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Fic: Turning Toward Television
TOS: By the laws of our people.
katiemariie wrote in goodkindofcrack
Title: Turning Toward Television (AO3)
Author: katiemariie
Fandoms Star Trek: TOS/Community Crossover
Character/Pairing(s): Spock/M'Benga, Scotty/Uhura, Kirk/Shirley, Jeff/Uhura
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 6,600
Warnings: Spoilers for S2 of Community. Un-beta'd.
Summary: Instead of traveling to the 1960s and meeting with up Gary Seven, the Enterprise travels to 2011 where they seek to investigate the media saturated culture of the day. They end up with more than they bargained for when they beam down to Greendale. AU somewhere after "Custody Law and Eastern European Diplomacy."
Notes: Written for helpbrazil2011 for salable_mystic, who requested a TOS/Community crossover for the lulz. I am not responsible for any loss of productivity due to copious TV Tropes references.

Captain's log. Using the light-speed breakaway factor, the Enterprise has moved back through time to the 21st century. We are now in extended orbit around Earth, using our ship's deflector shields to remain unobserved. Our mission – historical research. We are monitoring Earth communications to find out how our planet survived desperate problems in the year 2011.

It is with great pride that I note that our mission was spurred by chief communications officer Lt. Uhura's senior thesis at Starfleet Academy on the effects of the near constant use of communications technology during this period. As Lt. Uhura has warned the crew, this is an incredibly dangerous point in time—where the very lines between humanity and technology, reality and text, and, indeed, fact and fiction are blurred almost beyond recognition. As such, the actions of people of this time are erratic and follow a set of social mores not of this world. Due to the unpredictable nature of our objects of study, the landing party to be sent to observe firsthand Human relations will be comprised of our most skilled and experienced officers: Lt. Uhura, who will lead ground operations under my close supervision; Commander Spock Spock, Lt. Commander Scott, and Ensign Chekov, who will assist in the operation of contemporary technology; and Lt. Sulu and Ensign Ricky, who will provide security detail. Lt. Sulu's expansive knowledge of ancient Terran weaponry will be especially useful. Due to the high risk nature of this mission and the large complement, we will be joined by two members of medical staff: Chief Medical Officer Dr. McCoy and the newly assigned Dr. M'Benga. I was initially hesitant about making such a dangerous away mission Dr. M'Benga's first, but Mr. Spock assured me that quote “like Atlas, Dr. M'Benga could hold Terra upon his finely chiseled shoulders” end quote. End log.

Personal log. Add twenty shoulder shrugs to daily fitness routine. End log.

Predictably, Jeff was the last member of the study group to stumble into their room in the library. (This included Chang, who had arrived early with a nice spread of bagels and cream cheese—wait, schmear.)

“Good morning, Jeffrey,” Shirley smiled.

“No morning is good when it starts at five a.m.”

“That's how early he has to get up to look like he just rolled out of bed,” Britta explained.

“Oh,” the group muttered.

“Hey.” Jeff sat down in his usual chair. “One, this isn't bedhead.” He pointed to his hair. “This is carefully tussled Italian moped helmet head. There's a difference. Two, how would you what my hair looks like just out of bed? If I recall correctly we never made it that far.”

Everyone instinctively scooted their chairs away from the table.

“Ha, ha,” Britta retorted.

“Is that all you got?”

“Well, I would call you gay for caring about your hair so much, but I'm far too enlightened for that.” She turned to Abed, who was filming the exchange with his camera. “That's an intentaburn.”

Jeff reached to the middle of table and began to rifle through the tubs of crea—schmear. “Are any of these low fat?”

“I think the strawberry is,” Annie answered.

Britta turned her benevolent, liberal do-gooder gaze on Chang. “Although I am an atheist and allergic to gluten—”

“You're not allergic to gluten!” the study group sighed.

“—I would like to say thank you, Ben—”

“Oh,” Shirley grumbled under her breathe. “We're on a first name basis now.”

“—for sharing these baggels and your proud, ancient culture.” She left off ...that is currently destroying the Palestinian people!

“Thank you, Britta,” Chang nodded.

“How'd you afford all this, anyway?” Troy asked. “It must have cost like—” He did some quick mental math. “—five hundred dollars.”

Annie stared at the two boxes of bagels, mentally scratching off statistics as their next shared class.

“The Chang has been rolling in green ever since he took the secular out of his Judaism.”

“Wait, so you just convert and they give you money?” Pierce asked. “Is that why the Jew—” a stern look from Annie “—ish people are rich?”

