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Welcome to the BowMouth
(or, What It Could Be Like if Joss Whedon Came to Write for ENT)
Part 2

{Engineering. TRIP and T'POL are looking over sensor data.}

TRIP: Well, yeah, Maybelline's not bad. You can find it most places. Ah use Cover Girl m'self.

T'POL: What about Prescriptives? They have that skin-tone color palette which actually applies to me.

TRIP {shaking his head}: Still department-store stuff. You don't have to pay that much.

HESS {stage whisper}: Commander! You're on!

TRIP: Oh! Sorry. {starts pressing buttons on the console} Um, yeah, plasma degradation rate something. Ah so forgot to study the script last night.

T'POL: Plasma decay rate. Your coal-burning sensors can't track it. Vulcan children play with video games more sophisticated than these piddling radar detectors.

TRIP: Shame we don't have some Vulcan children around to help us, isn't it?

T'POL: You should blow your lines more often. Your ad-libbing makes more sense than the script.

{ARCHER enters.}

ARCHER: Got anything?

T'POL: A much-lowered level of respect for the current lords of the franchise.

ARCHER: Which for our purposes translates into...

TRIP: Bupkus.

{HOSHI enters.}

ARCHER: Got anything?

HOSHI: Well, if you must know, when I was in the Amazon I picked up this really nasty itch on my --

ARCHER: Were you able to figure out any of what Klaang said?

HOSHI {handing ARCHER a PADD}: Most of it was pretty innocuous, sir. He wanted to go home, he had to do laundry, he was meeting with someone about classified information which would head off a civil war, he missed his dog, he needed to pee --

TRIP: Ah can sympathize.

ARCHER {reading}: "All your base are belong to us."

HOSHI: Oh, sorry. Wrong page. Klaang's stuff is on the next one.

ARCHER: "Someone go feed my targ! I called my wife from Rigel after I met with Sarin, but she started telling me about the plumber and I got distracted! Where's my date book? I need to give the House of K'nekknek's invasion schedule to the Tholian captain! Dammit, I ordered a raktajino an hour ago!"

TRIP: Oh, what a tangled web we weave...

ARCHER {to T'POL}: Rigel? Sarin? Tholians? Any of these sound familiar?

TRIP:...when first we practice, hint hint.

T'POL: Rigel is a human word, Arabic, I believe, for the brightest star in the constellation you call Orion. Which you should know since you're the captain of a starship, you mouth-breather.

ARCHER:...right. Just... testing you. Yeah. {shakes the PADD in her face} But he couldn't very well land on the star, now could he? Huh? So where did he land, Miss T'My Astrometrics Sensors Are Bigger Than Seven Of Nine's?

HOSHI: Bigger than whose?

ARCHER: Sorry. Something Chef's new intern told me.

T'POL: Klaang landed on the tenth planet.

TRIP: Well now, aren't you a fount of information!

ARCHER: Yeah, and if I find you stop being founty, you're going to be wearing something a lot less comfortable than those four-inch stiletto heels.

HOSHI: Until she threatens to take her star charts and go home.

TRIP: That'd be mutiny on the founty, wouldn't it? {ARCHER ignores them and hits a button on the comm panel.}

ARCHER: Archer to Helm. {No response.}

HOSHI: Uh, sir?

ARCHER {sighing}: Trip, can't you fix that?

TRIP: You wouldn't believe me if Ah told you.

ARCHER: Archer to Bridge.

MALCOLM {over comm}: Bridge, Reed here.

ARCHER: Tell Travis to -- waitaminute, what are you doing on the Bridge? I told you to go help Trip analyze the sensor readings.

MALCOLM {over comm, snippily}: Three's a crowd, sir. {TRIP and T'POL look at each other and fidget.} And after Hoshi left the Bridge, the only senior officer remaining --

ARCHER: Understood. Tell Travis to set a course for the tenth planet in a system called "Rigel." That's R-I-G-E-L. It's in --

MALCOLM {over comm}: Oh, Rigel 10 again? I thought we were out here to "boldly go where no man has gone before." {sighs deeply} I suppose we'll be having dinner at the same old haunts too. God forbid we go three blocks out of our way to find a new pub.

ARCHER {punches comm button to end transmission}: Don't all jump on the Archer's an Airhead Wagon at once, now.

TRIP: Ah understand Doctor Phlox is going to wait until your next trip to Sickbay.

ARCHER: Oh good. That should be a while.

