Things That Go Bump In The Night

by Cheryl Petterson

(Standard Year 2249)
(Happy Birthday, Mylochka!)

Go To Part Three

Return To Part One

Return to Valjiir Stories

Return to Valjiir Continum

PART TWO

Jim Kirk fumed in his quarters. The last thing he wanted to do was attend this enigmatic ‘party’ – but he was getting desperate to find out what was happening on his ship. Scotty had reported the failure to get through the mess hall door, Spock likewise with any attempts to release the classification in the computer – nor could the Vulcan find any trace of such coding to begin with. Visions of the various entities that had taken over the Enterprise’s computers through his captaincy plagued him. None of them had been beneficial, or even neutral. He wracked his brain, but it seemed there was only one way to proceed, and that was on the entity’s own terms.

He had to attend the Halloween party.

He rubbed his temples, then the side of his jaw. Costume, he thought. Maybe I’ll just go as a lieutenant, or a cadet or something.

He gave a command to the clothing replicator in his cabin and it complied – though not with what he had requested. Instead, a bright metallic cuirass, red skirt, sandals and a blue-plumed Roman helmet emerged, along with matching greaves and vambraces.

Jim scowled at this reminder of his middle name. “Very funny,” he said to the empty cabin, and dumped the costume into the recycling unit. He tried another command and the replicator spit out the same outfit.

“I’m not wearing that!” he snapped, and tried again. A third identical suit appeared, along with eerie laughter.

He ground his teeth, clenching his jaw.

I guess I am.

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“Okay, enough of this. We’re going to the damn party and find out who’s responsible!” Ruth declared as she stormed into her cabin.

Spock glanced up from the computer terminal.

“I’m beginning to believe that may indeed be our only recourse,” he concurred. He told her about the sign on the mess hall door, and her lips became a thin, hard line.

“He, she, they, it wants to play cat and mouse, huh?” she snarled, then her face lit up. “And I’ve got just the thing.”

She stomped over to the clothing replicator and started punching in orders. Spock watched her, wondering what indignity he would have to endure. He contemplated a fleeting hope that, with her reference to the Terran idiom, she would chooose something investigative, perhaps Sherlock Holmes and Watson. He quickly rejected that idea when he realized that she would never cast herself in the role of a slow, bumbling doctor. When the pieces of costume began to emerge, he rose, staring quizzically at the black latex and blue and black leather.

“I said we’d have secret identities,” she told him.

“And this is…?”

“Batman and Catwoman.”

“Batman and…”

“Don’t get all Jilla on me,” she scowled. “They’re vigilante crime fighters. Well, Catwoman is more of a criminal herself, but she only goes after people who harass her in her mundane life.”

Spock picked up the dark blue headpiece. It would cover most of his face, but it had elongated, up-standing pointed ears.

“My wife…” he began.

“You’ll be completely covered, except for your jaw,” she interrupted.

He glanced at the clearly skin-right body suit. “Covered is not necessarily…”

“You’ve got a cape, too,” she pointed out.

“A cape?”

“It’s like bat wings, because Batman could use them to glide between buildings.”

Spock stared, blinking, as Ruth began tearing out of her uniform, pulling on the skin-right latex pieces that made up her costume.

“Well, come, on, put it on!” she demanded.

“My wife…”

She turned sharply to him. “You said you’d go,” she reminded. “And you just said that attending was our only way to find out who’s doing all this.”

He closed his eyes. “Must I wear this?” he asked.

She nodded decisively. “You must.”

They stared at each other for a long time. Ruth’s eyes were pleading, demanding and determined. Spock’s went from stubborn to exasperated and finally to capitulation.

“I trust you will shield me from the taunts of the crew,” he said at last.

“Anybody tries to mess with you and they’ll get this,” she agreed with a wicked grin, and cracked the accessory to her costume – a long, leather whip.

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Uhura, Daffy and Pavel were the first to arrive at the mess hall door. It was actually about five minutes before the specified hour. The three looked suspiciously at each other, then silently agreed not to make any accusations. Daffy was the first to speak.