“No, no. Chang's got the hook up. See, my brother's the rabbi, and he said if I started going back to temple, he would get me a job at the community center teaching kids to play keytar. Cha-chang. Mad money.”

“Why are you still here?” Jeff asked.

“That's the best part. I got some Sino-Judaic scholarship through Greendale that deposits money into my bank account every month just for coming to class. And since nobody's claimed it since the thirties, I'm getting three g's a month, yo.”

“You know,” Jeff said, “I used to justify the misery that is my life right now by thinking how terrible of a person I was before, and that bad things happen to bad people, and if I gradually became a better person I would reclaim my former glory... Thank you, Chang, for proving me wrong and destroying any hope I had left.”

“No problemo, Winger.”

Uhura stood before the landing party in the transporter room, wearing what appeared to be a long shirt and a pair of opaque tights—or, as she called them, “jeggings.” “In the pockets of your contemporary costumes, you will find two items. The first of which is called an 'iPhone.' It has a variety of functions, including voice and text communications, internet access, and a game in which the goal is to launch birds at green pigs. With the aid of Mr. Scott, I have created an 'app' that will allow us to use the iPhone as a communicator, a tricorder, and a phaser. For this reason, with the exception of our medical staff, the iPhone will be the only piece of modern technology we will be bringing planetside.

“The second item is a box of contemporary prophylactics—condoms.”

Chang looked up from his book. “Shirley, would you describe your vaginal mucus as very viscous, somewhat visc—”

“Chang,” Shirley snapped in her voice reserved for Mormon missionaries and unyielding pastry dough before returning to her normal sugary-sweet tone, “As I told you on the telephone last night, we are never going to have that conversation.”

“It's Dr. Spo—”

“Helllloooo, everyone,” the dean said, turning corner into the study room. He glanced at Annie and Chang. “Or should I say, 'challah!' How's my favorite multicultural study group? You know, it is so nice of all you to show up here on a Saturday morning to give back to the community college that has giv—”

“We're getting credit for this, right?” Jeff asked.

“Yes, you will all be receiving one unit. Unfortunately, it's not transferrable to any other institution of higher education, but considering none of you besides Miss Edison have a prayer of transferring to a university, I wouldn't worry about it. Now, where is your faculty advisor?”

From behind a couch, a muffled voice said, “I'm here. Can someone please turn down the lights?”

“No, but I'm certainly glad to see you're here despite—”

“I'm getting flex credit for this, right?” Professor Duncan said, sitting up.

The dean seemed speechless for a moment before snapping, “This is why City College always beats us at volleyball!” and storming out.

There was always some manner of trouble in finding a secluded area for beam down, especially in an urban environment. This, however, was ridiculous.

“Mr. Scott,” Kirk said, sucking in his gut. “What were the exact coordinates of our beam down site?”

“I don't know, sir.”

“You don't know?”


“How can—”

“Captain,” Spock interjected, carefully positioning himself so that he wasn't touching anyone—a difficult feat in such a confined space. “It is standard procedure in historical missions to use the ship's computer to determine the least populated area within certain coordinates for transporter beam down.”

“Wait one cottonpickin' minute, this is the first historical mission,” McCoy said, whacking Ensign Ricky in the face with his gesticulation. “How can there be standard procedure?”

“That, doctor, would be a question for Starfleet command.”

“Lt. Uhura, any clue as to where we are?” Kirk asked.

“I think we're in a public bathroom stall for people with disabilities.”

“Please tell me this is the men's room.”

“I do not think so, Captain,” Chekov said. “I am standing next to a little metal boxes with things in it.”

Sulu craned his head. “We're either in the women's room or someone was stabbed.”

“The room smells of menstrual blood,” Spock observed. “Of course, the could merely be Lt. Uhura. However, she is not due to menstruate for another two weeks.”

Despite the sheer physical impossibility in a cramped space, all the men in the stall attempted to look at their shoes.

“Spock,” Dr. M'Benga said quietly. “This is one of those Human things we talked about.”

“I see. I apologize for my impropriety, Lt. Uhura.”

“It's all right.”

“Can anyone feel around for the door handle?” Kirk asked.

“I think I feel it,” Ensign Ricky said. “Hold on. I've got it.”

And with that they all tumbled out of the bathroom stall and onto Ricky.

