Vice Admiral Quinn Reynolds - The Latest Buzz
Quinn Reynolds
((Upper vIq'mItlh City, veHrom’nagh))
The alley looked like something out of every cautionary tale; walls stretched tall on either side like the sides of a crevasse, lighting blown out, puddles of soupy rain pooling in potholes beside huge metallic bins and discarded boxes. Urban chuSwI' ¹ chittered just somewhere out of sight, occasionally darting through the rubbish gathering in every nook.
They’d found some evidence of a fight in the streets; blood spray on wall one, signs of a scuffle on another. But nothing confirming the attack had begun in the side street, and it seemed unlikely the busy street at the far end was the start. That left them with the buildings looming over them. Gates dotted the walls, leading into back areas and the even smaller side streets, which ran like capillaries between the buildings.
Reynolds: Let’s double-check these gates.
Taelon: Aye.
Quinn scanned each gate as they passed, but none showed any hint of involvement in Pak'argh’s untimely death. Coincidentally — probably coincidentally — it was the gate the older Klingon had used that was most ominous. Beyond it was an alley even more claustrophobic than the one they were in, barely more than a small gap between buildings. The space was so narrow, even rain struggled to reach the ground, catching on every projection mounted on the walls.
Sevo: That place makes this alley look positively bright.
Taelon: Mmm.
That was the extent of his commentary, and he remained quiet while Sevo inspected the old, rusted gate. Once a robust piece of metalwork, it was now so compromised Quinn thought even she could brute force it open if she had to. Her tricorder trilled, and she darted a glance down to see what it had found.
Sevo: It’s not locked.
Reynolds: And there are traces of fresh blood on the pickets near the handle, ::she gestured toward the vertical steel rods of the gate, quickly taking a sample for analysis.:: Looks like we’re on the right track.
Sevo: What do you think? Left or right?
Despite Sevo’s best efforts to open the gate quietly, it let out a rusted screech of protest when she moved it. The alley itself led to a dead end, with a thoroughly defaced reclamator clinging to life at the terminus, operational lights barely peeking through the graffiti. Two doors sat on opposite walls, plain and unadorned, with only small signs to indicate what lay beyond. Two businesses: on the left, Klag’s Clothiers; on the right, the Gob Fly.
The Gob Fly? She tapped on her tricorder, searching the colony’s business directories.
Sevo: What do you think? Left or right?
Taelon: ::He gestured to each sign.:: I suppose it’s best to check both, but — what do we know about our victim? Was he — are these places he could have frequented, or — was he not supposed to be here?
Reynolds: He could have frequented them, yes. From what he was wearing, he cared about clothes. Meanwhile, the Gob Fly is a satirical publication and quite a popular one at that. ::She huffed a soft sound, reading off the screen.:: “Bringing you the latest buzz.”
Sevo: Response
Taelon: Um, just thinking that — if you intended to kill someone, and knew their schedule, this is…not a bad place to ambush them as they leave somewhere they’re not supposed to be. They likely wouldn’t have guards with them…and the owners would look the other way, I think?
Reynolds: It is a good ambush spot. ::She nodded.:: Although if this is the place, presumably it didn’t work as our ambusher intended. Perhaps the owners didn’t look the other way and that’s what helped him escape?
Sevo: Response
Taelon was quiet for a moment, his gaze falling on the sign for the clothier. It looked a little fancier than the publisher’s, a little embellishment around the edges, although that wasn’t saying much. Both signs were marking the private back entrances of the building, rather than trying to stand out to shoppers on a busy street, and were small and utilitarian.
Taelon: My, um, my gut says — ::He pointed to the Clothiers’ sign, which compared to much of the text written around them, was relatively elegant.:: That one.
Quinn glanced between the two signs. Someone of Pak'argh’s status would only need to sneak in and out of places that could bring him or his house harm. But on the face of it, both businesses appeared reputable. Even if they were fronts for something disreputable, that was the point of a front—to present a mundane and lawful face to the world. Hell, the organisations she’d dealt with would have pushed him through the front door and barred the back. A person of high status as a client only added more legitimacy to their charade.
Unless perhaps he didn’t want to be associated with what the Gob Fly was publishing? If he was providing information to a publication joyously lampooning the upper echelons of the colony, including his uncle, he might want to keep that quiet. Else he could be fending off duels and feuds for the rest of his days.
Reynolds: I don’t—
A sound caught her ear. It wasn’t the scuttling of rodent feet, nor their irritating chitters. It was a soft, dull thump and a low groan sounding from humanoid vocal cords. She lifted her tricorder, spared the results a glance, and stepped toward the Gob Fly’s back door.
Reynolds: Phasers.
After giving the pair the seconds they needed to draw and ready their weapons, she grasped the door handle and threw it open, taking care to stay to the side. Her caution proved unnecessary; a Klingon woman slumped through the doorway and nosedived straight onto the trash-laden ground, face submerged in a puddle of filthy water. It took some effort to roll the tall and muscular woman onto her back, and Quinn stifled a gasp when they did.
It looked as though she had just stumbled out of a battlefield and not the back door of an office building. The bubbling rattle of breath through her lungs didn’t fill Quinn with confidence, and she quickly barked out a command for her communicator.
Reynolds: =/\= Reynolds to Gorkon, I need a medical officer at my location now. We have a seriously injured civilian in need of aid. =/\=
V’Lar: =/\= Response =/\=
Sevo / Taelon: Response
Quinn wasn’t sure how much time passed in the subsequent moments. It felt like forever and an instant, all at the same time. None of them had brought a medical kit—why would they, the person they were originally there for was already dead—and so their aid was the most basic. Hands clasped over one of the woman’s many wounds, blood seeped between her fingers with disconcerting warmth. Rarely had she been so relieved to hear the sound of materialisation, and she looked up to see the Vulcan deposited a few metres away.
Reynolds: We just found her. ::V’Lar must have barely had time to set her luggage down, but there was no helping that.:: Can you stablise her for transport to the Gorkon?
Sevo / V’Lar / Taelon: Response
The Klingon’s eyes fluttered open, and she grasped at Quinn, fist balling around the leatherette material of her jacket. With surprising strength, giving her fading condition, she yanked the hybrid closer and rasped in staccato breaths.
Vilkalla: He wasn’t— ::She coughed, purple flecking her lips, determination set in her clouding eyes:: He wasn’t the first. He was the one you noticed. The circle... must not... close....
Sevo / V’Lar / Taelon: Response
The woman’s eyes rolled back into her head. Fingers limp, her hand fell back to the ground, and Quinn couldn’t tell if she had slipped out of consciousness or the mortal realm. Had they been too late, or was there still hope for the woman, whoever she was? Her hazel eyes shifted toward V’Lar for a moment, and then past her, toward the doorway the Klingon had fallen through. It seemed they might have discovered where the attack started, but what had happened in there?
Sevo / V’Lar / Taelon: Response
¹ chuSwI': A kind of Klingon rodent native to Qo'noS and known for the irritating sound they make.
Commanding Officer
USS Gorkon
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