“Well, don’t you look regal,” she commented.

Uhura smiled. “Cleopatra,” she stated. She wore a while linen, sleeveless gown with an elaborately beaded, wide belt, the beads trailing down the skirt. Her hair was brushed back from her face, held by an intricate headdress of gold, shaped like the draped wings of some bird of prey. Around her throat was a golden, jewel-encrusted winged Isis, and her eyes were painted with the Egyptian Eye of Horus.

“You look stunning,” Pavel commented, and Daffy elbowed him in the ribs. “I, on the other hand, look ridiculous,” he mumbled.

Uhura stifled a giggle. “Actually, it’s a good look for you,” she said, then nodded to Daffy. “Both of you.”

Daffy preened. She was wearing a skin-tight leather dress with more blatant-than-usual make-up, carrying an old-fashioned cigarette between her fingers – which were painted with bright red nail polish. Pavel had on black leather jeans, a black leather tank top, a grey motorcycle cap with black leather banding, dark sunglasses, and he, too held a cigarette – though he looked far more uncomfortable with it than Daffy did. Daffy hair was a wild array of curls, while Pavel’s was slicked back.

“We’re bikers,” Gollub announced. “I tried to get Pav to dye his hair, or at least spike it, but this was the best I could do.”

“I feel foolish,” Chekov confessed. “And I can barely see.”

“Well, you look tough,” Uhura soothed. “Just like James Dean.” She giggled again, and Daffy punched the Russian on the arm.

“Told you,” she said.

After a moment’s silence, Daffy said, “So… who do you think is behind this?”

“Not me is all I know,” Uhura answered.

The chemist nodded. “Me neither.”

The two women sized each other up for a moment, then both smiled, satisfied with the other’s veracity.

The corridor outside the mess hall was suddenly filled with the sound of wind whistling through dry trees, and the sign on the door blinked off, then altered. The pumpkin vanished, to be replaced by a white face with dark hair, a cloak billowing behind the figure who raised a long-nailed, white hand. The words, “Enter freely and of your own will,” appeared and there was an electronic hum and the door slid open.

The mess had been transformed into gothic splendor. Mist covered the floor, cobwebs hung from the ceiling, tall candelabras sat in the corners. There was a long table covered in black and red lace, black and red candles flickering on it, set with mountains of food, along with gourds and fall foliage and stacks of black plates with red utensils. Next to the table was a fountain, splashing merrily with what looked like blood, along with a row of silver goblets. There was a coffin standing up against one wall, an array that looked like a mad scientist’s work table along another. There was a tall pedestal, with a raven – one that cawed convincingly – and the deck was littered with tombstones.

The three officers exchanged glances, then stepped into the mess hall. A gong sounded, followed by cackling laughter.

The party, apparently, was officially underway.

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The gong was getting annoying, as was the laughter. Both sounds greeted every person who entered the mess hall. The fountain of blood turned out to be punch – a very good punch, though the alcoholic content seemed to alter according to who filled one of the silver goblets. Daffy found this out by taking a drink from Pavel’s cup, and nearly choked on the what had to be 200 proof vodka, while her own was no stronger than she usually drank. She’d tested her theory by asking for a swallow from Jilla Majiir’s goblet – after Sulu had persuaded her that, no, it wasn’t really blood – and found that the Indiian’s – or INdian’s, as the helmsman kept pointing out, and that joke was getting as annoying as the gong – was only fruit juice. She was amazed at this unprecedented display of chemistry and irritated that it seemed to be proof to a number of party-goers that she was, indeed, responsible, despite her protests. Which was also getting old.

As was Pavel’s gawking at Sakura, who was, as she’d promised, one sexy siren of a witch. She glanced down at her own attire and muttered, “So what, I’m chopped liver?” and had just about decided to let her hand give a stern talking-to to the back of his head when the gong resounded again, and Monique DuBois and Ramon Ordona entered.

She could feel the Russian’s eyes bugging out of his head from across the room.