Dean Pelton struggled to keep the angry tears from spilling down his face. It seemed like every time he tried to do something to improve Greendale, there was always so much resistance. Was it something he did? Should he have spent more time last night working on his puns? Should he have gotten a costume? But, really, could he have topped last year's? That was his problem, he realized; he was competing against himself, and who was a tougher competitor? (“Dean Spreck,” his mind said quietly.) He was much like Madonna—destined to reinvent himself time and time again until there was nothing left. The waterworks really got started then—thinking about Madge always did that to him—so he picked up his pace, heading to the nearest bathroom.

That was when the dean saw them. Well, it had to be them. Seven at-risk returning students in dire need of Greendale's early intervention program.

“Captain, we appear to be in a library of some sort.”

“Really? What gave you that idea?” McCoy asked, gesturing toward the bookshelves surrounding them.

Uhura flipped open the cover of a nearby book. “Greendale Community College,” she read off of the book jacket. “This should be a great place to observe youth culture.”

“I don't know,” Sulu said. “Some of these people look pretty old.”

“Let's keep moving,” Kirk suggested. “A library is a lousy place to do an ethnography.”

The landing party continued on, heading toward what looked like a contemporary turbolift. They were just about to get on (go in? They weren't sure which was the right phrasing for this contraption.), when they greeted by a bald man with tear-stained eye glasses. He jumped right in front of the group. “Check-ch-check-check-check-ch-check it out. What-wha-what-what-what's Greendale all about.” He smiled wide and froze in place, like he was waiting for some reaction.

The away team had little idea of what to do until Uhura started pretending to laugh. Everyone except for Spock joined in.

“Your attempt at humor appears to have been successful,” Spock said, phrasing it in a way that wasn't technically a lie.

“That's just how we roll at Greendale.”

“What do you roll?” Spock asked in all seriousness—and for once his shipmates shared his confusion over Human idioms.

The man thought for a moment before enthusiastically responding, “The good times! We let the good times roll at Greendale! As your administrative ambassador I'd like to say, Willkommen, bienvenue, welcome. Im Greendale, au Greendale, to Greendale.” The crew thought he was done, but the man kept going, apparently milking this joke for all it was worth. “Meine Damen und Herren, Mesdames et Messieurs. Ladies and Gentlemen! Guten abend, bonsoir, wie gehts? Comment ca va? Do you feel good? I bet you do! Ich bin euer conferencier; je suis votre compère... I am you dean!” The man took a small bow. “And you are in for the ride of your life.” He turned and gestured for them to follow him. “C'mon, gang.” He stopped, turned around, and looked pointedly at Uhura and M'Benga. “Not that any of you are in a gang.”

As he walked away, the group silently debated following him. Breaking up what looked to be a serious philosophical debate on the merits of emotion versus logic made entirely in hand gestures, Uhura whispered, “Listen, he made two pop culture references in as many minutes; we should go with him just for that.”

Shirley peered through the blinds of the study room window. “If he doesn't come back in five minutes, I'm leaving. I got laundry to do.”

“He'll be back,” Chang said.

“Did I ask for your opinion?” Shirley snapped.

Annie and Britta shared a meaningful glance across the study room table, and walked over to Shirley.

“Hey,” Annie said, wringing her hands. “Is something wrong?”

“You seem a little angry.” Shirley arched an eyebrow. “Not that you're not entitled to your anger what with the centuries of slavery and white supremacist violence.” Britta raised her fist in solidarity.

Annie put her hand on Shirley's arm. “Are you okay?”

“I'm fine.”



“Because you don't—”

“I'm fine! Now, leave me alone. Go talk to your new friend over there.” Shirley gestured toward Chang. “It's obvious whose side you're taking in all this.”

“What? I'm not taking sides in anything.”


“I didn't even know you guys were fighting.”

Shirley balked. “You think I'd let him try to take Jesus away from my baby without a fight?”

“Shirley!” Annie gasped.

“Wait, doesn't the mother have to be Jewish for the baby to be?” Britta asked.

Shirley looked hopeful for a second, before Annie shook her head. “Reform allows patrilineal descent. But even that doesn't mean the baby has to be Jewish. Lots of my cousins identify as half-Jewish.”

“You can't half accept Jesus Christ as your Lord and Saviour! You can't half get into Heaven.” Shirley covered her mouth, imagining her baby split down the middle with one half in Heaven and the other wherever Jews go when they die. “I hope it's the half with the tail that goes to Satan.”

“Shirley!” Britta admonished. “That's a vicious stereotype.”

“No. It's not,” Shirley said somewhat resigned. “All Chang babies are born with tails.”


“Wait, you don't even know if this is Chang's—”

Shirley shook her head. “At my last ultrasound, there was—he has a...” She started to tear up.