{Helix. SILIK and KLAANG are sitting across from each other at a small table. SILIK is filing KLAANG's nails. KLAANG is on his third tankard.}

SILIK: My stars! You Klingons are such interesting creatures! I was just saying to my girlfriend, just the other day, "Klingons are such interesting people! Why, I'll bet they lead such interesting lives!" The things you must see and the things you must do! My stars!

KLAANG: Well, you know, it's not all bloodwine and fresh gagh. It's very hard work being a warrior.

SILIK: Of course it is, dear!

KLAANG: And me! {waves one hand dramatically as SILIK works on the other} I don't even get to fight like my brothers in arms! I'm reduced to a mere courier!

SILIK: You don't say. What a shame. A big strapping strong man like you, running messages around?

KLAANG: There's no justice. {takes a swig from his flagon} I should be leading the defense of our glorious Empire, not dancing attendance on some Suliban floozy.

SILIK: You don't say.

KLAANG {gestures wildly with mug, which slops around and spills}: And the qoH didn't even give me anything! Just scratched me with her nail and wouldn't start a mating ritual. {leans forward drunkenly} Is it true what they say about your people, that you can... change your shape? Into anything? {leers toothily}

SILIK {picks up KLAANG's hand and examines the nails critically}: Oh my, my! This will never do! {places a finger bowl on the table} Now let's stick our paddies in the water!

{Shuttle bay. The main cast less PHLOX are assembled.}

ARCHER: We're heading down to Rigel 10 to find out what Klaang was after. That might help us locate him.

T'POL: Don't drink the water, don't feed the animals, don't snog the locals, and beware of pickpockets.

HOSHI: Well, this is going to be a dull mission.

ARCHER: Don't worry; those protocols won't apply to any future Away Teams.

TRIP {to MALCOLM}: By the way, you look good in that duster. Black leather suits you.

MALCOLM: Thank you. I refused to go the peroxide route, though. Burns your scalp something awful.

TRIP: And completely turns your hair to straw if you use it for too long.

MALCOLM: Cigarette? {TRIP makes a disgusted face.} Oh, come off it, Mr. Wonderful. They're just props. You don't think I actually smoke, do you?

TRIP {relieved}: Oh. Well, in that case, sure. Domo arigato.

{Rigel 10. Snow is falling and turning to icky brown slush on the filthy pavement. The crew is in an industrial-park setting -- warehouses with corrugated metal walls and oversized double doors, fences blocking off alleys, trashbins, abandoned and stripped shuttlecraft, drunks sleeping in doorways, the Giant Inflatable Union Protest Rat outside a shuttered office.

The crew enters one of the buildings. It's a club. The lights are low and the atmosphere is hazy. Two fat Nausicaans in day-glo tie-dyed skin-tight catsuits gyrate listlessly on either side of a stage, where a band is playing. Occasionally one of them pulls a small, cackling, rat-like creature out of a cage beside her and eats it. There's a dance floor in front of the stage, a few pool tables, a bar, tables and chairs, and doors leading to the back of the building. The club's upper level is primarily made of balconies overlooking the stage, and holds more two-person tables.

T'POL moves confidently through the throng. MALCOLM follows, coolly assessing everyone in range. TRIP, HOSHI, and ARCHER are trying not to stare at the madding crowd. And failing. Aliens of every species, shape, color, stripe, and gender are talking, drinking, dancing, arguing, laughing, groping, and listening to the music.}

SINGER: Growing in numbers/Growing in speed/Can't fight the future/Can't fight what I see/People they come together/People they fall apart/No one can stop us now/'Cos we are all made of stars

T'POL: We should split up. One redshirt per pair. Dibs on Trip.

MALCOLM: Right. Travis, you're with me.

HOSHI: Um...

ARCHER {soothingly}: It's all right. The writers are just throwing random characters together to check for potential sparks.

HOSHI: Oh, a chemistry test?

ARCHER: Exactly. {They start to walk towards the bar.}

HOSHI: Wow, they didn't get one pairing right, did they?

ARCHER: That's why it's the pilot.

SINGER: Slow so slow (come come)/Someone come (come come)/Even love is a goin' 'round/Bad noise goin' round/Slowly rebuilding/I feel it in me/Growing in numbers/Growing in peace

TRIP: What did you say this place was called?

T'POL: The Bronze. It's the only club worth going to around here. They let anybody in, but it's still the scene. It's in the bad part of town.

TRIP: This place has a good part of town?

