LtCmdr T'Lea - Because revenge.
doggybunbun
((OOC 1: This takes place after the Mega-Deck shenanigans.))
((OOC 2: Just a warning for the squeamish. Violence and blood ensue. For those who like violence and blood, this isn't very gory. You may be disappointed.))
((OOC 3: Haha made you look! ;] ))
Previously on Star Trek Juneau:
JP Lt. Cmdr's T'Lea & Indobri - Kidnapped! Part 1 (google.com)
JP LtCmdr's T'Lea and Indobri - Kidnapped! Part 5 (google.com)
((Lightside Station – The Hollows))
Every city, every planet, every ship, and every station had secret places where criminal activity congregated. Lightside station was no different. The dishonest, degenerate, and rejected population that lived and passed through the Spike often conducted their seedy business in the forgotten bowels of the lower decks. Deep in the abandoned catacombs of the station an intricate black-market syndicate operated in what was secretly known as The Hollows. Drugs dealers, hookers, smugglers, thieves and characters of lesser morals passed through at random intervals looking for opportunity and sometimes just hiding out until it was safe to resurface.
The Hollows were the ideal place for predators to do what they did best. Hunt.
Stalking those uncivil tunnels tonight was a tall, dark haired Bajoran woman named Valar Enar. She was a freighter Captain that frequented the Spike, and she was a returning customer that enjoyed the weekly fights in the Blood Bowl.
The Blood Bowl was held in the strange sunken depression of a lower deck. It had high arching sides and a gentle sloping belly. The oddly shaped plating formed a contained arena where opponents could face each other without too much crowd interference from above. The name, Blood Bowl, was born out of exactly what it produced -- blood and other bodily fluids that were known to pool at the center of the pit.
By the excited sound of the small crowd of gamblers tonight’s fight was reaching a crescendo. Valar pushed her way through to the guard rail surrounding the pit and watched as a massive, green skinned Orion known as Colossus, blocked, and then punched the smaller female opponent, sending her staggering back. The true identities of the fighters were concealed by masks, but the Bajoran knew the person behind at least one thin veil. It was why she was here. To hunt her prey.
The collective “aw” of shock echoed off the metal alcove as the small female fighter hit the deck hard, and then slid down the side of the bowl in a smear of her own green blood. For many attending the fight this was a big disappointment. The smaller woman was a newcomer to the scene, and the night before she had defeated the Zombie. The Zombie was a Betazoid that fought telepathically as well as physically. He’d earned the name for mentally munching on his opponents thoughts during a fight, but last night he’d bit off more than he could chew with this small female fighter. She’d given the Zombie exactly what he had wanted mentally and he couldn’t handle it. Her emotional sewage had turned him into a blundering, blubbering wreck. The knock-out he’d received had been an act of kindness on her part.
It had been two fights on back-to-back nights. And it was no wonder that the small female fighter was taking a beating tonight, this being her third time in the ring.
The Bajoran freighter Captain frowned with concern as Colossus dragged his opponent by her ankle back to the center of the pit. He turned and egged-on the crowd for more attention. He loved to showboat. Once he fulfilled his emotional need for adoration he stomped the groggy fighter as she lay on the deck. She curled into a ball and rolled on her side in pain. She made no effort to get up.
It was over. The fight was over. That was the consensus of whispers running through the crowd. But one rule had to be met before it was truly over -- the knock-out. It was the only rule. Nothing more, nothing less. No tap-outs. No rest. No referees. No holds-barred and no mercy until a body was unconscious on the ground. The only thing to be avoided at all costs was death, because dead bodies and missing people would inevitably lead the authorities to this criminal refuge.
The Orion huffed and puffed, feeling the weight of his heavy stature slow him down considerably now. Forty-five minutes of non-stop, bare-knuckle brawling had severely depleted both fighters. But that was fine because Colossus knew this fight was his. He just needed to end it fast, for his sake. With his bloodied, raw hand he reached down and lifted his opponent up by her shirt, and then wrenched his muscular arm back for the finishing move – a pounding smash to the top of the head that would compress the spine and render a jolting K.O. It was all so very routine for him. Boring enough that he had considered changing up his grand finale styling.
Suddenly, the routine changed for him. In a sharp flash Colossus realized his mistake with a pitiful blink. Was it possible the female had been playing with him… waiting for this very moment? Waiting for this vulnerable opening to strike?
