PNPC Oma-Saan: Loose Ends (No Tags)
Michael Meir-Wright
(OOC: This is just wrapping up the last few posts with a surprise little twist. I don't intend to use either of the featured characters again... for this mission :D)
(( Harkins’ Den | The Dungeon | Starbase 118 ))
:: To Oma-Saan, proprietor and licensee of Harkins’ Den, it appeared that the universe was conspiring against him this evening, thwarting him at every turn. He had lost his best dancer to the deep, latinum-filled pockets of a rich Saurian, one of his bar staff had not turned up for their shift and Boris Malinov, a tribble breeder in his occasional employ had made an unscheduled and panicked appearance and demanded he take care of the mess that he had inadvertently created topside, in the metropolis of the station’s Commercial Sector. Nobody spoke to Oma-Saan like that, especially inside Harkins’ Den, so the former enforcer had put him in his place- on the floor of the club.
Now the worm was skulking off back the way he came. While he was confident that Malinov would not reveal the financial connection that kept him breeding those infernal balls of fluff, he did not want to take the chance. Then again, if Malinov went missing Starfleet would come looking for him and he had yet to successfully hack in to the station’s security systems. The trail would lead back to him- and that was not an option at all. He took his finger away from the intercom and stood up. He would have to put his faith in the intimidation tactics that he had employed to ensure Malinov’s silence over their twenty year association.
As he pondered his next move the doors to the corridor outside parted with a clanging noise. He didn’t need to turn around to know who the snarky, yet alluring voice belonged to. In the three weeks since she had been smuggled on to the station away from the prying eyes of Starfleet, she had infuriated and enticed him in equal measure. ::
Chennel: “I do love a man who broods.” :: she chuckled and he heard the Bolian woman step into the office and the doors shutting behind her. :: “Really gets under my skin.”
:: He had not known the former pirate long, but he knew enough about her reputation to know that her narcissism was the stuff of legend. ::
Oma-Saan: “You don’t love anybody but yourself.”
Chennel: :: another silky, but undeniably deadly laugh :: “You’re right.” :: he turned around to look at her. Her face was ablaze with a thirst for life and a lust for violence. She wore a black, three piece pin striped suit that clung to every contour of her body and heels that easily cleared five inches. She looked seductive, business like and lethal all at once. :: “You should have killed him.” :: she motioned to the monitor. ::
Oma-Saan: “And bring Starfleet down here?” :: beat :: “Not a chance.”
Chennel: “We could have dealt with Starfleet.”
:: The urge to point out that her last dealings with Starfleet resulted in her brief incarceration in a maximum-security penal facility was strong, but knowing that she didn’t take kindly to such remarks, he stayed his tongue.
A little over one month previously, Oma-Saan had been asked by an old associate to engineer Chennel’s break out on behalf of Marai, an associate from the dying days of the Syndicate. He didn’t ask questions and he arranged for his most trusted people to get her out of the facility on Elba II. Then after making it appear she was heading for Tzenkethi space, she was swapped to a different vessel and smuggled onto the station, right under Starfleet’s nose. She had remained ensconced in “The Dungeon”- away from prying eyes- ever since, working with Oma-Saan and attempting to re-establish herself post-prison.
As he regarded the woman, a thought occurred to him. ::
Oma-Saan: “You went to the convention dinner didn’t you?”
Chennel: :: nodding with a vicious grin :: “Just long enough to plant one of Malinov’s tribbles in a gift bad for the guest speaker. It caused chaos.” :: she clearly relished it :: “And I saw… an old friend.”
Oma-Saan: :: concerned :: “We had an agreement! You don’t go topside!”
Chennel: :: waving him off dismissively :: “Oh relax! I took the holo-mask with me. To everybody I looked like a middle aged Vulcan woman.” :: beat, drolly :: “The hair was just torturous.”
:: He wasn’t impressed. Malinov had worked on weaponising tribbles for Oma-Saan for the last eighteen months. He was supposed to demonstrate his progress later that evening, but Chennel had obviously taken matters into his own hands. He felt his anger rise. ::
Chennel: “People were dropping like Alvanian Sand Flies.” :: beat, laughing. :: “It was spectacular!”
Oma-Saan: “No, Chennel, it isn’t!” :: beat :: “Now I can’t use the tribbles! They were important!”
Chennel: “Oh relax,” :: she stepped forward and ran one immaculate finger down by green face with a seductive glimmer in her eye :: “The project was never going to work anyway. Too many variables.” :: she leant in and nibbled his lower lip. It took all of his willpower not to let his knees buckle. Her hand cupped his cheek and he found it difficult to concentrate on anything :: “But it doesn’t matter now. What’s done is done. You and I have… more pressing matters to attend to.”
:: She kissed him again- and this time he didn’t try and keep his composure. ::
Bar Owner/Scumbag
Ex-Pirate Queen
Executive Officer