T'POL: That's where they actually take the time to leave you in a bathtub full of ice after stealing your kidneys.

SINGER: People they come together/People they fall apart/No one can stop us now/'Cos we are all made of stars/People they come together/People they fall apart/No one can stop us now/'Cos we are all made of stars

MALCOLM {to floozy alien}: Subterranean gardens? Seems like an unlikely place for a Klingon to go.

DEE'AHN {draping herself over MALCOLM}: Klingons love mushrooms.

LATIA {taking TRAVIS's arm}: It's just downstairs and over a bit. We'll show you.

SINGER: We are all made of stars/(People they come together)/We are all made of stars/(People they fall apart)/We are all made of stars/(No one can stop us now)/We are all made of stars/(We are all made of stars)

{ARCHER tries to strike up a conversation with the bartender.}

ARCHER: I'm looking for a friend of mine -- he came through here a few days ago. You'd remember him -- two and a half meters tall, hairy, dark skin, sharp teeth? He's a Klingon. Named Klaang.

QUARK {polishing a glass}: I might.

ARCHER: You might what?

QUARK: Remember him.

ARCHER {getting it}: If I... cough up a bribe.

QUARK: Please! "Bribe" is such an ugly word. I prefer to call it... greasing the wheels of memory.

{ARCHER nods slowly, then leans over the bar and grabs QUARK by the lapels.}

ARCHER: You're going to be the memory of a grease spot if you don't tell me where the Klingon went.

ROM: He went to see a Suliban woman named Sarin. I can take you there.

ARCHER: Thank you. {releases QUARK, who looks disgusted}

ROM {shrugging}: Sorry, brother.

QUARK {straightening his jacket with a great show of injured dignity}: That's quite all right. This gentleman obviously didn't want to do business anyway.

ARCHER {into communicator}: T'Pol, meet us by the back door. I think we have a lead.

T'POL {over communicator}: Acknowledged. The band is on break anyway.

{ROM leaves with ARCHER and HOSHI. QUARK looks down the bar and nods meaningfully. MORN nods back and slips off his stool, following them.}

{Bar basement. It's dank, dusty, and cobwebbed, with clanking pipes and bare bulbs. Random boxes and barrels huddle next to uninviting doorways. Wine racks intermittently line the walls. Sounds can be heard from some of the rooms -- not sounds to investigate.

MALCOLM and TRAVIS are already unconscious and sprawled on the floor by some filing cabinets. T'POL and TRIP come down the stairs.}

TRIP: Malcolm! {runs over and crouches next to MALCOLM} Mal, buddy, wake up. Malcolm, are you all right?

T'POL: What happened?

TRIP: My guess is, either they were watching a documentary on ancient Babylonian actuaries, or they were knocked out.

T'POL: I thought it was my job to state the blindingly obvious.

TRIP: Actually, that position rotates.

ROM: ...right through here. {ROM comes through one of the creaky doors, leading HOSHI and ARCHER.}

T'POL: Captain!

ARCHER: T'Pol? Malcolm! {MORN appears from the shadows and grabs ARCHER. ROM restrains HOSHI, who screams like a twelve-year-old.} Hey! Let me go!

{ARCHER head-butts MORN. They stumble through a doorway into a room lavishly appointed in mirrors, red velvet, and leather. They fall to the ground, fighting. ARCHER kicks MORN in the stomach. MORN sprays latinum over ARCHER's uniform, then tackles ARCHER and slams him into a table. The vase of flowers falls off and lands on MORN's head.}

ARCHER: Aren't you flower children supposed to be all peace-and-friendshippy? {MORN tries to bite him and misses.}

INTENDENT: Enough! {ARCHER looks up. MORN socks him in the jaw one more time for good measure, and then gets up and limps out.}

ARCHER {getting to his feet and wiping the blood from his mouth}: Who are you? And what's with the Domme's Secret outfit?

INTENDENT {slinking towards ARCHER, trailing a whip on the ground behind her}: You're looking for Klaang... why?

ARCHER: He owes me money.

INTENDENT {running her fingers along ARCHER's torso as she walks a slow circle around him}: Tell me about the people who took Klaang from your ship.

ARCHER: Why should I tell you anything?

INTENDENT: You're right. {big shark smile up into his face} It's a lot more fun if I force it out of you. {raises whip} Shall we play a game?

ARCHER: Um, maybe we can work something out?