He tried to move his arm to perform his signature move, but he couldn’t. He tried to move his legs, but he couldn’t. The dangling woman had delivered one tiny, quick two fingered strike to a cluster of nerves located in his exposed armpit and, voila, he was paralyzed. His whole body locked up like a big green statue. Panic darted through his eyes, (it was the only part of him that could move voluntarily).
The people in the crowd exchanged confused looks and murmurs. Valar merely smiled in anticipation.
The small female fighter peeled herself out of the Orion’s fingers and landed wobbly on her feet. She took a selfish moment to gather her wits, muster her strength, and bolster the shift in momentum. Counting the seconds in her head before paralysis ceased, she walked away from the petrified Orion tree.
Disappointment rippled through the mob. They wanted a winner. They wanted a body on the floor. They paid to see a spectacular knock out!
Curious, the Bajoran freighter Captain leaned over the railing for a better view down below. She saw the female fighter shake out her battered hand, rub the back of her neck, and then sprint up the slope of the bowl to its short apex and launch herself off the ramp and back at the frozen Orion.
The Orion’s eyes widened in horror as he saw the full weight of the female flying toward him. Her elbow led the charge and impacted his jaw so hard that it shattered like glass. Teeth and blood sprayed out of his mouth as his head whipped to the side. And then the rest of her body slammed straight through him like a shockwave. The Colossus crumpled to the deck in a lump of green muscle and blood.
Again the crowd let out a collective roar of noise.
The lucky people who had placed their bets on the unnamed newcomer erupted in cheers when the Orion received his K.O. The others weren’t so pleased at their loss. Valar, however, was left with questions.
In the center of the bowl the small female fighter leaned over on her knees, breathing heavily and holding her ribs. She spat a gob of blood out of her mouth. The thrill of the fight coursed through her veins like a seductive drug. To her this was foreplay and that was all. There could be no fulfillment of her desires, no death to be dealt, no climax of satisfaction to be had. The journey of the fight itself was only just helpful enough to temporarily curtail her unquenchable cravings.
Announcer: The Colossus has fallen! She did it! The Raging Romulan wins!
It was official; the small female fighter had earned her name. The Raging Romulan.
Announcer: Remember, all bets are final. Only certified stubs are accepted for payouts. That is the last fight of the evening so cash out and get out.
The Bajoran mused on as she observed the weary female fighter below. There was no glorified victory dance. No flare of triumph. There was nothing but a fatigued figure walking toward the exit while the medical staff came in to scoop up the Orion’s unconscious body.
In that moment there was a certainty in Valar’s mind that the Raging Romulan was not here for fun, and definitely not for money. Something else was driving her, and the Bajoran freighter Captain wanted answers.
((The Blood Bowl – Medical Room))
Sanitary was not a word that was ever used here. This space was nothing more than an old, dank storage room. Leaky pipes dampened the floors, and over time a musty smell had embedded itself in the walls. In case of a law enforcement raid the medical equipment had been made mobile and ready to be removed at a moment’s notice. The healing devices on the tables were stolen from the Federation and Wilds alike. Some were outdated, which meant they were also potentially dangerous. And the medical staff was the same. In fact, some weren’t even certified to practice.
Five medics tended to the Orion, while two hoovered around the newly-minted Raging Romulan.
Medic 1: Let me get the bone regeneration going. ::at Medic 2:: You follow up with the bruising and dermal stuff. I’ll check for internal injuries. ::at the woman:: We need to take your mask off now.
She swatted his hands away and did it herself. The woman tugged the thin, breathable cover off her head. As the fabric peeled back the crusted blood tore open a wound once more. She winced at the pain. Behind the mask was a battered beauty with black hair, pointy ears, and piercing blue eyes. The Raging Romulan was none other than Lieutenant Commander T’Lea, and she had taken one hell of a beating.
Medic 2 went for the injuries on her face. A black eye, or in her case a green eye, a split lip and abrasions on her chin and forehead.
Medic 2: Damn. Just relax. We’ll have you out of here in under an hour.
Taking his advice, the Romu-vulc laid back and let the medical staff do their shoddy work and patch her up. She knew that she would have to answer for these injuries if Indobri or Rel took new scans, but right now she didn’t give a frell. All she cared about was a kind of mellow that had been achieved. Indobri had suggested meditation, well, this was her chosen form.
