Title: A Series of Laughs – 2
Author: klmeri
Fandom: Star Trek TOS
Characters: Redshirts
Summary: Drabble fill for trek_crackbingo prompt: Redshirt Helpline.
Previous Fills: 1

The man answers the call in monotone. “Redshirt helpline. Woes or worries? We’re here to help. My name is Jack. Who is speaking please?”

Static interlaced with sobbing comes through on a line. The answer is, at best, garbled.

Jack of Redshirt Helpline makes a noise of disinterested agreement. “Uh huh, uh huh, uuuuh huh. Please hold.”

He punches in a series of codes. A voice answers with “Mary.”

“Hey, Mary. Got another one.”

“Male or female?”

“Don’t know. It’s all high-pitched wailing to me.”

“Do you at least have a starship locale?”

Jack pulls up a database and skims to the last call entry automatically added to his log. “Enterprise.”

“Whoop-dee-do” is Mary’s dry response.

Jack switches back to the caller. “Thank you for holding. A specialist will be with you momentarily.” He immediately transfers the call from his desk.

There are already three angry red flashing lights on his console. He picks the one in the middle. “Redshirt helpline. Woes or worries? We’re here to help. My name is Jack. Who is speaking please?”

“I need help.”

Obviously, dumbass. Jack’s voice is carefully modulated to a combination of soothing and pleasant. “May I have your name, Sir?”

There is a short silence. “I’d rather not say. What if this gets back to Captain K—um, the Captain?”

“A pseudonym will be fine.”

“Okay. Call me… Shorty.”

Jack rolls his eyes. These redshirts are so unimaginative. “Hello, Shorty. How may I assist you today?”

“Well here’s the thing. The Captain has assigned me to an away team but everybody knows that we redshirts are the first to die! I mean, is it the color of our uniforms? Is it some big cosmic plan that we have to be shot, stabbed, mind-controlled, eaten—”

The list goes on for some time. Jack doodles on a personal PADD. “Mmhm. Yes, I understand. Oh, that sounds rather unpleasant.”

Finally, the redshirt winds down. “What can I do?”

“Shorty, there’s only one thing that you are allowed to do.”

“What’s that?”

Bend over and take one for the Federation. He says instead, “Explain your concerns to a commanding officer.”

“Er, that’s not a good idea.”

“Is your captain unwilling to acknowledge—”

“No! Magnus’s blue balls!” That makes no sense in Jack’s opinion, but he’s heard more colorful metaphors in his last ten years of helpline service. “Captain K—the Captain, he’s great but I just can’t, I mean, it seems so stupid to complain…”

“If you are uncomfortable approaching your captain, then try the First Officer.”

Shorty’s voice is nothing short of incredulous. “No, that definitely won’t work.”

Jack’s quick glance to his log confirms that Mr. Shorty Redshirt is from the Enterprise. He hears that the First Officer is a Vulcan. Shorty is probably right. Vulcans aren’t exactly sympathetic to the work conditions of redshirts.

Shorty interrupts his wandering thoughts. “Please, what can I do?”

“I will have to consult with management on this issue. Please call back at a later time.”

He reaches for the disconnect button as the voice pleads, “Wait! Hey! I’m scheduled to go down in an hour—”

Poor Shorty. In all likelihood he won’t need to call back. He’ll be dead.

Jack stretches in his cramped little cubicle and briefly adjusts the tiny plaque engraved with his name and Employee of the Month in five different galactic languages.

The next call consists of “First my fiancé Jeff was turned into a cat which no one could undo for two weeks. He shredded all my best blouses! And then he was sent down to a supposedly safe planet, I was assured that it was SAFE, and I find out that he got stomped on by a dinosaur. I WANT TO FILE A COMPLAINT!” Jack explains that because the couple wasn’t officially married, she is not entitled to benefits or compensation; for this reason also he cannot legally address the situation. Jack redirects the enraged woman to Starfleet Customer Service. That conversation ends with a resounding click.

Then it’s “I think I broke my head but Doctor McCoy’s so scary…” It’s easy to promise—and the idiot is gullible enough to believe—that Jack will forward to the redshirt McCoy’s work schedule so he can find a time to get help when the doctor isn’t on duty.

Jack sighs, swallows two little blue pills for his impending migraine, and answers the next call. “Redshirt helpline. Woes or worries? We’re here to help. My name is Jack. Who is speaking please?”

“Dan.”

“Hello, Dan. How may I assist you today?”

“I’m going to kill myself.”

Jack sits up. A live one! “Dan, first, let me thank you for calling this helpline. Tell me. Why do you want to commit suicide?”

“I’m going to die anyway. Isn’t it better to die by my own hand?”

“We all come to an end some day, Dan.”

Before Jack can continue to practice his budding knowledge of psychotherapy (he’s in the process of obtaining a degree; this is a night job), Dan says, “Not the Organians. Or the people who live in fast forward or those colonists with the happy spores or—”

“Dan, those are exceptions. You cannot compare yourself to an exception. Do you know what you are?”

“A redshirt?”

“A being fated to die.”

“Then why shouldn’t I just do it already? I hear that we’re headed into uncharted territory. Do you know what happens in uncharted territory?”

“No,” Jack admits. He is curious. “What?”

“Aliens in cubes, that’s what! Or a giant hungry amoeba… Fuck, can I kill myself now?”

“No! Tell me more about the amoeba. Was it like—”

Dan starts crying, which is not unexpected. “I had a buddy that wasn’t even in Engineering but his laundry had gotten mixed up and he put on a red shirt and then the Klingons attacked and a blast comprised the entire deck and…”

Jack listens in fascination as Dan pours out a tale that is highly unlikely but must be true. No wonder redshirts have a helpline. He idly wonders if the color red is cursed. Or maybe red is just a curse on the ‘Fleet’s flagship—sort of like enticing a seething bull. Hm. What a good idea for a book: Staring Down the Bull of Fate.

Dan has subsided to quiet, hiccupping sniffles.

“I’m very sorry for your loss, Dan. Life can be cruel but we have to keep fighting.”

“So I shouldn’t do it?”

“Do you have family?”

“A brother. And a cousin on the Deneva colony.”

“I’m sure that they would be sad if you were to end your life, Dan.”

“They think I’ve died twice already. The computers get glitches sometimes and mix up our names on the away mission roster…”

“Oh.”

Dan sighs so loudly that Jack has to pull out his ear piece. “Thanks for listening, man. I guess I just wanted to talk to someone who understood how much it sucks.”

“You’re welcome, Dan. By the way, are you based on the Enterprise?”

“Yeah. How’d you know?”

“Dan, I can truly say that you aren’t alone.”

“Really?”

“Yes.”

“I guess… I gotta now.”

“It was my pleasure to be of service, Dan. Don’t forget to complete the survey at the end of this call.” He switches over to another line.

“Redshirt helpline…”

3

Related Posts:

• A Series of Laughs – 9 – from February 9, 2011
• A Series of Laughs – 8 – from January 16, 2011
• A Series of Laughs – 7 – from December 11, 2010
• A Series of Laughs – 6 – from December 10, 2010
• A Series of Laughs – 5 – from December 8, 2010