T'Pring has become fluent in the human usage of hyperbole for humorous purposes, as well as a great many other things which would scandalize even the most progressive members of her homeworld's society.)

(If only there were more of her people left to be scandalized.)

Kevin makes a noise which can only be classified as "pathetic", and groans out, "Please stop."

"Take pity on him, beta," Fatima says, one hip propped against the doorframe and her arms crossed over her chest. "He's too delicate for your sledgehammer of a sense of humor."

"Is that an order, Captain?" T'Pring asks calmly, as she collects the cards. It is her turn to deal. She considers employing sleight of hand in order to provide Kevin the necessary cards to regain his handkerchief, but it has been approximately 4.786 Terran years since she was last able to effectively avert suspicion by calling upon her species' reputation for integrity, and Elina is remarkably observant for a human.

Of course--

The ability to cheat is why they use a physical deck of cards, as opposed to the holo-capabilities of the glass table upon which they currently play. She meets Elina's warm hazel eyes across the table, a smirk hiding somewhere in the darkness of her own, and shuffles the deck with a sharp, crisp noise.

Fatima does not smile, but there is something in the twist of her lips that implies amusement. "Consider it a firm suggestion," she says, her tone dry.

"Very well." T'Pring turns her shoulders away from the table to face her, one slanted eyebrow rising slightly. "Do you wish to join us?"

"Hm." The captain pushes away from the door, shoving up the sleeves of her shirt and squinting as she moves to lean over the table. "Is there anything worth winning left?" she asks, poking at the modest pile of objects next to Lainey's elbow.

"Is there ever anything worth winning?" Elina holds up a primitive- and cheap- ink pen from her own pile. "I have no paper to use this on."

"Because the washers you brought are so much more practical," Pinga mutters.

"Don't be rude, bebia."

"I'll show you rude, tiguaq--"

Fatima clicks her tongue. "Behave," she admonishes, even as her hand sneaks out for a piece of chocolate out of T'Pring's winnings.

T'Pring, quick as a snake, smacks her hand away. "Behave," she echoes.

Despite the gloves- thin, dark purple leather- which she has long adopted as a method of protecting the crew from the brunt of her telepathy and vice versa, she catches the barest glimpse of her captain's playful shock and ire.

"Insubordination," Fatima says, with a side-eyed glare as she rubs her stinging knuckles. "I could have you court martialed."

"Given that we both have no brig, and that I am the member of this crew most often called upon to serve the role of a security officer--" T'Pring shuffles the cards with another crisp crack-- "I believe your Terran phrase is, 'I should like to see you try.'"

Fatima sighs. "You were so sweet when we met."

T'Pring pauses in her movements to stare at her. "I was not," she says, her blank face once more conveying an air of grave insult.

"No," Elina agrees. "She's always been a prideful twat; she used to just hide it behind Vulcan stoicism and words that none of us could understand."

"Now I am a strong independent woman who openly speaks her mind," T'Pring says, in a tone that could almost pass for dry.

Lainey shoves her glass in the air, cheering, "L'Chaim!"

T'Pring raises that piece of chocolate between her index and middle fingers, a glitter of amusement somewhere deep in those dark eyes, and agrees: "L'Chaim."

#t'pring #t'pura #femslash #the latter two being where this is going anyway #for now it's a lot of exposition to set up the ship #and her crew #basically... it's kelvin timeline star trek with a firefly conceit by way of an original series star trek vibe #it is the best of every world. or like... that's the goal anyway #anyway let me lay out the questions I have about this section if anyone wants to offer their feedback:#am I throwing too many people at you too quickly?#does it feel just entirely out of character for t'pring or are you getting the sense that she's been on this ship with these people for long #enough for this to make sense?#I'm playing fast and loose with her characterization since there is SO little in canon--one TOS ep and then obviously she isn't even #officially acknowledged in AOS yet #imo I've got a good story built for who she is and why BUT I'm very open to commentary if it's not coming across well #and more broadly--is the style coming across well? it's been a while since I wrote extensively in present tense #and it gives it a particular vibe that I'm trying to balance against my need for constant dumb jokes #speaking of dumb jokes #pinga looking at cristobal: aw :') isn't he so cute :')#I'm gonna rob him :')

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