Taking her usual advantage of the usual nearly unanimous male attention, the French girl smiled and began a belly-dancing routine. Ramon sighed, then took up a position as close to her as he could without cramping her movements, and folded his arms, looking for all the world like a displeased sultan – which was what his costume suggested.

The gong went off again, and a handsome, roguish pirate sauntered in, took stock of the spectacle before him, then boldly swept Monique into his arms.

“Ah, my fair wench,” Noel DelMonde said, “Sail the seven seas with me!” Then he bent her backwards, pulling aside the veil that covered half her face, and planted a ferocious kiss on her willing lips.

There was laughter and applause, but Ramon stepped forward, grasping Monique’s arms.

“Unhand her, you godless heathen!” he declared, “or know the wrath of a sheik!”

“So we get entertainment too?” Daffy commented loudly, but her mirth died under the fierce, cynical glare and half amused yet unmistakably murderous intent in the Cajun’s black eyes.

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Del hesitated outside the mess hall, praying for some last-minute reprieve. When no one appeared announcing they had discovered the cause and perpetrator of this elaborate hoax, he sighed, scowled at the sign on the door, squared his shoulders, and entered the room.

The gong and laughter penetrated right into his skull, and in an instant, all his memories were swept away, replaced by only one truth: he was a pirate, a despicable, charming rogue, and he intended to plunder this fine party. Then that thought got swept to the back of his mind as he spied the beautiful harem-girl dancing for her sultan.

To be sure, there’s plunder and there’s plunder, he mused wickedly, and strode up to the beauty, taking her into his strong arms.

“Ah, my fair wench, sail the seven seas with me!” he declared, and pulled aside her veil, kissing her boldly.

“Unhand her, you godless heathen,” the sultan ordered, “or know the wrath of a sheik!”

He turned to the Arab, his eyes glinting dangerously.

“And look who’s calling who a godless heathen?” he sneered.

“Infidel!” the sultan roared, and rushed at him.

The pirate nimbly side-stepped, then laughed when the man stumbled into another party-guest. He was surprised to see a strong, handsome heathen warrior catch the sultan, his bald head gleaming around a bizarre stand of hair. Dark, intelligent eyes took in the scene, then roughly shoved the sultan away.

“Woman,” he said to the belly-dancer, “Do you wish the attentions of this – creature?” he asked.

“Creature am I?” the pirate responded. “You’re more of a heathen than the Arab!”

The Indian warrior regarded him with dark wariness. “I have never seen your kind,” he intoned, "nor people dressed like these.” A sweep of his hand indicated the sultan and the harem-girl. He glanced around at the rest of the strangely-dressed party-goers. “I recognize none of this,” he went on.

A beautiful, pale young woman with hair as red as wine moved silently to him. “Husband, where are we?” she asked.

The pirate took in her buckskin dress and the wealth of silver, turquoise, and carnelian that adorned her. He smiled, and made a sweeping bow.

“Far from home, I believe,” he answered her, and smirked as the warrior’s face darkened. “But I have no quarrel with your kind. I’m here for the spoils.”

“What are you?” the warrior snapped, pulling his woman behind him.

A loud, low, metallic sound interrupted his words, followed by hideous laughter, and all eyes turned to the doorway.

@@@@@@@@@@@@@

“What does he think he’s doing?” Pavel muttered to Daffy, who had come to his side at DelMonde’s entrance.

Daffy’s green eyes blazed for a moment, then she shook her head. “Acting in character?” she suggested. Then she put her hand to her forehead. “Oy, I feel so weird!”

Pavel was immediately attentive, not a small part of him hoping this meant he would be able to leave the party under the guise of taking care of his lover. “Are you not well, Dafshka?”

“I don’t know – I felt – for a moment I thought…” She shook her head again. “It’s gone now,” she murmured.

The navigator frowned, his hopes dashed, then glanced back at the scene unfolding at the doorway. “I think Sulu is taking his own joke a little too seriously,” he observed.

“But Jilla doesn’t joke,” Daffy returned. Her words were interrupted by the gong and laughter announcing another arrival.

@@@@@@@@@@@@@

“Cute,” Ruth commented as she and Spock approached the sign on the mess hall door. “Who designed this, Bram Stoker?”

