Curiosity

Posted on Tue Feb 19th, 2019 @ 6:49pm by Lieutenant Commander Mnhei'sahe Dox & Commander Rita Paris

Mission: Recovery Trek
Location: DS9
Timeline: 2396

The promenade of the space station, Deep Space 9 was particularly busy this evening. Both crewmembers of the U.S.S. Hera, as well as the offboarding evacuees of Starbase 336, were making their way through the station and the station was near capacity.

The evacuees consisted of refugees and staff from the clandestine starbase, saved from destruction at the hands of the god, Odin, by the crew of the Hera, and they were all eager to return to their own homes. This group consisted of a significant portion of Romulan personnel, and on some level that might have influenced Lieutenant Mnhei'sahe Dox to disembark from the Hera for a drink that evening.

The young Starfleet pilot was, among other things, Romulan herself. But one far removed from the Star Empire or their culture. But she was also curious enough to push back against her own social anxiety enough to at least leave the ship for a drink to at least observe her own people in the proverbial wild. As such, she found herself with a work PaDD, pretending to read while people watching at a far table of the bar on the Promenade of DS9, nursing her fourth glass of Kali-Fal.

She was curious, but still too anxious to actually engage in open conversation, so she sat quietly, watching people come and go, so far disappointed by the lack of any of the Romulan personnel. She had been there for a little over an hour while watching half of the galaxy pass by but was beginning to get bored. And considering that she now had someone to go home too that was likely waiting, she prepared to finish her drink and return to the Hera.

Which was when a pair of Romulan officers entered the bar together, a male and a female. Approaching the bar, they took in the sights around them with quick cursory scans. The male raised an eyebrow at the redheaded ‘vulcan’ expressionlessly observing the press of people parading through who looked as though they were enjoying a kali-fal, but which surely was just some sythehol or another boring Vulcan drink.

Stepping to the bar, the female asked the Ferengi bartender if they carried a decent vintage of Romulan Ale, and if he had some that was not watered down past the point of being flavorless.

“I can see you are a woman of taste with a discriminating palette,” the sharp-eyed bartender observed before pulling out from beneath the bar a dusty bottle with elegant filigree. “I believe this might be up to your standards… IF you have the latinum for it.”

The female officer, who Dox recognized the rank on her collar as a subcommander, tossed a bar of latinum on the bar, which made the bartender’s eyes light up. “I’ll let you know when your credit runs out,” he offered with what was supposed to be an ingratiating smile, as he filled two tumblers with two finger’s worth of the pale blue liquid- the proper pour for such a drink.

As the duo took their glasses, they raised them to one another, then sipped cautiously, savoring the flavor.

From across the bar, Dox smiled ever so slightly. As a former smuggler who traded regularly in what the rest of the galaxy called Romulan Ale, she knew that the bar's supply was middling at best. But she watched for their reaction, and was not disappointed when they both made a face at the quality and quaffed the entirety of the glass. After all, if you were looking for the kali-fal kick, you would need to drink this a bit faster. And given the refugee status of the Romulan officers from Starbase 336, it was clear these two were looking to unwind.

For her part, Dox had already downed enough glasses of the blue alcohol to have a little more influence over the anxiety that lived in the pit of her stomach, and she decided to push herself out of her comfort zone. She looked up taking another sip and commented to the pair in Rihan with a nervous grin, "It's not top shelf, but it gets the job done."

While initially, the duo of Rihannsu had overlooked the redheaded Romulan, assuming from the Starfleet uniform and the lack of outward expression that she was just an odd Vulcan. Being spoken to in their native tongue by someone with a grin on their face was thoroughly unexpected, as witnessed by the exchange of surprised expressions they shared. Collecting their refills, the two approached dox’s table, the male lagging behind and watching the environs as the female spoke in fluent Romulan with a touch of a northern accent.

“Who are you, to be so free with critiques of our cultural drink, Starfleet?” the Romulan subcommander asked archly. Bluff and haughtiness was usually the first fallback of Romulans with strangers, as they were accustomed to being confronted in mixed space.

When she was still a smuggler, Dox had encountered many a haughty Romulan, but it had been over 15 years now. Nevertheless, the mannerisms were exceedingly familiar to the young pilot as she replied. "One of our cultural drinks. Lehe'jhme wine is stronger, but they're out of stock."

Taking another sip, she put her PaDD on the table and introduced herself. "Lieutenant Mnhei'sahe Dox, U.S.S. Hera."

That got her a cocked eyebrow, a slight head tilt, and a small smile. “Ah. The Federation latecomers to the battle, who handed the entire station over to unaffiliated parties, causing a year of research to be completely wasted. Of course. Subcommander Miral T‘henie’sahe, formerly an attache to Starbase 336.”