“Oh, Shirley.” Britta wrapped her in a hug.

“I don't know what I did to deserve this.”

“It can probably be removed,” Annie said hopefully.

“Yeah. The doctor said he could, but it's just more money I don't know if I can come up with.”

“I'm sure Chang will help. He seems to have a lot of disposable income now.”

“For now,” Shirley scoffed. “But what happens when he stops wanting to be Jewish and goes off to be a sign waver, or a blimp pilot, or an obstetrician?”

“An obstetrician?” Annie mouthed wordlessly to Britta, who looked just as confused.

“You know, I don't even think he's even really Jewish. Probably just making it up for the money.”

“I'm totally Jewish!” Chang exclaimed from atop the bookshelf he was perched on to eavesdrop on Shirley. The women jumped in shock. “Changs are descended from the Kaifeng Jews.”

“Excuse me if I find it hard to believe a man who once faked his own death.”

“—dalmatians and these are your guides for the day,” the dean said loudly, bringing in about a half dozen people. “Study group,” he said coldly, still upset from earlier. “Here are your mentees.” Looking at the two groups, the dean immediately started pairing people up, before realizing his pairs might constitute some sort of “bias-based incident.” Well. “You can pick your own partners. Have fun. Meet back here at noon for lunch.” He scuttled out of the room.

An auburn haired guy who had one too many trips to the spray tanning salon stepped forward, smiling at Annie. “Hi. Jim Kirk.”

Annie blushed. “Annie Edison.”

“Would you—”

“No,” Jeff said, stepping between them. “Not going to happen.”

Kirk shrugged it off, turning to Shirley. “Would you like to be my guide?”

Shirley stared pointedly at Chang. “Certainly.”

Kirk offered Shirley his arm and escorted her out of the room.

Jeff locked eyes with the one woman in the group—a hot chick wearing jeggings. “Jeff Winger.” He smirked.

“Nyota Uhura.”

“How about I show you around this cesspool?”

“How romantic.”

“I aim to please.”

Nyota turned and started leave, looking over her shoulder. “Think you can keep up?”

With the two most eligible of the mentees gone, the other matches went much easier, meaning they partnered with whoever was standing closest. After a few minutes, all the pairs had filtered out of the room, except for Duncan and his partner, a Southerner whose name escaped him at the moment.

They stood (well, one of them stood; Duncan was still lying on the couch) in silence for a few minutes before—Leonard? Lionel? Lester?—whoever-he-was coughed and said, “Say, aren't you supposed to show me around?”

“Right.” Duncan sat up, pinching the bridge of nose and squinting in the light. “This is the library. Er... Over there,” he pointed to a random spot in the room, “you have an air vent. Very important. Air. Er... to your left, we have the table. Two tables really. Sort of pushed together to make one bigger table. Lots of furniture options. That is a power outlet. Nice distance from the table. You can plug in your laptop or your mobile over there. Or maybe a hot plate or a crock pot, if you're so inclined. Lots of... things.” Duncan reached between the couch cushions and pulled out a bottle. “Brandy?”

“I thought you'd never ask.”

Through the lens of his camera—a literal camera, not the figurative camera through which he viewed the world—Abed noticed some truly unsettling trends, almost to the complete expense of his mentee, Geoff-with-a-g, who was standing a respectful distance behind Abed as he ignored him to film the other pairs touring Greendale.

In the multicultural center, Abed filmed Britta explaining to the Russian kid, “You need to let loose, Pavel. This is college. You've gotta get in there, fight the good fight before you're too deeply entrenched in the system. We are on the cusp. If you don't stand up now, you'll spend the rest of your life in the same chair, listening to same old white guy, and looking out the same window at a universe that is passing you by. And in twenty years, you'll be that old white guy. Another cog in the neo-colonial tick-tock machine.” Abed watched as Pavel's face went from prim determination to righteous anger to, well, Disney-like.

In the computer lab, he watched Pierce struggle to turn on one of the monitors, while his Scottish mentee looked on with a resigned arrogance, sneaking a sip from his flask every few minutes.

Out in the quad, Jeff-with-a-j was trying his best to charm his way into the jeggings of Nyota, while Shirley and that Kirk guy emerged clothes rumpled from a supply closet.

Abed captured Troy fencing in the gym with his partner, who looked far too into running around with a giant phallic symbol to have his head screwed on all the way.

And in their anthropology classroom, Abed filmed Annie narrate the entire history of Greendale to the one guy wearing a red shirt, who was preoccupied with figuring out how to work the voice commands on his iPhone.