{The INTENDENT grabs ARCHER's head and kisses him ferociously. Serious tonsil hockey. When they come up for air, she's morphed into SARIN, a Suliban woman. ARCHER tries not to look too grossed out.}

ARCHER: I can't believe I kissed you.

SARIN: It must have been the biggest thrill of your life.

ARCHER: You're obviously not familiar with my previous work.

SARIN: Let's get down to cases, shall we? Some members of my species are part of a group called the Cabal. They take orders from a group in the 29th century of a demon dimension in exchange for genetic enhancements. These future demons are using the Cabal to foment a civil war in the Klingon Empire. If a war erupts, all the bloodshed will allow the demons to enter our time and dimension through a portal on the Hellmouth planet and take over the universe. I gave Klaang the proof of this plan to take back to the Chancellor. The Cabal stole him from your ship to prevent him from getting there. I can help you find Klaang if you take me with you.

ARCHER: I feel like I'm listening to a recap of today's "All My Children."

SARIN: Look, this is a more complex plot than you're going to get in the next dozen episodes. Don't knock it.

ARCHER: Complex, sure. And talky and political and and murky and with absolutely no connection to the greater story which happens later on. Throw in a queen with a three-meter kabuki wig and some CGI and we're talking Phantom Menace.

SARIN: I thought you sci-fi geeks liked big complicated stories.

ARCHER {shrugging}: It's not me personally. The crew's been ordered to appeal to a demographic with room-temperature IQ. We're slated for gratuitous flesh exposure, swearing, poop jokes, and fisticuffs.

SARIN: Oh, it's so action you want?

ARCHER: Depends on what kind of action. Are you going to change back into the leather?

SARIN: Would that fall under "gratuitous flesh exposure"?

{An explosion sounds in the corridor. The door blows open. Two Suliban come charging in, firing weapons. ARCHER and SARIN dive in opposite directions.}

SARIN {from behind a couch}: Is this more what you had in mind?

ARCHER {from behind a chair, firing back}: It is more predictable. If you kissed me again, I wasn't sure what you were going to turn into next.

SULIBAN THUG: Captain! Don't panic. There is no cause for alarm. Actually, there is cause for alarm. It just won't do any good.

{ARCHER shoots him. The other Suliban thug runs back out. ARCHER and SARIN follow him. In the hallway, TRIP, HOSHI, and T'POL are trapped behind a force field. The Suliban is gone, but there's weapons fire just out of sight.}

ARCHER: Are you guys all right? Where are Malcolm and Travis?

TRIP: T'Pol twisted the little guy's big ears and he ran off cryin', so we sent Mal and Travis to start the shuttlepod. Then the Leprosychauns showed up and turned on the electric fence.

T'POL: We are undamaged. Who's the tramp with the acne problem?

ARCHER: She said she can help us find Klaang.


ARCHER {rolling eyes}: ...and a whole bunch of other boring stuff. I'll tell you later.


{Suliban fire at each other. One of them starts firing at the force field. ARCHER yanks a random girder off the wall and hurls it at the Suliban. It spears through his chest, and he puddles into silvery goo.}

ARCHER {to SARIN}: He's not going to reconstitute as Robert Patrick, is he?

SARIN: Completely the wrong franchise.

{SARIN turns off the force field. TRIP, T'POL, and HOSHI follow her to the weapons locker, where she gives TRIP a phase pistol and metal stakes to T'POL and HOSHI.}

T'POL: Why are you arming us with spikes?

SARIN: Some of the Cabal are genetically enhanced to resist energy weapons.

HOSHI {hefting the stake}: But a little cold steel and Freddie Mercury just melts, huh?

SARIN: It's a specialized alloy. It unravels the bonds between their molecules -- essentially unzipping their DNA.

HOSHI {queasily, lowering the stake}: That sounds like a real nightmare. I wouldn't want that to happen to me.

SARIN {to ARCHER}: Where's your ship?

ARCHER: Lot B, I think.

TRIP: Cap'n, we'd better get outta here. The little guy with the big ears brought back a lotta freckled friends. {All turn to see Suliban creeping along the walls, crawling on the ceiling, and stalking towards them, firing phasers.}

SARIN: This way! {She leads them in the other direction. They run through dim corridors, ducking and returning phaser fire, until they reach an elevator. SARIN presses the button. They wait.} Dammit, they always hold it on the second floor. {More shots. The door finally bings and opens to reveal three entangled aliens in various states of undress.}

T'POL: Save it for the train like everybody else. {Grabs the nearest alien by the nearest body part and hauls all three of them out into the corridor.}

SARIN: Quickly, get in! {ARCHER, T'POL, HOSHI, and TRIP enter the elevator, but SARIN is shot in the back.}

ARCHER: Sarin! {crouches beside her. TRIP provides cover fire.}

SARIN {weakly}: Captain...