“I am gratified you recognize the literary allusion,” Spock told her.

She scowled, sticking out her tongue. “Come on, Batman,” she said, “let’s get to the bottom of this.”

As soon as she entered the room, Ruth’s mind was assailed by a power she had never felt before. She battled it furiously for a moment, then forgot how as strange, distorted memories filled her head. She glanced at the costumed man at her side, a slow, feline smile playing over her lips.

Are you following me, Mr. Wayne? she thought, then slipped from his side, melting into the shadows of the garishly decorated room.

@@@@@@@@@@@@@

Vulcan, Starfleet, and his own identity vanished in a flash as Spock stepped into the mess hall. Abrupt awareness flooded him, his keen eyes sweeping the room, looking for signs of criminal activity. He caught sight of Selina Kyle slinking away from him and a small smile touched his lips, then was gone. He would have to keep an eye on her, as well as the two obvious motorcycle toughs who stood near the center of the costume party. It amused him to actually appear at a society affair dressed as his own alter ego: No one would ever suspect Bruce Wayne after this: After all, who would have the gall to show up at a party dressed as the Batman if one really was the Batman? Of course, the costumes of the two he had noticed could be just that, but his instincts told him otherwise. He spared only a glance for the pirate and the Indian who were trying to stare one another down, and strode with deceptive casualness toward the refreshment tables.

@@@@@@@@@@@@@

Leonard McCoy’s eyes lit up at the entrance of who were obviously the First Officer and his wife. His mind immediately started going over all the ‘ear’ jokes he could make, and he cackled silently to himself as he straightened the 19th century coat and vest he wore, tilted his hat back from his face and started to saunter over to the Dark Knight.

“And what are you supposed to be?” Uhura’s sultry voice asked, and McCoy turned to her, grinning at her Egyptian costume.

“Why, I’m Brett Maverick, ma’am,” he answered. When she blinked at him, he added, “Just a simple riverboat passenger.”

“Gambler, you mean,” the Communication’s Officer corrected, then grinned as he tipped his hat in acknowledgement. “Well, you look every bit the sophisticate,” she concluded, after giving him a critical once-over.

“And you look very queenly,” the doctor returned. “Cleopatra?”

“I deserve nothing less,” Uhura replied haughtily, then laughed.

“Won’t get no argument from me, ma’am,” McCoy answered, giving a slight bow. “Did you get a look at Spocko?”

She fluttered her eyelashes. “You mean the tall, elegant form in tights and a cape and the large…” She paused a suggestive fraction of a second. “… pointed ears?”

McCoy chuckled. “Didn’t notice myself,” he said, answering her clear innuendo, then added, “but how about his cat of a wife?”

“The one with the whip?”

“The very one.”

“I wonder where she got all the latex.”

“Replicators are wonderful things, your majesty.”

Uhura smiled again, then raised her head, glancing toward the door. “What’s going on with DelMonde and Sulu?”

“Want me to go find out?” McCoy offered.

“And spoil your teasing of the Batman? I wouldn’t presume,” Uhura grinned.

“Thank you kindly, ma’am,” McCoy said, and he put his hand on his chest and made another bow. “So, if you’ll excuse me…”

Uhura nodded, and made her way towards the door as McCoy moved in the opposite direction.

@@@@@@@@@@@@@

A whistle from behind him made Jim Kirk turn at the entrance to the mess hall. Moving up the corridor was a vision in a multicolored, floor-length silk dress; a slim figure taking small, delicate steps with an incongruously knowing smile on lips painted a bright, Chinese red.

“Nice legs, James,” Jade Han commented.

Jim blushed, then countered boldly, “Too bad yours are covered, Dr. Han.”

“Thank you,” she answered, with no trace of either embarrassment or surprise. “Fascinating choice of a costume,” she continued. “I thought you didn’t like to advertise your middle name.”

He scowled. “I don’t,” he said. “But whoever has taken over my ship for this party apparently does. I couldn’t get the replicator to give me anything else.”

