A fools tale {Elegant; drought plot}

It has been decidedly good aboard the Enterprise. No one ever wanted to conduct scientific experiments on me and all I ever was required to do was run small errands for those on the bridge. My station was on the bridge itself and I have found that no one notices my presence as long as I maintain the proper Avox stance, head down and hands clasped. The only things that do tend to give me away are my various modifications. I cannot control the raging colour field that is my hair as it reacts to my thoughts. I'm sure people have noticed that my lips and nails always flawlessly match the crisp whiteness of my uniform. I've had the good fortune not to have to look anyone in the eyes, no one has seen my ticking clock or the stars that hide behind my iris.

It's lucky that most assume that Avox are stupid. A lot is said by the crew on the bridge, and I listen and learn their coded phrases and silly jokes. Although none of them know me, I have come to learn them precariously through the private conversations that they hold near my station or the way they shout during panicked moments. I am little more than a piece of furniture on this ship, however I am certain I could do so much more. There have been many moments where someone has shouted about this or that not working and in my head I have realized, "I can do that." There have been many tricky situations that the crew have found themselves on ground and needed someone light and flexible, who is trained well. "I can do that."

I could be so much more than just an Avox. However, I am happy with where I find myself, for once in my life. It is much better than a cage or appraising eyes. It is the easiest job on this ship, it's just boring.

Today, we are landed in Eleven. Usually my orders are to simply wait aboard the ship and assist the bridge members who have stayed behind. Today, the Captain of the Enterprise himself gives me his orders. I listen , head bowed as he tells me that I am to gather a list of specific equipment and then wait for the Navigator and young genius, Mr. Chekov. As the Captain speaks to me, nervousness shades the tips of my hair a brilliant pink. I try and quell it, annoyed that I have to find out from my hair how nervous I am. IT goes yellow instead. Great.

With a sigh, I get on with it. The screen he has given me has pictures of the items he wants me to collect, as well as the written word. In irritation, I swipe the pictures away, I do not need them. Scientific tools have been apart of my life ever since I can remember. They are collected in a matter of minutes and I am waiting, silent as ever in the designated meeting spot for the boy wonder to come along. Eventually I hear him knocking about. He never had to learn to move silently I suppose. His lack of grace is evident.

“Erm, ‘cuse me, are you the Avox that will be lending me a hand?”

I simply wait in silence, my cheeks going a deep shade of blue, most likely to match the embarrassed colour in my hair. I am used to people openly asking me questions, as if I could respond. I'm just not used to the questions being anything but rhetorical. This 'boy genius' seems to be waiting expectantly for some sort of response. I cannot give him one. I risk a look at his face and find that his cheeks have gone a lovely, natural red and he looks more than embarrassed. It would be funny if it weren't so awkward. He then bursts into a stream of words that attempt sentences but do not entirely agree with another. Not only does he stumble over himself, but his tongue can't quite keep up it seems.

"-I mean I know what you are and what is wrong with you-“

He stops then, cutting himself off. It doesn't bother me, him calling me wrong. I know that I am different, not right at all. I don't mind that he is happy to point it out. In fact his embarrassment curls my lips up into the tiniest of grins, I struggle to contain it, but my hair laughs along with the soft giggle that begins in the back of my throat. Shades of purples, pinks, yellows, greens, reds and blues dance briefly through my curtain of hair like a soft summer storm.

He has turned away, I pick the bag of items up and begin to follow him, the soft tinkling building itself up in the back of my empty mouth so happy that it is barely containable. He's walking away so fast that he's tripping over himself, I have never met anyone so worried to have offended me. He looks like a chagrined puppy. The third or fourth time he trips, I can't help myself and the laughter erupts. It's funny how much a tongue is not needed to keep one's laughter pure. I could get a whipping for this but there's not much other way of showing him that I'm not bothered. I know that my hair must be dancing with vibrancy around my head, the colours moving and changing as quickly as my mood changes. When I finally calm down, my hair is the purest white it's been in a while.