ARCHER: Yes? {The door bings and starts to close on him. He shoves it back.}

SARIN:...Rose...bud... {dies}

ARCHER: What? Rosebud? What does that have to do with Klaang? {The door bings. ARCHER's jaw clenches. He looks up to see SILIK silhouetted in the doorway.}

TRIP: Cap'n! {The door bings again. SILIK raises his phaser.}

ARCHER: Dammit! Now I'll never know who Rosebud was, 'cause, like, she's dead! {They dive into the elevator as it slides shut. Shots burst onto the closed doors.}

{Outside the club. The elevator bings and the door opens. The four crewmembers pile out into the snow. Another shot is fired. They duck in all directions.}

ARCHER: Which way is Lot B?

TRIP: This way! {points left}

T'POL: That's Lot A. Lot B is closer to the club. It's this way. {runs off into the snow. ARCHER follows. TRIP grumbles and drags HOSHI along. They trade potshots with unseen assailants.}

ARCHER {into communicator}: Malcolm! We're on our way!

MALCOLM {over communicator, through a lot of static}: No sir, Lot B! We're in Lot B! Not A!

T'POL: The shuttle is right over... here. {They come up to the DELTA FLYER.}

HOSHI: That's not our shuttle, Sherlock.

TRIP: Yeah, but wow, can't we just take it for a spin? {gently runs his hands over the curves}

ARCHER: This baby was built by a pilot -- she's like greased lightspeed.

T'POL: Would you three like to be alone?

{Heavy firing commences. They duck behind the FLYER.}

TRIP: Ah told you Lot B was the other way.

ARCHER: Never mind -- let's just get out of here.

{They run back across the landing area, exchanging fire with Suliban. They come to the shuttlepod. MALCOLM appears at the open door, laying down covering fire.}

ARCHER: Everybody in! {HOSHI and TRIP scramble in. ARCHER is right behind them.}

T'POL: Wait! My iPod! Where's my iPod?

ARCHER: Maybe you left it in the shuttle?

T'POL {frantically going through pockets}: No, I had it with me in the club. It must have fallen out when we were running. {turns and looks behind her} There it is! {She sprints back across the open asphalt to grab it. A Suliban shot catches her and knocks her flat with a loud pop.}

ARCHER: T'Pol! Are you all right?

T'POL: Yesh, but I fink you'd better pull out the shpares.

HOSHI: Breasts?

T'POL: Lipsh.

MALCOLM: I'm so glad I insisted we get travelers' insurance.

HOSHI: That's covered?

MALCOLM: Under "body parts." You'd be amazed what's in the fine print.

ARCHER: Stay here. I'll be right back. Cover me. {MALCOLM gleefully recommences shooting. ARCHER runs out, grabs T'POL, and helps her back to the shuttle. Another Suliban shot hits ARCHER in the leg. He collapses into the pod. MALCOLM slams the door shut as TRAVIS lifts off. SILIK and two of his cronies run out, shooting; a few blasts rock the shuttlepod but they escape.}

SULIBAN THUG {to SILIK}: You just know we're gonna get grounded for this.

SILIK: Shut up while I think of a decent excuse.

SULIBAN THUG: ...Sunrise?

SILIK {rolling eyes}: It's in about nine hours, moron!

{Shuttlepod. ARCHER is lying on the floor of the pod bleeding, his head in HOSHI's lap.}

ARCHER {to T'POL}: You're not going to make me suffer through that pointless flashback, are you?

T'POL {examining spare lip implant in pocket mirror}: Of course not. Why should I put myself through a standing-on-the-beach scene wearing more and looking worse than Jeri Ryan?

ARCHER: Thank you. {passes out}

{Decon. Blue lights. Goo. TRIP and T'POL in their tighty-bluesies. Greasy sax music. Perky genitalia.}

TRIP: Blah blah no precedent for you takin' command.

T'POL: Something about tattling to Soval.

TRIP: Suliban blah Klaang yadda yadda Cap'n's just like his dad.

T'POL: Captain Archer did this to himself something something.

TRIP: Vulcans blah blah still jerks.