“Hmm,” Jade replied. “I wasn’t aware there was any question.”

“It’s not either Uhura or Miss Gollub,” the captain told her, “and neither Spock nor Scotty can figure out who’s messing with Communications or the computers or the circuitry for the mess hall.”

As Jim filled Jade in on the increasingly annoying series of events leading up to the party, Jade’s pretty face grew worried.

“Sounds like someone who has some kind of neurotic fixation on Halloween,” she said at last.

“But someone with the knowledge and ability to disrupt ship’s function, and that’s a very limited pool of suspects.”

“You’ve ruled out Ruth Valley, I assume?”

“The way she’s been fuming about the whole thing…” Jim began, then stopped. “Which is just the sort of act she’d put on if she was behind it.” His face grew dark, then he sighed, shaking his head. “No, Spock would know if… unless he’s in on it too…”

“Really, James,” Jade said, folding her arms, and Kirk shrugged.

“I know,” he agreed. “But I’m grasping at straws here.”

“Obviously.”

He scowled at the clear look of amusement on the doctor’s face. “I may have to mention to Miss Valley that you suspect…” he began again.

“You, Captain Kirk, play rough,” Jade interrupted.

“You, Doctor Han, started it,” he reminded.

Jade frowned, but her eyes were sparkling up at him. “Truce,” she suggested, then slipped her arm through his. “Escort me in, won’t you, James? A Chinese empress should not enter unattended.”

“And it’s the duty of a Roman soldier to protect beautiful woman,” Jim returned, then smiled as she finally did flush.

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As the door opened – again to a gong and laughter – Jim Kirk vanished into Marc Antony. He glanced at his side, puzzled at the appearance of the woman clinging breathlessly to his arm, then at the bizarre array before him. The three young man in strange clothing – one barely covered in feathers and a beaded loin cloth, one in billowing pants, some kind of heavy coat and pointed shoes, the third in a white, belted tunic with absurd footwear and a ridiculous, three-cornered hat – were clearly gearing up for some kind of personal battle. He acknowledged the beauty of the two woman, one with the same kind of beaded clothing as the nearly-naked man, the other as nearly-naked in ballooning pants, cups over her breasts and very little else…

Then his heart began pounding in his chest as the vision that haunted his dreams came gliding across the room.

“Cleopatra,” he breathed. “My Queen.”

She was smiling as she approached, then stopped, her regal gaze taking in the sights before him. Her head lifted, her dark eyes becoming veiled, though no less royal as she at last rested them on him.

“Antony,” she said, and he abandoned the woman who was still clutching his arm and rushed to fall to one knee before the Egyptian beauty.

“My Queen,” he murmured, bowing his head.

“Have you arranged this strange party in our honor?” she asked him, her hand reaching down to beckon him to his feet.

“Would that I had, my Queen,” he answered, smiling at her. “But alas, I cannot claim the credit.” He glanced around, and all the strange costuming made sense. This was a royal orgy, given for Cleopatra’s benefit; all the bizarre clothing and accoutrements were an attempt to please her jaded appetites. “Still, I trust you find it amusing.”

“I hope to find it more amusing still,” she replied, and her eyes smoldered at him.

“I am at your service, my Queen,” he assured her with a bold smile, and took her hand, kissing it, while he let his own eyes answer the desire in hers.

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“Speaking of being in character,” Daffy murmured, giving Pavel a nudge in his side.

The navigator frowned, taking in the spectacle of Uhura and the captain. There was something that was not right in all this. His head was starting to throb, and he knew he hadn’t had nearly enough to drink for that to have been the cause. Mr. Spock’s choice of costume had surprised and embarrassed him, nearly as much as Ruth Valley’s ostentatious display – though standing next to Daffy, he hadn’t dared react.

“They’re acting just like Cleopatra and Marc Antony,” Daffy was continuing, and Pavel’s head throbbed again.

“Daphne,” he asked slowly, “before, when you said you felt strange – can you tell me what it was you thought?”

