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The club was electric. People of all sorts meeting and dancing, trying to enjoy life amidst a recession. It was 2012, and the fact that the world may end left everyone full of a frantic energy usually only found in believers of the rapture.
The crew of the USS Enterprise entered the location. For some reason, Taylor Swift played.
“How did anyone ever dance to this sort of thing?” Lieutenant Sulu wondered aloud, outfitted in an ironic t-shirt and skinny jeans.
“No clue”, Chekov said to his left. “Not when at this point they already had Boney M”. He takes a shot of Russian vodka, the raw essence of Slavic patriotism coming off his small frame in waves.
“You only say that because they sing Rasputin”.
“Gentlemen”, the Captain said, “Save the music discussion for another time. We must find Dr McCoy. Before something awful happens…”. He himself wore a flannel that highlighted the broadness of his shoulders and trim nature of his waist. Something about hipsters. He somehow smelled of coffee even at the club.
“If I may, Captain”, Spock said beside him. His clothes(including a beanie) allegedly all came from a place called American Apparel. This decade was beyond him. “I believe if we can get closer to the “photobooth”, we will have a better vantage point to find the doctor with”.
“Good thinking”, Commander Scott said, walking up from behind. He held a mostly empty glass. Everyone politely didn’t comment because the only place where alcoholism is more normalized than the past is the future.
They made their way to the photobooth as a group of 6. The stylings of historical artist Armando Christian Perez pounded overhead.
In line for the photo booth, Chekov, Sulu, and Uhura observed the props for photos. At least 5 sizes of mustaches, 2 different giant glasses, along with more wigs than were likely intended for use laid out. Chekov reached for one such wig, only to have his hand slapped away with a glare from Uhura.
Once they reached the front of the line, everyone but Spock gathered for photos. At the photographer’s questioning look, Kirk shrugged. “He’s shy. Just us 5”.
Spock raised his tricorder, appraising the results.
Putting his mustache accessory down, Kirk turned back to Spock. “Anything?”
“Yes”, Spock said, staring over the crowd. “He is somewhere backstage. We must reach him”.
Weaving through drunken millennials, they reach the backstage. Very woefully protected backstage. A simple nerve pinch to the college student that guarded the door and they all moved through.
Entering the backstage area, they weaved through curtains and racks of clothes. They heard voices speaking in one particular dressing room, with a particular laugh.
“It’s him”, Kirk whispered. “Chekov, Sulu, keep watch. Uhura, find somewhere with ‘service’ and monitor communications. Scotty…”. No such engineer in sight. “Probably at the bar. Alright. Spock, we enter together”.
Cautiously opening the door, Kirk and Spock peered in. Inside there was no nudity, but rather a group of guys sat around a sofa. Among them, the doctor.
“Bones!” Kirk exclaimed, entering. “There you are!”
The men looked at him with some confusion. McCoy sighed. “Jim, what are you doing here?”
“Saving you? You ran off half-mad!”
“That may be true, but I’ve found my head”, he looked around to the other guys, all quite young looking, “And my life’s purpose”.
“Wha-” Kirk is interrupted by Spock’s hand on his shoulder. He turned with confusion.
“I believe these are the members of the 21st century classical band ‘One Direction’”.
“Ah”, Kirk said. He looked back at the group. “Bones, you can’t join One Direction!”
“Why not?” McCoy replied defiantly, crossing his arms. “I have a place here”.
“Yeah, he’s actually pretty solid”, one of the British boys said.
“Easy for you to say, Liam, you’re the weakest link!” Kirk said, irritated. He turned back to McCoy. “You’re in the wrong time”.
“Well, maybe I was born in the wrong generation!”
“You were not!”
Spock stepped forward. “Doctor, no matter what you may think now, you will come to regret this. You know the future of this band. You once spoke of your enjoyment for this group, but by being here, you risk their existence. Is that what you want to do?”
McCoy retorts, crossing his arms, “Maybe with me here, they won’t-”
“Future information!” Kirk interrupts. He puts his hands on his hips. “Look, you know you can’t stay. Staying won’t make Zayn Malik fall in love with you—you’re too old anyway.”
“Oh and you think he’ll sleep with you”
Kirk huffed. “Well, maybe! In a few years! But I’m not staying a few years. Staying will only bring harm. It won’t change the future for the better”.
“What about the… thing? With Iam-le?” the doctor indiscreetly nodded in the direction of the man.
“If that event does not occur, Donald Trump becomes the supreme dictator of America, ensuring our future’s disappearance”, Spock said.
“How the hell…”
“The order of events is rather obtuse, something involving what the people of the near future called ‘NFT’s. I can elaborate, but I believe that would be a waste of time”.
“Wait!” someone who was probably Harry but looked too much like the others to tell. “You can’t take Leonard. He brings the razzle dazzle!”
“See!” McCoy exclaimed.
Kirk walked up to the couch and put his hands on his knees, crouching to eye level with Harry Styles. “Listen. Would you accept it if we sold someone to you instead? That won’t make sense to you right now, but one day you will get it. Believe me”.
Harry seemed to think it over before Liam cut in. “Deal!”
Kirk stood up and called out. “Chekov, get in here!”
“What is it, Keptin?” Chekov asked, strolling in. “Oh my! Zayn Malik! And the others!”
“Go sit with them. Bones, come with us”.
McCoy grumbles but stands up anyway, waving his pals goodbye. He sulked out of the room by Spock. On his way out, Kirk turned and blew a kiss, “Bye, don’t let racial prejudice of the 21st century get you down, Zayn”.
Zayn, not having spoken the whole time, blinked. He glanced at the spot next to him that the young Russian now occupied. “I feel so loved”, he whispered to himself.