T'POL: Does it bother you that we barely rehearsed for this scene?

TRIP: Not really. Do you think there's one sighted person tuned in who'll be able to remember a single line of our dialogue?

T'POL: Good point.

TRIP: Speaking of which -- {sweeps gel up the tips of her ears}

{Sickbay. PHLOX is scolding ARCHER.}

PHLOX:...and another thing: you're a pilot! You should know every star system from Terra to Vulcan! There's absolutely no excuse for you not to have recognized "Rigel"!

ARCHER: Can I have the eel back? I think if he stretches, I can stuff him in both ears at the same time.

{T'POL and TRIP enter.}

TRIP: How ya feelin', Cap'n?

ARCHER: You know those dreams you get sometimes where you're sitting in a lecture hall naked and you realize you didn't study for the test you're about to take?

T'POL: I told you they were watching us on DeconCam.

PHLOX: No, the Chosen One has prophetic dreams sometimes. They're mostly symbolic.

ARCHER: So if the other night I dreamed that T'Pol was a cellular peptide sheet cake with mint frosting...?

PHLOX: Absolutely no meaning whatsoever.

ARCHER: Or that we were making out on the desk in front of an empty lecture hall?

PHLOX: For that, you might need therapy.

TRIP: Cap'n, bite your tongue! Don't give the scriptwriters ideas!

PHLOX: Too late, I think.

T'POL: We're tracking a Suliban ship which left Rigel shortly after you were injured.

ARCHER: I figured you'd be slinging us back to Earth like a warp-powered boomerang.

T'POL: One of Silik's toadies took my iPod's headphones. I want them back.

ARCHER: Those irritating little bud things? You like them?

T'POL: No, I had a really nice Vulcan set. They fit really comfortably on my... {trails off. TRIP raises an eyebrow. She backpedals.} ...head. They fit my head. Yeah. Well. Shouldn't we be getting back to the Bridge, Commander?

TRIP: You go on ahead, Subcommander. Ah'll catch up. {to ARCHER as T'POL leaves} You need anything?

ARCHER {obviously an old joke}: A tall ship and a star to steer her by.

PHLOX: Which star, Captain? How are you going to steer by the stars if you can't remember their names? {ARCHER winces as PHLOX picks up where he left off. TRIP grins and leaves with a little wave.} It's not as if you can't see it with the naked eye from your own planet...

TRIP {chuckling}: He deserves that. {He reaches the turbolift and presses the button. When it arrives and opens, TRAVIS is already inside.} Hey, Trav. Just gettin' off lunch? {TRAVIS nods.} Ah was thinkin' of grabbin' a bite to eat m'self. {TRIP leans on the turbolift wall, arms crossed, and regards TRAVIS with amused suspicion.} Ah don't suppose you'd be willin' to tell me what Chef's makin' this afternoon?

{The lights go down, music swells, the spotlight appears, and TRAVIS whips out the top hat and cane. TRIP 's eyes widen as he realizes what's about to happen.}

TRAVIS {singing}: Hello my baby, hello my honey, hello my ragtime gaaaaaaaaaaaaaaal...

TRIP: He's doin' it again! And this time we're headin' right for the Bridge!

TRAVIS: Send me a kiss by wiiiiiiiiiiire; baby my heart's on fiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiire!

TRIP: Maybe now they'll believe me! What's takin' this lift so damn long?

TRAVIS: If you refuse me, honey, you'll lose me, then you'll be left aloooooooooooooooone...

{The lift slows and makes a scraping sound as it approaches the Bridge.}

TRIP: Remind me Ah gotta fix that.

TRAVIS:...oh baby, telephone, and tell me I'm your oooooooooooooooown!

{The lights come back up and the music finishes as the lift doors softly swish open. TRAVIS beams at TRIP before exiting. TRIP stares after him. T'POL glances up.}

T'POL: Commander.

TRIP: Did you hear that?

T'POL: Hear what?

HOSHI: Hey Trav. Did you have a good lunch? {TRAVIS nods.}

TRIP: C'mon, Vulcans are supposed to have great hearing! You didn't hear him singin' in the turbolift?

HOSHI: Travis doesn't sing, Commander.

TRIP: But -- the music -- and -- he was --

T'POL: Don't you have an elsewhere to be?

TRIP: You know, Ah changed my mind. Ah think Ah'm going to Engineering. {The lift doors close on his nonplussed face.}

T'POL: Whatever. {under her breath in Vulcan} Freak.

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