The chemist shrugged. “Who knows? Del came into the room, and – well – just for a second…” Incongruously, she blushed. “…I wanted you to get a chain or tire-iron and beat him silly.”

“A chain or tire-iron?” the Russian repeated. “What is a…”

“That’s just it – for a moment, I knew what that was. So I came over to you to tell you to go get him.” She paused. “Then it went away.” She shrugged again. “Temporary mishegas, bubee.

Pavel frowned. “I am going to speak to Mr. Spock,” he announced. “Perhaps there is some logical explanation.”

“And I’m gonna go tell Uhura to lay off before Dr. Han beats her silly,” Daffy said.

“Why would…?” Chekov began.

Daffy made a face and punched him on the arm. “Are you the only one on the ship who doesn’t know she’s got the hots for him?”

“Apparently,” the navigator murmured as Daffy started to walk away. He tried in vain to clear the ache in his head, then turned and headed resolutely toward the First Officer.

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The Empress made a face of disgust as her oddly-dressed escort pulled away from her without so much as a by your leave. Haughtily she scanned the area around her. This was not either the reception nor the surroundings she had expected. The gong had announced her presence, that was appropriate enough, but where were her eunuchs? Where was her guard? And what sort of foreign devils were these beings before her?

She tapped her foot impatiently, waiting to be acknowledged, but no one seemed to notice her. She picked a person at random, the young woman with the dark-red hair.

“You!” she commanded. “Explain this to me!”

The girl glanced up, startled, then spoke quietly to the male who, except for his clothing and the lack of a proper hairstyle, could have been one of her own people. His dark eyes swung to her, then narrowed. He strode over to her, eliciting a shout of “Coward!” from the man in the elaborate coat and strange headdress, and a snort of laughter from the one who wore an even stranger hat.

“Who are you to address a princess of the Iroquois in such a crude manner?” the man snapped at her.

“Princess?” the Empress repeated with cool disdain. “I am an Empress of China!”

“And what is this ‘china’?” he asked with unbelievable affrontery.

She drew herself up, well aware that her bearing made up for her small physical stature. “You gamble with your life,” she told him, then realized the impotence of the threat, since she had, at present, no retinue to carry out her wishes.

“I am not offended, my warrior,” the young woman murmured and the Empress blinked. The girl had moved up next to her ‘warrior’ so quietly, the Empress hadn’t heard her approach.

“I am offended on your behalf,” he replied, and his eyes grew so soft, the Empress couldn’t help but suppress a twinge of sorrow. No one in her own court had ever looked at her with such affection. Devotion, adoration to be sure, but…

“A fine lady such as you clearly are shouldn’t go into these circumstances without protection,” came softly from behind her, and she whirled to see the smiling face of the man who had laughed. He swept the three-cornered hat off his head in an elaborate bow. “May I offer my services?”

The Empress gave him a quick once-over. He was handsome, in a foreign way – nearly more so than the man who had plainly escorted her into this gathering. She gave him a cool smile.

“Yes, you may,” she replied – then stared disdainfully at the arm he lifted to her. He quirked an eyebrow at her, then shrugged and started to lead her to a table that held refreshments.

“Apologize,” the warrior demanded, stepping in front of them both.

“I will do no such thing!” she retorted.

“And you’ll have to fight me to force her,” her escort replied, though he was grinning in a most disconcerting way.

The warrior snorted. “That will pose no great difficulty,” he said, and took a fighting stance.

“Husband,” the red-haired girl interrupted, “you have no bow, no weapon. This is not our land, these are not our people. They know no better. We need not prove ourselves to these strange beings.”

The warrior grumbled, but stood aside. “As always, your words have much wisdom,” he said to his companion.

“Coward!” the turbaned man shouted again. “Fight him!”

“Take your own advice, sahin," the scantily glad young woman called, then cowered as the man turned furious eyes to her.

“You wanna rumble?” came another new voice, and yet another strangely dressed woman approached, her unruly curls falling around her face, some kind of opium stick hanging from her sneering lips. Her body was encased in a gleaming black material, her eyes greener than any jade the Empress had ever seen.

“I can take ya,” she boasted, “and if I can't, my man can!”