Despite his best efforts, he never got any footage of Chang and his partner—the one in the hat. Abed supposed this was for the best. He didn't want the universe to implode or for either of them to poop their pants.

It was fortunate, Spock supposed, that whoever the dean had mistaken him for was spared this tour; at best, it was a waste of time, and, at worst, it was enough to warrant immediate withdrawal from Greendale Community College—the very thing it was allegedly working to prevent. Given his limited knowledge of the event, Spock could not say whether errors were made in conception, execution, or both, but he could say with a degree of confidence that the dean's selection of mentors was partially to blame for the event's failure. His mentor, for example, had decided their time would be best spent breaking into the dean's office to eat the catered lunch stored there.

His mentor appeared to be highly unstable, given to wild mood swings, going from happily chewing on a sandwich (and spraying it all over Spock's face as he spoke) to pouting at a tray of desserts. “These are Shirley's brownies,” he said glumly as if this was supposed to mean something.

“I see.”

He proceeded to shove two “brownies” into his mouth and began sobbing. Spock is tempted to request immediate beam up to the Enterprise. “You can have the rest,” he said, shoving the tray into Spock's hands. “Just don't eat all of them. I don't want Shirley any changrier at me.”

Spock picked up one of the brownies, sniffing it experimentally before taking a bite. It was quite good. After consuming two more, Spock surmised that brownies were one of those “comfort foods” the captain was so fond of. They made him feel warm all over and mildly euphoric, yet also tired. He curled up on the floor, running his hand over the carpet. The floor apparently did not appreciate his ministrations as it continued to poke him in the leg. No, no. That was not the floor; it was the modified contemporary communications device in his pocket. He pulled it out, and opened its browser. Spock “googled himself”—a practice explained by Lt. Uhura in one of their briefings. After filtering out any website referring to a Dr. Benjamin Spock, the first result was a page entitled “The Spock” at the website TVTropes.org. This page inevitably led to “The Kirk” and “The McCoy” and a dozen others. Feeling a sudden wave of existential vertigo, Spock rolled onto his arms and legs and vomited the contents of his stomach onto the floor.

Watching Duncan ferret a third bottle out of the couch, McCoy had to ask, “You think you might be an alcoholic?”

“Oh, I am definitely an alcoholic.” He took a swig. “Rum?”

McCoy shook his head.

“Your loss.” Duncan lied back down on the couch, taking his glasses off and covering his eyes with his forearm. After a few minutes, he was snoring and McCoy could do little else but watch the pathetic man in front of him... That wasn't strictly true. He palmed the detox vials he kept in his pocket every time Scotty was in a landing party. He mentally recited the warning he gave each and every time he prescribed the stuff: one vial gets rid of your hangover, two gets you sober, three gets you sober forever. (And, four? Four gets you dead.) Detox had great success in curing the physical symptoms of alcoholism. Of course, it didn't do much for the behavioral and psychological health of alcoholics; without therapy, those dosed with detox would be, as the first crude treatments of alcoholism would say, “dry drunks.” Still, it was tempting.

McCoy glanced at the bottle Duncan was holding like a teddy bear. Damn the prime directive to hell. He was doctor first. He loaded the hypo, tip-toed over to Duncan, and injecting him three times. He barely twitched in his sleep.

As McCoy crept back to his chair, his iPhone chirped in his back pocket. “McCoy.”

“Where are you?” Sulu asked frantically. “I have a medical—” in the background, he heard a man's voice yell, “My eye!” “—emergency.”

“I'm still in the study room. You need me to come to you?”

“No, it'll take you too long to find me. I'll be there in a few minutes. Sulu out.”

Duncan sat up, yawning. “How long was I asleep?”

“Only for a few minutes.”

“Really? I feel like I slept—”

“What the hell's the matter with him?” McCoy shouted, as he noticed a very green Spock being dragged into the study room by his mentor.

“I don't know.” The Asian man deposited Spock in one of the study table chairs. “I think he got food poisoning or something.”

“Damn it all,” McCoy muttered, calling Geoff on his iPhone. “McCoy here. I need you in the study room. Spo—Spencer is sick.”

“Roger wilco.” The new guy clearly wasn't hip to their lingo.

McCoy could hear Sulu's injured man crying in the hallway, “My tears are burning my eye!”

“What now?” he grumbled, rushing into the hallway. “Oh, hell.”

Sulu was carrying a young man, who was bleeding from his left eye. “I'm crying blood!” the man whimpered.

“What the hell happened?”

“Fencing injury,” Sulu answered.

