Lt.Cmdr Orson "Bear" Marshall - Beware the Grav Well
Jo Marshall
((The Grav Well, Sunder Peak, Nassau))
The Grav Well was a bar like no other on Nassau—a place where the air held differently, where the pull of gravity shifted depending on how the asteroid felt. Depending on the asteroid's cosmic mood swing, one might float out of their seat or feel like they were being gently pressed into the upholstery by a well-meaning but overly affectionate sumo wrestler. Orson Marshall—Bear to his short list of curated friends—was not a fan. He hated the floaty feeling that came when he dared lean back. And then, on the other side of the bar, gravity was as heavy as the despair weighing down most of its patrons.
He hated that side too, mostly because it made standing up feel like a competitive sport.
And yet, this was the place he'd come back to. No one paid him much attention. He knew how to blend in.
The light flickered above his booth, sputtering and dying as Bear leaned forward, the heavy weight in his chest sinking deeper into his gut. Another brownout, just like everywhere else on the rock. He let out a long, frustrated breath through his nose, and watched as the low murmur of patrons filled the darkness with whispers and muffled conversations. A motley collection of beings who had learned to ignore the mild inconveniences with resignation, irritation, and the vague hope that someone else would fix it.
Nassau had changed in this timeline. It wasn't the base of thieves and pirates, and those that practised a creative interpretation of personal property laws, that it used to be. Now it was worse. The survivors of the Borg had turned it into a last, desperate refuge, and Nassau had opened up those doors. People there weren't just fighting for territory or latinum—every breath was a battle, a singular act of defiance against a galactic enemy that seemed quite determined to make breathing optional across the board.
Bear sipped the cheap, bitter liquor that passed for a drink. It burned on the way down, and briefly on the way back up, but not enough to dull the headache that had built steadily since their arrival in this Prophet-forsaken timeline. Something about the place pressed down on his shoulders, as if the weight of a thousand poor decisions was slowly catching up. He glanced around the Grav Well, blue eyes narrowing as he scanned the room, searching for familiar faces among the refugees drowning their many, and varied, collective sorrows. Searching for one face in particular he hoped he wouldn't find.
To his left, a group of scavengers hunched over a table, laughing quietly as they passed around a set of chips. Isolinear, by the colour. Stocked with data, probably stolen from the scrapped ships scattering in orbit. On his right, a shadowy figure was deep in conversation with a bartender whose species Bear couldn’t quite place. One of the few people in Nassau who could get anyone off-world for the right price. Not that many people were in a rush to leave the safety of Ma no Umi.
His gaze drifted to the centre of the bar, where the gravity sat at it's heaviest. A pair of hulking figures—ex-militia, possible Klingon Defence Force, judging by their tattered uniforms—sat at one of the central tables, heads bent low in discussion. One of them caught Bear's eye, and for a brief moment, the two men locked gazes. Bear's hand twitched instinctively towards the comforting weight of his phaser tucked inside his jacket. The man held the stare a beat longer, then looked away.
Had the jump into another timeline made him more paranoid than usual?
Sienelis: Response
The voice that broke through the murmurs was familiar, sharp, and full of the promise of sarcasm that could carve a mountain. Bear glanced up to see Vee, his partner in quite literal crime, slipping into the booth across from him.
O. Marshall: Place is going to hell faster than a warp core breach.
Sienelis: Response
He pushed the drink of choice across the booth table toward her, and gestured with an open palm for his Romulan friend to sample the wares of the wonderland that was the Grav Well. His fingers scratched at the week-old stubble on his chin as he took stock of her then exhaled a breath through his nose.
O. Marshall: Try that. It's like distilled regret in liquid form.
Sienelis: Response
O. Marshall: No one knows. Best guess so far is pre-Dominion war Cardassian canar filtered through a dilithium chamber. You might get a discounted round if you tell them you're the Romulan ambassador.
Sienelis: Response
With a gruff grunt containing all the grizzly Bear could muster, he poked tired fingertips and a thumb into his tired eye sockets, and dropped his voice.
O. Marshall: We're in a bar where the chairs have personalities, and surrounded by a crowd that smells like the contents of the Sevo-Stoyer holodeck filters. ::Folding his arms, his brow furrowed as he looked over the booth table at her.:: How's the family?
Sienelis: Response
–
Lt.Cmdr Orson "Bear" Marshall
Intelligence Officer
USS Gorkon
G239304JM0