She stuck her fingers in her mouth and issued forth a piercing whistle.

@@@@@@@@@@@@@

The man who was dressed as a riverboat gambler approached the Batman, his open face and cheery smile a clear asset in his obvious vocation. Wayne found himself wondering if perhaps the idea behind this party was to hide in plain sight – in which case his own choice now seemed dangerously dubious – for if the motorcycle toughs were motorcycle toughs, and this man was a real gambler…

“Well, well, now what in tarnation are you supposed to be?” the man drawled.

“A costumed vigilante,” Wayne replied, then offered his hand. “Bruce Wayne,” he added courteously.

The man shook his hand with feigned pleasure. “Brett Maverick,” he replied, then cocked his head. “You look like some overgrown bat.”

Wayne smiled faintly. “Yes,” was all he said.

“You a drinking man, Wayne?” Maverick asked.

The Batman glanced at the fountain that seemed the only beverage source. “I’m more fond of a good chateau lafite,” he replied.

The gambler laughed. “I’m a whiskey man myself,” he confided, and held up a silver goblet. “But this fruit juice ain’t too bad, friend.”

“Thank you, but I’ll pass just the same,” Wayne demurred.

“So, do you know anyone here?” Maverick continued, his gaze sweeping the room.

Looking for your next mark, are you? the Batman thought. His own eyes searched the shadows for Selina. “I know a few,” he answered noncommittally.

“Any of ‘em the type to be up for a friendly game of cards?”

Wayne nodded to himself, pleased that his assessment had been correct. “I’ll ask around,” he said then came more alert as one of the motorcycle toughs headed toward him. He was more than aware that, if this party were being held at Wayne Manor, Alfred would have provided him with dossiers on all the attendees, and allowed a frown to cross his features. He’d just have to find out what was going on the old-fashioned way.

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Chekov was wary as he approached Dr. McCoy and Mr. Spock. They were chatting in an informal, friendly manner – which wasn’t right at all. He’d seen them arguing, and, of course, had heard their infamous bantering, and had even seen the First Officer ignoring the garrulous physician, but he had never before witnessed them simply – talking. His puzzlement at the unusual sight made his headache flare, and he winced as he stepped up to them.

“Excuse me, Mr. Spock…” he began, then winced again.

The First Officer seemed to blink at him, and he was about to apologize for his rude interruption when McCoy suddenly glanced at him, then put a hand to his own forehead.

"Good lord, what the hell are they puttin’ in this stuff?” he muttered, looking suspiciously at the goblet in his hand.

Spock blinked again, then actually frowned. “You had something to discuss with me, Mr. Chekov?”

“Yes, sir, I…” the Russian began again, then turned as a piercing whistle claimed his attention.

“Miss Gollub always call you like that?” McCoy commented dryly.

Chekov frowned. “No, she does not. It is most unseemly.”

McCoy chuckled. “At least it’s in character.”

“In character, yes…” the navigator murmured, his frown deepening. “Mr. Spock, I have noticed that Mr. Ordona, Miss DuBois, Sulu and Mrs. Majiir, Noel DelMonde and even the Captain and Uhura are all behaving…”

He stopped talking as the Vulcan held up a hand, his gaze scrutinizing the knot of people that were still clustered by the door to the mess hall.

“In character,” Spock finally said.

Though Chekov couldn’t see Spock’s eyebrows due to the mask he wore, he was familiar enough with the tone of voice to know that one was rising inquisitively.

“And Daphne said that there was a moment before when she seemed to be – that is, she thought something that…”

“Seemed in character,” Spock repeated.

“What in blazes are you talkin’ about, Spock?” McCoy demanded.

“Doctor, are you aware that you introduced yourself to me as ‘Brett Maverick’?” the First Officer asked.

The doctor flushed. “Well, hell, I am dressed like…” He swallowed, then raised his chin stubbornly. “You said you were Bruce Wayne, whoever the hell that is.”