“Get him on the table.”

When Geoff-with-a-g took off running, Abed decided to follow, because quite frankly this story was going to be pretty boring without an action sequence. As they entered the study room, Abed almost dropped his camera. “Troy!”


He rushed to the table and took Troy's hand. “What happened?”

“I stabbed myself with a sword.”

Beside them, Geoff-with-a-g was looking over Spencer-if-that-really-was-his-name. “How are you feeling?”

“My position in the universe is unstable. The carpet will be cross with me.”

These twin scenes of intimacy were interrupted by everyone coming into the study room for lunch. Of course, after seeing all the blood, no one had much of an appetite.

“What the hell happened?” Jeff shouted.

“Troy poked himself in the eye with a foil.”

“Did you call 911?”

Abed looked over Geoff-with-a-g and the Southern guy. “That won't be necessary.”

“Guys,” a white faced Annie said with a shaky voice. “I think my partner was eaten by his iPhone.”

“What do you mean 'eaten'?” Kirk demanded.

“He was trying to take a picture of himself and the flash went off and he just wasn't there anymore,” Annie sobbed.

“Isn't anyone going to help me?” Troy yelled.

Duncan's partner reached for his bag, but Kirk stopped him. “Bones, we can't risk further detection.”

“Damn it, Jim! He could lose his eye!”

“If you help him, the damage will be far greater.”

Britta elbowed Jeff in the ribs. “What?”

“Go help Troy.”

“What do you want me to do?” he asked incredulously.

“Damn it, Jeff! We have to do something!”

“Correct me if I'm wrong,” Abed said, “but you guys are afraid that if you help Troy we'll all find out who you really are. If that's true, you don't have to worry. I already know who you are.”

“Who are we?” Kirk smirked.

“You're the past future versions of us.”

“I see.”

“What does that even mean?” Pierce asked.

“It's simply. They are us, if we were characters in a sixties TV show about the future—the mid-23rd century by my estimates.”

“Abed, you actually believe they're from the future?” Duncan asked.


“You can't keep doing this every time your mum ignores you.”

“This isn't like Christmas. I can prove it.” He pulled the beanie off of Spencer's head. “See. He's an alien.”

“Abed!” Britta scolded. “You can't call people with birth defects aliens.”

“He really is an alien. That's why he's sick. He ate Human food and now he's drunk.” Spencer stared at his shoes in shame. “And Annie's partner disappeared because he accidentally shot himself with his iPhone, which is really a disguised futuristic weapon.” Abed grabbed Spencer's iPhone off the table and fired it at a bookshelf, which disappeared.

“Oh, dear sweet Jesus,” Shirley muttered.

Jeff rolled his eyes. “So, they're from the future. That's one of less weird things that happened at Greendale. How they are they us from the future?”

“Not from the future. They're how we would be imagined by sixties' television writers working on a sci-fi show set in the future.”

“That doesn't answer question. How are they us? How is one of them me?”

Abed turned to Kirk. “This is the leader of their group. He is arrogant, spends far too much time on his appearance, and flirts with whatever young, attractive guest star is in that week's episode. He may have also cheated on an important qualifying exam for his career.”

“The Kobayashi Maru,” Kirk said to himself.

“Does that sound at all familiar? And while you spent all day trying to get into Nyota's pants, Kirk had sex with Shirley in a supply closet.”

“Go, Shirley!” Britta hollered, raising her hand for a high five that she would never receive.

“See, the strong black woman of the sixties was there to be looked at but was never a viable romantic interest. Shirley is allowed to have a life outside of being a competent worker, role model, and credit to her race. Don't believe me? Kirk look at Shirley.” The study group blinked and rubbed their eyes. Pierce took off his glasses to clean them. “Now look at Nyota. See? Shirley appears in soft focus because she's an ingenue. Progress.”

“This is really nice and everything,” Troy said, grabbing Abed's sleeve and pulling him close, “but I'm still bleeding from my eye!”

“In a minute, buddy. I'm making my Character Filibuster.” Troy let go, and Abed crossed the room to Britta's partner. “Pavel, was it?” He ran his hand through Pavel's mop top. “So young and ambitious. Always one to toe the line, yet quick to temper. I bet you're a big hit with ladies watching at home.” He cupped Pavel's cheek. “I can understand why you'd want to hide it. Your captain has been known to be critical of religion and a sixties audience couldn't handle a Russian Jew.” He glanced at Annie. “Do you see where I'm going with this?”

Annie squeaked.

