Thank Q Very Much
Posted on Sun Jan 11th, 2026 @ 9:44pm by Commander Donald ‘Don’ Key
646 words; about a 3 minute read
Mission:
A Fondness For
Location: USS Albion
Timeline: Present
:ON:
{The next morning. USS Albion, senior staff briefing room}
A tribble sits in the center of the table.
No one is sure how it got there.
DON stares at it.
DON: …Sir. Permission to panic?
DICK: Denied. We’ve panicked about fuzzier things.
The tribble chirrs happily, vibrating like it’s humming the TOS theme.
ANDREWS: Sensors show no life-sign anomalies.
JULIUS: It is biologically improbable and narratively suspicious.
DON: That’s exactly what they said before K-7.
FLORIAN: Should I… pet it?
DICK: No one pets anything until we confirm it isn’t a metaphor.
The tribble multiplies.
There are now three.
DON: Oh come on. We just got out of a metaphor.
ANDREWS: Captain, Starfleet protocol—
DICK: —says to call Security, Quarantine, and a man named Scotty who insists he warned us.
The door hisses open.
SECURITY ENSIGN (redshirt, nervous): Sir! We found these in Jefferies Tube—
The tribble avalanche pours in behind him.
DICK: …Ensign?
ENSIGN: Yes, sir?
DICK: Run.
The ensign runs. He survives. Everyone looks mildly disappointed.
{Moments later. Bridge}
The bridge is full of tribbles. Consoles beep under fur. The captain’s chair is no longer visible.
DON is standing on his helm, clutching the rail.
DON: Helm control is compromised by… enthusiasm.
ANDREWS: Engineering reports the warp core is stable.
DICK: For now.
ANDREWS: Scotty’s log says that’s usually when you say that.
JULIUS: Captain. Incoming transmission.
DICK: Put it through.
Admiral Yoshimeyer appears on the viewscreen, rubbing his temples like a man who has seen too much and promoted too fast.
YOSHIMEYER: Sprague.
DICK: Admiral.
YOSHIMEYER: Temporal Investigations called. Again.
DON: That fast?
YOSHIMEYER: They said—and I quote—“The universe flinched.”
DICK: In our defense, sir—
YOSHIMEYER: —there are tribbles in my office, Captain.
DICK looks down. A tribble squeaks indignantly.
DICK: …Requesting guidance.
YOSHIMEYER: Fine. Do what Kirk did.
DON: Sir, with respect, that narrows nothing.
YOSHIMEYER: Then do what Picard would do.
DON: That narrows it to speeches.
YOSHIMEYER: Or what Janeway did.
DICK: Absolutely not.
YOSHIMEYER: Good. Contain it. Clean it up. No time travel, no gods, no courtroom dramas.
DON: …Define “gods.”
YOSHIMEYER: Q doesn’t count. He never does.
The screen cuts.
Silence.
Then—
Q appears sitting on a pile of tribbles, like a throne.
Q: Oh, don’t stop on my account.
DON: WHY ARE YOU LIKE THIS?
Q: I brought snacks.
The tribbles purr louder.
DICK: Q. Fix this.
Q: Fix? This is adorable. Look at them. They’re like causality with fur.
DICK stands, channels his best Picard stance, gestures broadly—
—and trips over a tribble, falling flat on his back.
DON: Sir!
DICK (from the floor): I was building to something.
Q laughs.
Q: Oh, Dick. You are terrible at this. That’s why you’re interesting.
He snaps his fingers.
The tribbles vanish.
Everywhere.
One remains. On the captain’s chair.
Q pauses.
Q: …I’m keeping that one.
He vanishes.
The bridge is quiet.
DON slowly climbs down.
DON: …Sir?
DICK sits up, straightens his uniform.
DICK: Yes, Don?
DON: Did we just pass another test?
DICK: If we did, I want it noted that we passed it lying down.
JULIUS: Captain. Chronal sensors indicate reality has resumed its baseline irritation.
ANDREWS: No anomalies.
DON: No fuzz.
DICK: Excellent.
He settles into the chair.
A soft purr.
DICK freezes.
DON: Sir?
DICK: …Don?
DON: Yes, sir?
DICK: Don’t move.
DON looks down.
The last tribble is sitting on the arm of the chair, gazing up at the captain.
DON: Sir, if it helps—Kirk named one once.
DICK: Of course he did.
The tribble chirps.
DICK sighs.
DICK: Fine. Log it as… morale.
DON smiles.
DON: Aye, sir.
The Albion goes to warp.
Somewhere, a file is stamped “UNRESOLVED BUT ACCEPTABLE.”
:OFF:
Commander Donald ‘Don’ Key
Chief Flight Control Officer
USS Albion
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