((OOC: This will kick-off the start of a mini-shore leave adventure.))
((Lightside Station – Maintenance Dock C-83))
Marot was a hard working engineer, but an even harder working opportunist. Some might say that he had Ferengi blood running through his veins, but in fact he was Betazoid through-and through. He was pretty good with his hands, but he was even better with his mind. Telepathic skimming was the bread and butter of his gambling prowess. Cheating the gaming tables was his biggest money maker, but it also came in handy on the docks, until the day he touched the wrong mind. A Cardassian mind wearing a Bajoran face.
How could he forget ship service number PR-7849-CD-9001. It had been a routine patch and repair job, but once Marot had started working on the ship he found that the seemingly innocent exterior of the freighter was hiding the foundation of a Cardassian Scout Ship. Such a vessel was to be immediately reported to command, but opportunity knocked, and he answered. He struck a once in a lifetime deal with the faux Bajoran Captain, and now he was about to keep his end of the bargain.
The charming Betazoid engineer busied himself with the routine maintenance of a VIP transport shuttle that was designed for long distance runs. It was a luxury ship, a people-hopper, made to accommodate first-class patrons on their journey to the next space or land port. The small ship only held a handful of people, which made for ample personal space, and added comfort, among them a robust replicator.
Finishing up the engine check outside, Marot sealed the hatch and wiped his dirty hands on a clean rag. When he looked across the empty deck he saw a striking raven-haired woman headed straight for him. He smiled a greeting. His first thought was that she was beautiful. His second thought was, “what a shame.”
T’Lea: Mister Marot?
Dressed in black cargo pants, and a black clingy sleeveless shirt, the Vulcan-hybrid set her steely-blue sights on the only person working the dock. In the future she would look back on this very moment and kick herself for not questioning it.
Marot: Yes. Lieutenant Commander T’Lea?
The woman nodded and he offered a friendly hand.
Marot: A pleasure to meet you. I must say, I was expecting something more… uniformed.
It wasn’t just a comment about her attire, but her projected demeanor as well. It was contrary to the ears. And what lovely ears they were.
T’Lea: Off duty.
She took his hand and noticed that his touch had a strange sensation, almost erogenous. In that second she had to recall if she had taken her anti-Pon Farr pill that morning. Indeed she had, but the touch was still slightly disturbing. She quickly retracted her hand.
Marot: Sorry about that. ::he wiped at his hand:: Fluids from the engine I was tuning up.
He could tell that she didn’t suspect a thing.
Marot: You had a question for me? About a service repair? Come on inside, I just need to run a system check. We can talk about it.
(( Meanwhile, Lightside Station – Corridor 1876-109B, Commercial Section))
Karise had worn a pair of royal blue slacks and a durable, yet attractive, royal blue blouse. Completing the ensemble was a pair of black ankle boots with straps and silver buckles. The outfit was serviceable - after all, T’Lea hadn’t said what this mysterious holodeck adventure was - yet becoming. She told herself she wasn’t wearing the outfit to catch the RomuVulc woman’s eye. After all, it was part of her style and Karise had always been a bit vain. Her makeup had been carefully applied and her hair was pulled back and pinned in the back with a silver clasp shaped like little flowers.
She was on her way to meet T’Lea at the station’s holodecks when she spotted the woman heading into the maintenance sections. More than a bit curious, she altered her course to find out what the woman was up to. If only she had remembered that old Terran saying about cats and curiosity…
((Back to: Kinsale Luxury Shuttle Transport))
The shuttle was amazing. The lap of luxury for those looking for the very best space flight. T’Lea glanced around, hardly noticing, and more focused on getting information out of Marot, than the classy surroundings.
T’Lea: Yes. You provided maintenance for a ship I’m interested in locating. I sent you the service request number?
Marot nodded and made his way to the shuttle’s cockpit, where he parked himself in the pilot’s seat and began performing pre-flight operations.
Marot: Ah, right, right. I had to look it up and refresh my memory. We get a lot of ships passing through here, you know. Hard to keep track of them all.
T’Lea: I understand. ::beat:: Is there anything you can tell me about the ship? Where it was heading? Who was the Captain? Anything unusual you may recall?
Marot: Well, there was nothing special about the repairs, but the ship itself was not… um. Well, let’s just say looks can be deceiving.
T’Lea: ::frown:: How so?
Marot: Just a second. I need to get clearance.
Once he sensed the woman had moved directly behind his seat, he paused the conversation and placed the call to operations. Within moments he was granted departure for a test flight. The next little pause was construed by T’Lea as a tactic to elicit a reward for his information.
T’Lea: Two slips of latinum.
She reached around him and slapped the slivers of money on the console.
Marot wagged his head in a negative fashion, and then shifted to reach something under the console as if he needed to make a calibration to the hardware.
Marot: No. I’m gonna need more than that. See, I’m a bit of a gambling man. It’s a guilty pleasure, ::smiling back at her:: or a bad habit.
T’Lea rolled her eyes. She hated playing games. More latinum found its way to the console in front of Marot as she reached around him to make another deposit. At first, T’Lea thought that some part of the chair was poking her in the ribs, but when she looked down she saw a small civilian phaser jammed against her heart.
Marot: Gonna need you, to be exact.
T’Lea’s eyes darkened as she lifted them to meet his. Her answer was a simple threat to match his.
Marot: I’m not asking. Now sit down.
He skimmed her mind, but it was too late to reflex a response to her thought. Before he knew it she was on him with an elbow against his jugular, a wicked knee in his crotch, and the other hand repeatedly slamming his gripped phaser into the edge of the console. The action accidentally discharged a heavy stun blast into the command panel, causing a spray of sparks that quickly extinguished.
T’Lea: Who the frell are you?
The gorgeous woman was screaming at him, but all he could hear was the, “gush, gush, gush,” of blood that usually flowed to his head being starved. Was it strange that he found her even more attractive now that she was threatening to kill him?
The faux Bajoran Captain had said that T’Lea was highly volatile. At the time he thought nothing of it. He figured it was a standard statement for him to be careful. Little did he realize that the lovely creature was a hybrid from hell.
T’Lea: Answer me you piece of-
Gush, gush, gush went the stressed circulation in his ears. He had to do something fast before he passed out. So he screamed. But not with his voice, with his mind. A loud, intense, high pitched shriek that pierced the ear drums of his victim, and probably more.
TBC in Part 2
Lieutenant Commander T’Lea
Author ID I238301T10
Lt Commander Karise Indobri, MD
Chief Medical Officer
USS Juneau NX-99801