“The Jewish fanservice, ingenue, Hermiones. One and the same. You guys should hang out. If you don't end up killing each other.”

Abed left the shellshocked Annie and Pavel, and held a pantomime rapier to Troy's partner's neck, in the other hand, he aimed an invisible paintball gun at Chang. “The two of you are reckless thrill seekers who are so rapped up in their own fantasies that you ought to be institutionalized. Fortunately, you found the future navy and you have rediscovered organized religion.” He cocked the paintball gun and fired. “Boom.”

Chang wasn't as fazed as Annie. “Just because we're both Asian—”

“That's the beautiful thing. It is just because you're both Asian. We're all just racial stereotypes moving through time.”

“You're mad,” Duncan and Pierce's partner, that Scottish guy, said at once earning incredulous looks from both.

“The Alcoholic Acceptable Target Ethnic Scrappy,” Abed explained. “Moved slightly southward in terms of geography.” He clasped McCoy on the shoulder. “I thought you were Pierce, being the old guy who says really offensive stuff, but then I got to thinking. That's not you. You're the well-meaning cultural imperialist ready to run in and save the less enlightened. The heart of the group. You're Britta. Sorry.”

“Do me next!” Pierce requested, followed with a quick, “No homo.”

“You're the dead guy.”

“What? No. Everyone got to be somebody cool. Let me be that guy—the alien. Hell, I'll be the black guy.”

Abed shook his head. “You're the Red Shirt. Over the past season and a half, you've shown a remarkable capacity for incompetence and getting yourself injured.”

“Screw you. I'm not playing any more.” Pierce walked away... right into the wall. “That doesn't prove anything!”

“Pierce,” Jeff said. “Just... sit down before you hurt yourself.”

“You never let me have any fun,” Pierce grumbled as he took a seat at the study table.

“And you,” Abed said, walking over to the alien. “You're special.”

The alien stood up and stepped toward Abed. “As are you.”

Abed ran his thumb over the alien's eyebrow. “A child of two worlds.”

The alien—Spock, Abed learned through telepathic contact—grasped Abed's other hand. “A distant father who disapproves of your life path.”

Abed stroked Spock's ear. “A mother who you can never be close to.”

Spock entwined their fingers. “An outsider who can only make sense of his universe through instructive texts.”

Abed leaned in. “I would totally make out with you if you hadn't thrown up earlier.”

Spock looked at their hands. “On my planet, we already are.”

“Cool.” They separated, Abed going over to Troy, and Spock stepping back so he was next to M'Benga. “Cool, cool, cool.”

“Abed,” Troy rasped. “Who am I?”

“Geoff-with-a-g. I thought it was because you're both black, but then I saw his close relationship to past-future me.” M'Benga removed a still tipsy Spock's hand from his back pocket. “You may not be a doctor, but you get to be regular cast member.”

“That was very informative,” Kirk said, glaring at M'Benga and Spock in irritation. “But we are not from the future. We can't help your friend.”

“You will though.”

“Is that a threat?” Kirk laughed.

“I do have a gun.” Abed pulled Ensign Ricky's iPhone out of his pocket. “I've also been filming you guys all day. And I know a bunch of embarrassing stuff about all of you. So, it's better for everyone involved if you just fixed Troy and left.”

Sulu stared at the wide expanse of space through the window of the observation deck. He could hear some approaching from behind him.

“Hey.” It was Chekov.

Sulu nodded.

“You usually do not like to stargaze. You said we get enough of that on shift.”

“Yeah.” He sighed. “Do you... Never mind.”


“Do you think he was right about me?”

“I think he was right about all of us.”

“That's easy for you to say; he only had nice things to say about you.”

“Da. That's true, but I don't think all that he said about you was necessarily negative.”

“He said I needed to be institutionalized.”

“Then it is very good for you that we do not have institutions anymore. That is, with the exception of those for the criminally insane.” Chekov grinned and clapped Sulu on the shoulder. “So as long you do not murder anyone, you should be fine.”

“Thanks, Pavel.”

“Any time.”

After the blood had been wiped off the table, Annie and Britta cornered Shirley in the study room. “Shirley,” Annie said hesitantly. “Are you doing okay?”

Shirley rolled her eyes. “Did Abed tell you to bookend?”

“No. Well, yeah. But we were already concerned.”

“Before you had all this righteous fury,” Britta said, “and now you're kind of... blah.”

“Are you upset because Abed said you slept with that Kirk guy? Because I think everyone knows you didn't.”

“You didn't, right?”

Shirley silently stared at the wall.

