Tetraball From the Sky Box
Posted on Mon 12th Jun, 2023 @ 7:30pm by Commander Paul Graves PsyD & Criswell Sandbags & Commander Entaaro Nasz & Qaraq
1,257 words; about a 6 minute read
Mission:
Neither Yours Nor Mine
Location: Suite 25, Tetraball Arena, Tivoli Gardens
Timeline: MD 8, 1930
Previously, in Broot, Broot, Broot for the Home Team ...
Damion Ildaran fell into step behind the pair of concession staff entering Box 25 with the heavily-laden cart. He looked around the room for an instant before stepping inside. No sign of Elizabeth that he could see. Perhaps she would be able to come by later. He'd thought she would arrive long before he did--if she were coming.
And now, more excitement, on and off court!
Tetraball only mildly interested Damion. British football was more his sport, as he'd played it in his childhood, and the Earth rules were mostly the same as they were on Turkana. Still, it didn't hurt to learn about new things, and sports fans fascinated him with their sometimes encyclopedic memory of stats. He preferred to use his memory for useful data, but who could say when knowing how sports fans behaved might help him fit into a group better?
He noticed Qaraq, walking around the room with Captain Navarra. That meant Criswell was likely around someplace. Sandbags was a fascinating bloke, who Damion had decided he wanted to get to know better, if possible. There was also a godawful tall Klingon dressed in scholar's robes, and Andrew Eberstark. He looked to be spending time with Serena, who Damion recognized from Orchids & Jazz. He smiled and waved at the couple, but didn't try to join them just yet.
Suddenly, Criswell was standing next to Damion, eating from one of the small baskets of chili-cheese meatballs. It was hard to tell how long he'd been there. The man could teach tricks to a chameleon.
Damion felt rather than heard Criswell's arrival, but the aroma of chili-cheese was a dead give-away; the man loved the stuff. "Good to see you, Criswell," he said and glanced around the stadium box. "I've never been up in one of these before. Fancier than I'm used to. Have you been here long?"
Criswell's eyes darted back and forth, one of his odd little tics. "We arrived almost a half hour ago. Qaraq brought me as his guest. This place is really fancy. To be honest, I'm still getting used to the whole 'high society' part of my job. I don't understand why down in the stands it's three strips of latinum for cotton candy, but up here chili-cheese balls are free..."
"Well, mainly because we're guests of Captain Navarra today, and she's paying for the food," Damion said. "This is part of what I don't understand about Earth people. Why don't they just let the fans bring their own food?" He shrugged. "I don't understand why they have to have food sellers at all. Let me bring in a sandwich and some tea, and I'll be fine for a game."
Criswell grinned. "Ferengi sporting events are far worse," he said. "You pay for your seat, you pay for a temporary license to sit in your seat, a cushion is extra, there's a three-drink/two snack minimum, you have to tip the vendor, and all of that includes double taxes if you don't immediately make a bet." Criswell giggled. "...and don't get me started on the bathroom policies! The paperwork alone makes me dizzy!"
"I could never live on Ferenginar," Damion said, shaking his head. "Working for two years on a Ferengi ship was bad enough." He fell silent and glanced about. "This all seems extremely genteel. Are we to just chat amongst ourselves and eat snacks while we wait for the game to begin?"
Entaaro had taken to filing a soup bowl with nacho cheese. His mounting frustration at every bite was evident as cheese got in his moustache no matter what he tried. The vegetables were not his favorite usually, but the Brokkli as he knew it was divine with the yellow medium. A spiced meat he had wanted to find all night announced itself in his travel around the table, apparently the wings of a land mammal called a buffalo.
Though Entaaro had no clue how the creature he knew of as a buffalo could possibly fly with such small appendages, he popped one of them into his mouth whole. The bones were perfectly crisp though, seasoned meat and marrow blended, a bite-sized morsel of blood and bone. There was no end to the delights, no stretch of the imagination could make this better. Then a piece of the wing fell into the cheese, and Entaaro’s eyes went wide.
"You think we should rescue him?" Damion asked Criswell, jerking only his gaze, not his face, toward the chagrined Klingon at the refreshment table.
Criswell's eyes widened. "I've learned it's best never to disturb a Klingon while eating...." He glanced over at the massive Entaaro, who seemed to be making an even larger, cheesier mess. It looked as though he might be getting too close to Captain Navarra, who was back to her conversation with Qaraq. "He's bound to have some kind of accident on one of those two, and I'm not sure which would be worse...."
There was a small commotion, and the room seemed to go silent for a moment.
Criswell slumped. "I spoke too soon," he said as the giant, fuming Broot turned around, face a shining, illuminated fuchsia. His face and shoulder had cheese sauce dripping from one side. Nostrils flaring, Qaraq's glare met the face of the sloppy Klingon.
"Are you quite done?" Qaraq bellowed. "chonuQ! SoH DaSop 'lam, ghIH ...um," Qaraq struggled to find the right word. "...petaQ Ferengi!" Qaraq finished, telling the Klingon (in so many words) that he had the table manners of a stupid Ferengi. He glanced at Criswell and muttered, "No offense."
"None taken," Criswell said. "Though 'Romulan' might have been more effective."
The species was unfamiliar to Entaaro, but the bellowing was self-evident as certain annoyance. Language was a special interest and so the unique bilabial “tak” sound was gloriously new. Only a moment ago as the Klingon moved up a slight step, a passerby moving past him stepped on the hem of his robe. Entaaro had slipped a half step, and as he was a head taller than anyone else, the bowl sloshed from his chest, but at Qaraq’s eye level.
The Klingon the creature spoke was impressive, the accent and Tak sounds aside, which only enhanced his robust language further. He didn’t hear the intended insult as all, as he wondered what sort of mouth and tongue allows the lips and teeth to express simultaneously. There were however eyes on him, as any large Klingon in a room inevitably has.
Bending slightly, and placing the bowl onto the table beside him he rumbled in a low, plaintive tone, “Humble apologies, a misstep from misfortune and now you are dressed as your food.” Entaaro took notice of a loose thread along the button of the creature's shirt, a detail replicators often didn’t include. He continued in a quick breath, “I shall pay for the garment's cleansing.”
Damion blinked. "That is the calmest Klingon I've ever seen," he said to Criswell under his breath. "However, we really can't allow that cheese sauce to stay on the table." He approached from the side, plucked a napkin from the stack of them on the table, and wiped the rim of the bowl clean before dropping the napkin into the cheese to join the chicken bone. "If you'll allow me, I'll have a fresh bowl brought out," he said to Qaraq and the robed Klingon and whisked the bowl away.
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