Leaning in, the taller male introduced himself as well. “Centurion Augustus Rikal. Given that I was nearly cut in half by the invading warrior women, I’m going to add a ‘thank you’ to that, as otherwise we both likely would have ended up in bloody chunks on the deck.” His grin was casual and easygoing, which usually meant they were now engaging in the traditional ‘good Romulan, bad Romulan’ act that was encouraged when working in pairs. Some things, it seemed, never changed.

Skipping over the subcommander's mild consternation, Dox instead replied to the latter statements first. "You're quite welcome. We come when called and do what we can." It was a thinly veiled comment at the expenses of the fact that the station itself never called for aid and, in fact, tried to reject it mid-battle to protect its secrets.

“I can’t quite place your accent. From what province do you hail? The Centurion asked, pressing the conversation while the Subcommander hung back and observed the subtleties of the interaction, watching Dox’ body language, hands, eyes and the nonverbal cues that taught so much of one knew to watch for it… which most Romulans were trained in from birth, while learning to conceal or mislead with their own reactions.

It was a question Dox had answered most of her life with the trained lie her mother drilled into her for years. "The Nequencia colony, actually." It was a trade port on the edge of the Klingon border that was a cultural melting pot for Rhinassu people where the muddy accent of a space brat would go unnoticed.

At that, the centurion brightened up. “Wow, small universe! Were you from upper ward or lower ward?” he asked, which was a trap- there were no upper and lower wards, instead, the compass directions were the quadrants of the colony. Despite the Centurion’s cheer, he was interrogating her while the superior officer observed. There was no openness, no trust whatsoever- just suspicion and subtle lies designed to coerce information. Next would come some seemingly innocent questions about the great black-hulled starship docked at the station.

Without missing a beat, Dox replied. "Southwest Provence. New Bator district." She and her mother had spent enough time in the colony doing business that Dox could probably still remember some of the alleys she'd played in. "You?"

In spite of herself, she was actually enjoying the whole process. And if anything, it was good to flex the old muscles again. Her mother would be proud.

“Just south of Northport, one of the big dwelling centers where the sounds from the big landing field would vibrate our windows all the time,” the centurion joked. That his lie had been countered did not even faze him as he pressed on with the conversation. After all, in the Tal Shiar dominated Romulan society, one was practically expected to lie.

“So why Starfleet?” the subcommander asked, changing the topic to keep Dox on the defensive so that her partner’s less invasive and innocuous question might slip through.

Deciding that she had no need to bother with subterfuge, Dox took a drink and answered plainly with a light smile. "Because I believe in it.”

The Subcommander ‘s eyes flickered slightly, a sure sign that she immediately dismissed the answer as a deflection, while the Centurion pressed on. “So what about the Federation holds so much appeal? And clearly you must be doing well to be assigned to a Starfleet intel ship?”

Ignoring the obvious statement to learn more about the Hera, Dox instead answered the first question in greater detail.."The Federation elevates. Explores. Learns. Teaches. In Starfleet, you can be more because Starfleet is more." There was an unspoken implication in her words that lingered as she gestured with her empty glass to the bartender.

"What of the glory of the Star Empire? The drive for conquest? All you do is go make friends in the Federation. You are no military wing of the Al'thindor... you are talkers. Talk, talk, talk," the subcommander offered dismissively.

"I've seen more done with that talk than I've ever seen accomplished with weapons, Subcommander. Yes, we make friends. And those friends make more friends. And all of those friends, we lift each other up together. We become a part of something bigger than any Empire could ever be." Dox replied as a young Ferengi brought a fresh drink over.

Taking a sip, Dox continued. "Conquerors tell you what can't be done. Friends... They help you do anything."

The Centurion was listening intently, and Mnhei'sahe saw the light go on behind his eyes as he did his best to penetrate the lie she was telling, only to realize she was telling the truth. That the Federation really was that promise of a hand up to all that it proclaimed, and that the life of backstabbing and Machiavellian scheming that life in the glorious Star Empire had been reduced to was far, far less appealing then what the little lieutenant had so succinctly described.

Which was made that much more evident when the Subcommander kicked the Centurion under the table to prompt him. "Ah, yes, that does certainly sound appealing. It really does," he repeated, realizing that he was being a bit too honest, and Centurion Augustus Rikal forcibly put his head back in the game again. "So where are you bound from here?"

A smile creaked across Dox's face as she took another drink, reading the Centurion's expression. "Wherever we're needed next, I suppose. That's how the trade works. That's what Starfleet is for. And you?"

"Ugh. Debriefing for however-" the centurion began, but the subcommander interrupted him.

"WE will go where we can best serve the advancement of the Star Empire next," Subcommander Miral T‘henie’sahe interjected, obviously irritated with her subordinate.

Raising her glass up to the two Romulan officers, Dox smiled. "Then here's to hoping that that advancement... advances in a direction that allows more conversations like this. To making friends."

The red-headed Romulan Starfleet pilot took a drink as she realized that her toast would likely irritate the Subcommander, but maybe inspire the Centurion. Stranger things have happened, but said a lot about just what talking could accomplish.