“Oh my god!” Annie gasped. “Shirley!”

“Get it, girl!” Britta whistled.

“I can't believe you—with him. You're so...”

“It don't matter what I was, Annie,” Shirley said. “I'm a fallen woman, now. Got two kids, another one on the way by a man I can't stand from a night I can't remember.”

“How could you do this to Andre?” Annie asked “I know he cheated on you but—”

Shirley laughed bitterly. “Andre left me... again.”

“For another stripper?” Britta asked.

“For Loyola.”

“I think she might moonlight at Dildopolis,” Annie remarked.

“No, Loyola Medical School. After my last ultrasound, he was 'inspired' to be an obstetrician like his father. Said he wanted to the kind of man his sons could look up to. Apparently the only way he could do this was by taking off for Chicago for four years.”

Annie and Britta hugged Shirley tightly. “I'm so sorry,” Annie mutter into Shirley's hair. “Do you think maybe this is why you were so mad at Chang earlier?”

“Nuh uh.” Shirley pushed them away. “I'm mad at Chang 'cause he's trying to steal Jesus from my baby.”

“I think you're blaming all your problems with Andre on Chang being Jewish, which, you know, is kind of what Hitler did to the Jewish Germans before,” Britta covered Annie's ears and mouthed, “the Holocaust.”

Annie slapped Britta's hands away. “I know about the Holocaust!”

Shirley hefted her enormous purse over her shoulder. “You know, I hope one day when something like this happens to you there's somebody around to compare you to Hitler.” And with that Shirley left.

“What's up her butt?”

“You did just compare her to the evilest person in human history.”

“Is it silly?” Uhura asked and downed her second scotch. “Are you sure you don't mind? This is the good stuff.”

“No. I decided I'll be laying off the stuff at least for a little while. I dinna want to end up teaching engineering at community college. Now, what were you saying?”

“Oh. Is it silly that I'm stuck on what that kid said last week?”

“No. I reckon that everyone's still a mite shook up over what happened. It's not everyday you meet yourself, unless you're the Captain, of course. And then there's the whole business of us being fictional. That could take a while to get over. Even Mr. Spock seems bothered by that one.”

“That's my problem.” She ran her finger round the edge of her glass. “I'm not worried about these grand questions of existential import. I'm worried if there's a man on this ship—or in this galaxy—who finds me worth pursuing. All this worrying makes me feel almost guilty, like I'm not being a strong, independent woman of the 23rd century. Yet sometimes, because I'm black, I feel like no one sees me as a woman at all.” She glanced up at Scotty. “I'm sorry to unload all of this on you.”

“It's alright, lass. I'm here whenever you need someone to listen.”

“Thanks.” She stood up, running her hands over the wrinkles in her skirt. “I better get going. I'll see you tomorrow.”

It took Scotty five minutes to realize that he hadn't had a drink in a week and the room still got blurry whenever Uhura came in. “I'm in trouble now,” he muttered smiling.

When Shirley walked outside the library, Chang was (of course) standing there waiting for her. “Hey.”

“I can't do this right now.” She walked on by.

“I'm sorry about Andre,” he called.

She stopped and turned. “Were you listening in on my conversations again? I told you that's creepy.”

“No. Abed told me like two months ago.”

“Andre only left last month.”

“Abed said he wanted to give me some warning.”

“Would've been nice to give me some warning,” she mumbled.

“He told me I might need to step up and go from Glorified Sperm Donor to Bumbling Dad... That's why I asked my brother for that job.”


“Shirley, I'm not gonna leave. I know you're worried that I'm gonna move on to something bigger and better, but outside the baby I don't have a lot going on in my life. And this, right now, is the best my life is every gonna get. I have nothing but years of misery and disappointment to look forward to after all this.” He looked down at his shoes. “And I know you're a lot more religious than me, but I'd like you to think about raising the baby half-Jewish. It really meant a lot to me growing up. Your minister can meet with my brother if you want.”

Shirley sighed. “Why do the nice ones always have to be batshit insane?”

“So... that's a yes?”

“That's a maybe.”

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*_* I am so impressed; not that you made a Community/TOS crossover work. In my opinion, both Community and TOS could and should be crossed over with everything. No, I'm just impressed that you made all the meta shit work (Spock and Abed is pretty obvious, butMcCoy as Britta! Mind: blown), and had a really good B-plot about Shirley and Chang (one that I liked more than the direction the show actually went?)

In conclusion: Amazeballs. And I laughed so loudly I scared my dog when Ensign Ricky shot himself with his iPhone.

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