“Bruce Wayne was the name of the graphic novel character whose vigilante alter ago was known as Batman,” Spock informed him. “Which is the costume I am wearing. But in the novels and movies in which the character appeared, Bruce Wayne’s alter ego was unknown.” He paused. “And I am dressed as that alter ago, not as Bruce Wayne.”

“So why did you…?” McCoy began.

“Because, Doctor, ever since I entered the mess hall, I have believed myself to be Bruce Wayne, attending a social function, a costume party, dressed as the Batman.”

“But… how is that possible?” Chekov rejoined.

“A very good question, Mr. Chekov,” the Vulcan replied. “Which leads to another: why is that I do not now believe myself to be Bruce Wayne?” He studied the Russian. “I take it you do not believe yourself to be James Dean?”

The Russian flushed. “No, sir.”

Spock turned to McCoy. “But you, Doctor, did believe yourself to be Brett Maverick until Mr. Chekov approached us.”

McCoy flushed again. “I – well, Spock, I’m not entirely sure about that…”

The Vulcan nodded. “And I would then surmise that Uhura believes herself to be Cleopatra, the Captain believes himself to be Marc Antony, Mr. Sulu and Mrs. Majiir believe themselves Native Americans of the Iroquois Mohawk Nation…”

“Daphne thinks she is a… a…” Chekov groped for the correct word.

“I believe the term would be – and pardon the vulgarity – your bike bitch,” Spock said.

“Get your ass over here, lover!” Gollub’s voice shouted from across the room, her New York accent even more pronounced that usual. “There’s some punks here who need a beat down!”

Oy vey," Chekov muttered quietly.

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Selina Kyle frowned. Her position – clinging nimbly to the metal rafters of this strange house – afforded her the perfect vantage point from which to keep an eye on Bruce. So it was that she noticed when his manner underwent a subtle if distinct change.

What are you up to, tall, bat, and handsome? she thought. And who are your new, clearly disreputable friends?

She dropped silently to the floor, crouching behind the refreshment table, moving stealthily to where she could hear as well as see…

Ruth stood up so quickly that she bumped her head on the edge of the table.

“Ouch,” she said softly, then blinked as Spock, McCoy and Chekov turned to her.

“Ruthie, you okay?” McCoy asked.

“No, I’m not,” she replied, then glared at Chekov. “What the hell are you doing, Pavel?”

“Me?” the Russian answered, clearly flummoxed. “I am not …”

“I think, Mr. Chekov, that you are,” Spock interrupted, “though it is likely you are unaware of it.”

The navigator stared back and forth between the First Officer and his wife, his mouth opening and closing like a perplexed fish.

“GET OVER HERE!” Daffy Gollub’s voice shrieked.

Chekov winced.

“If you will participate in a small experiment, Lieutenant?” Spock asked. “Please walk over to Miss Gollub, observe her reactions as well as that of those around her, then return and report to me.”

Chekov swallowed nervously, but nodded, a faint, “yes, sir,” coming from his lips.

As he began to move away, Spock took a firm hold of Ruth’s arm.

“Hey, not so tight!” she complained.

“If my theory is correct,” Spock said, “Miss Gollub and the others will drop out of character when in his vicinity, just as we did. And if we revert, I do not want Catwoman to disappear.” Ruth grinned at him –

- and Selina Kyle hissed, trying to jerk her arm away from the Batman’s grip.

“Ma’am, is this man botherin’ you?” Brett Maverick drawled, though there was a dangerous gleam in his blue eyes.

“Yes, yes he is!” she answered.

The Batman drew her close, leaning down to whisper in her ear. “Kitty want to play?” he asked. “There’s something strange going on here. We’re not the only ones in – appropriate disguise.”

Selina stopped struggling. “The biker who was just here?” she murmured back.

“Among others,” Wayne confirmed, and inclined his head toward the doorway of the party room.

“Ooh, pirate, sultan, Indian chief,” Selina said in a sing-song voice. “Who are they?”

“I think – though I know it sounds crazy…” He paused and they shared a look, each of them acknowledging how honestly that term could be applied to them – “…that they are a pirate, sultan and Indian chief.”

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Go To Part Three

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