Lt. JG T’Fearne - Unholy Grounds
Teayl Thorn
((Brew Continuum, Deck 14, USS Ronin))
Niac: Well now it just sounds like you don't trust me. I'm not the one on trial here! Drumhead!
T’Fearne’s eyes widened in slight confusion, and then her pointed eartips flushed green with embarrassment.
Was he calling her a “drum-head”? What did that mean? Was it related to her secret JOPA band activities?
oO How does he know I’m the drummer? Oo
She dismissed the errant thoughts; it seemed Humans, Trills and Betazoids, for that matter, all had an alarming number of idioms. She forged forward and tried to explain herself.
T’Fearne: Captain, I trust you. I did not intend to imply your recollection was faulty. This is about… coffee beans. You lack the motive to take the beans and deprive the crew. As yet I have not determined why the crewman would fabricate being absent. He did seem somewhat vague and nervous when he gave the report.
She folded her hands over the PADD, a thoughtful expression on her face. She cast her mind back to the crewman's demeanour, nervous, shifty, but no empathic aura of deception.
T’Fearne: Perhaps I failed to ask the correct questions.
Without warning, the Captain sprang to his feet. T’Fearne rose instantly in reflex—a security officer’s instinct—only for Niac to nod toward the counter conspiratorially.
Niac: Well then perhaps I can help. Have you ever heard of the human custom of 'good cop/bad cop?' It's a remarkably effective interrogation technique.
The Vulcazoid’s brows inched upward. The Captain's enthusiasm at the prospect of good cop-bad cop, was…slightly concerning.
T’Fearne: Of course. I understood it to be a fictional Human trope. I didn’t realise it was an approved investigative technique to elicit information. ::pausing:: Perhaps I should be the one to question him? Your command presence might be… overwhelming.
She tried to break it to him gently. The process for extracting accurate information was a delicate one. The Captain nodded, seeming highly invested. Maybe too eager.
Niac: Oh I'm more than willing to let you take the lead while I provide the sympathetic ear. Or if you'd prefer I suppose I could find it within myself to be every centimeter the unhinged despot a tyrannical Captain is feared to be...I did recently ask Chief Tucker about the viability of adding a 'plank' to the ship for disciplinary matters. Might need to follow up with him assuming my last little lesson in punitive justice hasn't driven him insane by now.
T’Fearne: Sir…What did you do to the Chief? ::shaking head:: No—tell me later. If you wish to assist, I think we should lean into our strengths. :: pointing to herself:: Professional, law-abiding investigator. :: gesturing to Niac:: Tyrannical, unhinged despot captain. No offence. I know it’s not quite the same as “good cop-bad cop”, but it will have to suffice.
Niac: Very well I'll follow your lead, Lieutenant, this is your investigation of course. But I swear if we get over there and find out they've been skimming fresh coffee beans from the good people of this ship it'll be all I can do to keep them from an angry, under-caffeinated and well-armed mob.
T’Fearne: Keep that in mind while despoting, sir. If he is responsible, we need accurate information from him, not whatever he thinks will get him out of trouble because he’s been scared half to death.
They approached the brew counter, its gleaming chrome and copper machinery transforming humble beans into liquid ambrosia for the Ronin crew. Steam rose in lazy curls from the machine's valves, the scent of a more subtle roast lingered in the ship’s air.
Behind the sacred altar of caffeine, the part-time barista, Crewman Carstairs, attempted to look busy. A young human—ginger hair, wiry build, perhaps 24 at most.
As they approached, it was clear that he was just making busy work of it, polishing already gleaming surfaces with a clean cloth. From beneath the copper brows, the crewman’s eyes darted between them like a cornered targ. The moment they reached conversational distance, Carstairs straightened, slapped on a sardonic service grin, sweeping the counter with a welcoming hand. The security officer could already tell he was going to run. At what point his nerve would break was the only real mystery here.
Crewman Carstairs: Ah, it's the Lieutenant and the Captain again. Would you, sirs, both like a cup for the shift ahead?
Niac: Response
T’Fearne stopped just short of being too close, positioning her body shoulder to shoulder with the suspect rather than in a direct confrontational position, gently resting a hand on the barista’s shoulder, and adopting a pleasant and expectant expression. The Captain had his own character to play in this charade.
T’Fearne: ::kind voiced:: Crewman… Carstairs, was it? I’ve just been conferring with Captain Niac, and he is quite sure you didn’t leave to go relieve yourself or run any errand. In fact, he’s quite certain you’ve been right… here… the entire time he was sitting over there.
She gestured gently, indicating the table.
T’Fearne: Were you aware that Trills, especially joined Trills, have remarkable mental recal?
Carstairs’ throat bobbed. Twice.
Crewman Carstairs: ::shaking head, licking lips:: Ah, well, if the captain says that's what happened, ::shrugging asymetrically:: then maybe I was mistaken, maybe that was… last shift that the fancy beans went missing? Are you sure I can’t pour you both a brew? We have this new blend in stock. It's—uh—just as nice as the Klingon one.
Standing so close to the human, she felt the dark shadow of slippery deception.
Hands trembling, he bent down and dragged a sealed crate up onto the counter with a grunt.
Niac: Response
The poor crewman froze as though the Captain’s words hit him like a phaser on heavy stun. T’Fearne smothered a smile. Niac certainly had a knack for despoting.
oO One should never underestimate the hidden talents of others. Oo
Her amusement lasted exactly three seconds.
The Vulcazoid froze as her gaze landed on the crate label: “Best Beetled Beans — grown and packaged in the Ferengi Alliance Trade Colonies.” At the bottom, in tiny print, lurked an innocuous brand mark. It was the kind of label one only found on products that were technically legal but universally regrettable.
T’Fearne snapped open the lid. A swampy, acrid stench rolled outward like a living thing—thick, wet, and pungent enough to overpower even the Brew Continuum’s upgraded air filters. The barista gagged and took a half-step back.
Inside the crate were beans. They even approximated the right shape, but that was where the similarities ended. These were larger, swollen-looking things—blue-green, faintly iridescent, and disturbingly fuzzy.
Something clicked in her mind, probabilities and motivations falling into place. The cold, crisp logic of a security officer investigating a theft intersected with the intimate fury of someone whose favourite coffee blend had been stolen and replaced with this Ferengi…trash.
The anger that surged up was entirely her own—no Betazoid bleed-through, no borrowed emotions. Just pure, sharp, personal rage at what this crewman had likely done and why.
T’Fearne seized Carstairs by the front of his uniform, balled both fists in the fabric, and lifted him clean off the deck plating with Vulcanoid strength. His boots dangled helplessly as she pulled him nose-to-nose, dark, soulless eyes bored into his. In contrast to her actions, her voice, when it came, was calm. Almost gentle. Which made it infinitely more terrifying.
T’Fearne: ::calmly:: What have you done with my beans?
Crewman Carstairs: ::strangled squeak:: N-no…nothing, sir, I swear—
Oddly enough, that statement had the ring of truth to it.
Niac: Response
[Tags / TBC]
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Security Officer
USS Ronin - NCC-34523
R240107T14