The tension in T’Lea’s mind and body had been expunged through unspeakable acts of violence, and anger, but she knew that it was only temporary. She knew that eventually the build-up of primal pressure would start all over again, and that it would begin to dictate a predetermined course of action. Mate. Kill. Or die.
While it was true that the adjustment to her medication had helped it still wasn’t doing its job thoroughly enough. The ever-growing intensity of her Pon Farr was more tenacious and vicious than any dose of medication could possibly subdue. Over time the drug would totally fail. She knew it, and both of her Doctor’s knew it as well. All they were trying to do was add a few more ticks to a time-bomb, which was why she was here. One way to postpone the catastrophe was to fight it -- to literally beat that sh*t out of her glands. And that’s exactly what she had been doing for the past few nights in the Blood Bowl. She was patching a leak in a pipe that would eventually burst.
Why didn’t she just pick a mate and be done with it?
Because revenge.
T’Lea wanted to harness that high-octane fuel at the peak of her hormonal fury and unleash an unholy galactic Armageddon on the woman that murdered her mother. Dal Selta had to die. Nothing else mattered to T’Lea except dismantling that putrid Cardassian, piece-by-chopped-up-piece, just as it had been done to her mother. That was why she couldn’t just pick a mate, (although she had a few people in mind that did appeal to her.) But by using her blood-fevered state of mind to exact vengeance she was hoping to become a chemically and physically over-charged executioner. She would be unstoppable during the most important fight of her life.
Only when Dal Selta was dead would she have true peace.
That was her plan.
For now the hunt would continue and the fights would not only keep her skills sharp, but tame the beast a little while longer.
((Later))
((Lightside Station – Café ))
Friendly chatter bounced around the casual eatery. Clinks and clanks of glassware and utensils filled the air lively. Over by a table at the window sat Valar. The Bajoran caught a reflection of herself in the window and daintily fiddled with her hair for a moment until she was happy with the placement. She watched a steady flow of people walk by outside, and continued to sip her Kava juice.
A man approached her table and she gave him a warm smile, and then gestured for him to join her.
Valar: Please.
The man was one of the Medics that had worked on T’Lea earlier in the evening. He pulled out a chair and sat down. The way he hunched forward on the table was strictly for confidentiality.
Medic 2: I got yours. You got mine?
He seemed uptight, but the Bajoran was the picture of cool. She nodded and pushed a napkin across the table with something wrapped inside.
The Medic discreetly lowered it into his lap and peeled back a layer of cloth. Inside was a shiny bar of latinum, a dirty crystal -- hexagon in shape, and a data chip. He looked up from his lap and frowned.
Medic 2: What’s this?
Valar: Give it to the Raging Romulan next time you see her. You will be paid handsomely once it is done. Say yes.
Medic 2: Yeah, sure. Yes.
Valar: ::a threat:: Mind you, I will know if you don’t. ::a smile:: Now where is mine, dear boy?
The man shoved over a data padd, and Valar immediately accessed the contents.
Medic 2: Are we done here?
Valar: For now.
With that he shot out of his chair and made a swift exit. He had been around a lot of unsavory people in his underground-life, but this woman gave him chills like no other.
On the data padd were the medical scans taken after the Raging Romulan’s fights. Valar tutted at the personal data.
Valar: Hmm… Interesting… agalzaprine?
She flicked to a medical index and looked up the drug and what it was used for. The smile that followed was one of sheer delight.
Valar: Blood-fever. How precious.
((Same time))
((USS Juneau – T’Lea’s Quarters))
A deep sleep swallowed the Romu-vulc whole.
In the cradle of her warm bed T’Lea slept soundly. Her naked female form was draped in a tangle of white, silken sheets. It almost looked like a hot-shot artist had purposely posed each fold of the sheer fabric across her dormant body in a tastefully risqué fashion.
Along her hands, face, and ribs were patches of freshly healed flesh, which were only slightly discolored. Concealer wouldn’t even be necessary to hide the remaining evidence. And unless someone scrutinized her closely enough with either very shrewd eyes, or a medical scan, they would never know she had been injured.
There she remained in a state of blissful recovery unaware of self, or the danger that lurked so very close.
--END
Lieutenant Commander T’Lea
Historian/Archaeology Specialist
USS Juneau
Author ID I238301T10