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Seven Secrets to Success - Period Five - Wednesday, 5/20

The Danger Shop had been made up today to resemble a standard mess hall with tables and chairs and such, all in regulation gray. There was, of course, one longer table at the front where the important people would sit, and the rations machines near the door for actually obtaining one's food. As the students came in, they were ushered with a little flutter of Rimmer's fingers to sit in the smaller round tables.

"Now then, as it said on your syllabus," a corrected copy of which had not been handed out since last class, "we will be learning how to impress one's peers and superiors while in a dining setting. Off-duty communication is of the utmost importance and your invitation to the officer's table is a mark of hard work and determination well rewarded."

One that he'd only been given once, but he wasn't mentioning that.

"At each table there are menus of different foods ~~with only the names listed~~ you can request from the ration machines at the back. Once you've picked something, you will return to either a table with another classmate or, if you're feeling brave enough, the officer's table at the front where I will be sitting.

"I will be observing you all carefully throughout and critiquing you on your choices. Students, feel free to point out the smegging obvious to each other if one your classmates has missed the point of the exercise. Wexler, ~~if you're here~~, feel free to be especially scathing. We want people to learn here.

"Now get on with it! And not a word about that mess last night..."

[ocd up!]

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If you're feeling brave.

~~We don't recommend getting the roast chicken unless you like discussing aliens.~~

Pleased to have found roast chicken on the menu, Agnes ordered it and carried her plate up to the officers' table. She sat down on the opposite side of the table from Rimmer and smiled at him sweetly.

Ah, the witch. And it seemed she'd gotten herself a--

"QUAAAGAR!"

He startled out of his seat and fell off the chair, depressingly hard light at the moment as his now-aching knees reminded him.

Peering up, however, he realized it was just a roast chicken. A dead roast chicken on her plate that was not an alien out to dissect him like in his nightmares.

Grunting with the effort, Rimmer took his seat again and cleared his throat.

"Interesting--"

He cleared it again so he didn't sound like his bollocks were in a vice.

"Interesting choice, Nitt," he said with renewed confidence, or what he'd swear in a court of law was.

"Though the" swallow "skeleton within as well as the portion size may be somewhat awkward in front of a superior."

"Honestly, I was expecting a smaller portion size, and perhaps mashed potatoes or a vegetable on the side, but I just took what your machine gave me," Agnes responded politely. "I'm terribly sorry -- I didn't realize it would be so 'Quagar'."

He cleared his throat and lifted his chin.

"It's Quaagar," he told her, the barrier between his own self-delusion and the embarrassing memories quite thin, "you're missing As."

"Oh, yes, of course," Agnes replied. "I'm awfully sorry." She very quickly and skillfully carved the chicken, and then used her knife and fork to hold a piece out to Rimmer. "Would you like some?"

He winced first, then scrunched up his face in a way that did nothing fortunate for his nostrils.

"No. No thank you."

As cries of 'caaaaannibal' and the brave war chant of the valiant Quaagar warrior echoed in the back of his head. The brave war chant he'd made up. Yes.

Agnes frowned, and looked down at the piece. "I'm sorry -- still too Quaagar?"

He held himself in tight, arms against his sides. He wouldn't say it, he wouldn't say it, he wouldn't---

Smeg it, he was saying it.

"It can't be too Quaagar," and the word had very long 'a's indeed.

"It just..." and his face went into his hands, "the memories."

Agnes only broke out into a smile when she was SURE his face was thoroughly in his hands, and tried to cover it as quickly as possible.

"Oh, I know," she consoled him. "Memories of Quaagar can be quite traumatic."

He pulled his head up, his eyes quite dry.

"Do you have any idea what you're on about?"

"Well, I should think it's obvious that I'm trying to subtly help you confront the memories of Quaagar, so that you can become an even more successful leader than you already are."

Through sheer force of will, Agnes managed to keep a straight face.

His face went flat.

"You're mocking me. I can tell you're mocking me. You're mocking your superior officer. Do you realize what kind of offense that is? How many Space Corps directives you're violating right now?"

He bobbled his head back and forth as he searched back through his memories.

"For instance, Space Corps directive #1359323, which states--"

The Danger Shop computer decided to be helpful.

"Space Corps directive #1359323: Religious and/or sexual observances involving bovine live-stock that--"

"SHUT UP! SHUT UP!"

The computer, thankfully, stopped and he turned a Look on Agnes.

"You..."

Agnes did her best to look her most innocent, stood up, and saluted sharply. "Sir, I assure you I would NEVER mock you -- or otherwise in any way, shape, or form do anything to make you look foolish!"

Especially not when you make YOURSELF look foolish so often.

...her salute was like a balm over his tired, bitter, whinging heart.

"Thank you, Nitt," he said genuinely, nodding firmly.

"You can sit now."

Oh like Blair was ever intimidated in a lunchtime setting. She got herself some miso soup and sat down at the officer's table like she owned it.

Soup. Of course.

"You've just opened yourself up for an accidental slurp, cadet. And what is that? Is that lettuce in there?"

"If you can't handle something as simple as soup," Blair replied, "then the Officer's table is not nor will ever be in your future."

Not. Saying. Anything. Or he didn't for a moment.

"V-very good observation, Waldorf. Half of success is knowing that you'll achieve it. Is that all you're eating?"

"There's no need for gluttony," Blair replied.

"Of course not," he agreed, "but too little is as bad as too much. It leaves you done earlier than your superiors, which can be awkward for all involved. And pondering your soup is a sure way to look ineffectual."

He had experience with that, after all.

"I'll have to make sure to only eat with my inferiors then," Blair replied.

"An unfortunate reality for me," he said with a deep sigh.

Oh how he didn't miss the Dwarf. Or Starbug. Or any of them.

Not only was Turtle feeling brave, but she was the TA. If anyone in the class had the right to sit at the officer's table, it was her.

How else was she going to suck up from the other tables?

Either way, she wound up with something called Nutria and was kind of regretting it as she looked at it, took a seat, and decided, "I'm pretty sure this isn't kosher."

Forget that she wasn't kosher, either. It would work for a good excuse. No one could give you crap if it was a kosher thing.

Hurley sat down at the table, having ordered Gazpacho soup.

He took one sip and pulled a face. "Dude, this Gazpacho is way too hot."

"SHUT UP! SHUT-- NOW-- UP! SHUT! SHUT IT! NOT ANOTHER WORD!"

Hurley stared. "I'm serious," he said.

He cleared his throat, sat down in his seat, and tried his best to breath.

"Oh God, oh God, I'm hyperventilating. I'm hyper--"

Wait.

"No, I'm not, I'm dead."

He looked at his students.

"Forget that. Anyway." He swallowed firmly. "There is nothing wrong with hot gazpacho soup. Just-just eat it."

"...It's supposed to be cold, dude," Hurley said.

Wow, the vein in his forehead was really starting to pulse...

Hurley shut up real quick.

Rimmer grunted and seemed to get a hold of himself before walking to the ration machine, changing his jacket to a blue one, and making his way back to the officer's table with a rather large bottle of scotch.

"Don't. Ask."

"Yes sir," Hurley said.

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Seven Secrets to Success - Period Five - Wednesday, 5/20

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