[Cavan] Nothin' But A Good Crime Pt 3

[Lynzie Austin]

Nothin’ But A Good Crime Pt 3

The door from Astrometrics closed, with a noise that Ellie would later describe as cross between a cat jumping on a synthesizer and a guitar breaking a string; although in actuality it was more like an incredibly sad metallic sigh. Perhaps the door was depressed, they would never know and did not think to ask.  They had only taken a few steps down the corridor when a smooth, radio-ready baritone stopped them.

"Well, well. A little birdie—a very efficient, pointy-eared birdie—told me we had some Starfleet heavy-hitters on board. Captain Rex Malone. Sorry I wasn't there to greet you at the docking bay, but I was... indisposed. You should see this groupie." He gave a weary, yet proud, shake of his head. “She can do things with her—” 

He trailed off, staring. The man leaning against the wall was a vision. Late 50s, with a weathered, handsome face and a magnificent mane of silver hair that defied both gravity and all sense of reason. He wore a standard Captain's uniform, but it had been tailored to a frankly aspirational level of skintightness and unzipped to the naval to reveal a thick silver chain nestled in a proverbial forest of chest hair. A faux-fur-lined leather vest was draped over his shoulders like a cape.

Reynie looked nearly star-struck. "Captain. Investigator Aralim Reynard. This is Doctor Raven… I mean Ellie… I mean Elinor Cavan. We’re heading down to talk to the band.”

Captain Malone was not even bothering a glance at Reynie. He took Ellie's hand, not for a handshake, but to gently hold her fingertips, his voice dropping to an intimate, gravelly purr. "Doctor Cavan. A pleasure that defies all known scales. Welcome to the David Lee Roth. If there's anything I can do to make your stay more... comfortable, my door is always open. Day or night." He gave her a slow, meaningful wink.

 "Your cooperation in this investigation will be sufficient, Captain."

Reynie looked like he had swallowed a live hornet. He subtly shifted his posture, his own tight-clad hip cocking in a silent challenge. "Yeah, we've got it handled, Rex. No need to... trouble yourself."

Malone finally tore his eyes from Ellie to give Reynie a once-over, a flicker of amused recognition passing between them; two peacocks in a very small, very tacky jungle. "Of course, of course," His eyes slid back to Ellie. "The offer stands, Doctor. Indefinitely."

With a final, smoldering look that was probably meant to be irresistible but just made Ellie want to check him for tonsillitis, Captain Malone sauntered away, leaving a cloud of cologne and an unsubtle invitation in his wake. Ellie stared after him, then turned to Reynie, whose jaw was tightly clenched.

"That," she stated, "was the single most unprofessional and biologically reckless command officer I have ever witnessed."

"Magnificent," Reynie muttered, though he sounded considerably less enthused than before. He straightened his jacket with a sharp, possessive tug. "Now. Let's go break up this band before I wind up breaking regulations and punching that guy in the face.”

“And here I thought you wanted to be him when you grew up,” a playful smirk graced her lips. 

Reynie shot her a look of pure, theatrical betrayal. “Low blow, Raven. A very low blow. I have something you’re forgetting, I have standards. That vest was synthetic. That voice? Amateur hour. You can’t just drop an octave and call it charisma; it’s about the timbre, the subtext.”

“The subtext appeared to be a desperate plea for a certain kind of attention and a functional zipper.”

“Precisely! See? You get it. You see right through the artifice.” He was rambling now, his pace quickening as they moved toward the stage. “My aesthetic is about curated authenticity. His is… it’s pandering. It’s a greatest hits album with no new material. The man is a cover band of himself.”

“I am relieved to hear you have such a nuanced critique of his predatory leering.”

“It wasn’t nuanced! It was blatant!” Reynie sputtered, flinging a hand out in frustration. “It’s about the dance! The subtle interplay! The shared understanding that it’s all a magnificent, ridiculous game!” He stopped suddenly, turning to face her in the middle of the corridor, his expression uncharacteristically serious for a split second. “You know it’s a game, right?”

Ellie met his gaze, her own expression unreadable. “Reynie, I am a woman who shares her bed, her life, and her crime scenes with a man who wears trousers two sizes too small and with whom I have had entire conversations made wholly of banter. Of course it is a game.”  She allowed the faintest smile to touch her lips. “Fortunately for you, I happen to enjoy playing it with you.”

A slow, relieved smile spread across his face. “Good. Just checking.” The swagger instantly returned to his step. “Now, where were we? Ah, yes. Bringing the hammer of justice down.”

The house lights on the David Lee Roth's main stage were down, plunging the vast auditorium into a darkness that was immediately violated by a swirling vortex of colored beams, slashing through a fog that smelled vaguely of cheap beer and cigarettes; it was certainly a choice. The air itself thrummed, not with the anticipated power chords of the main act, but with the frantic, squealing synth-pop of the opening band: a trio of overly sincere Bynars who called themselves 'Parallel Processing.' 

Their current hit single, the aggressively upbeat "Binar Love," was just concluding its final, mathematically precise chorus, fading out to a smattering of polite, deeply confused applause from the hair metal purists in the audience, who did not seem sure if they had just been entertained or had their data processed.

The applause did not come from the front rows. Those sacred grounds were occupied by the hair metal purists, a congregation of the faithful who viewed any deviation from the established doctrine of shredding guitars and power ballads as heresy of the highest order. A sea of teased hair to the ceiling that could catch fire with one flick of a Bic, a taxonomy of Aqua-Net-subspecies ranging from the "Lion's Mane" to the "Defiant Fringe." Their uniform consisted of faded denim vests adorned with patches for bands like "Kang’s Keep", presumably a Klingon band of some sort, however, there were notably, “Slaughter” and "Guns N' Roses." 

From the scuttlebut, the crowd held a special, venomous disdain for the current headliners, whom they considered a sanitized, corporate imitation of the real thing. As the Bynars' synth-bleeps faded, these purists offered no applause, only a unified, performative silence, a few of them making a great show of checking their communicators or taking long, disdainful pulls from their synth-ale bottles. One man, his mustache waxed into perfect handlebars, simply shook his head slowly, a picture of profound, personal betrayal.

The houselights went down, with a large curtain accompaniment, followed immediately by the scurrying of feet and the crashing of a cymbal of the band's changing equipment at breakneck speed. 

A single chord ripped out over the audience as the curtains raised once again, the lights coming up theatrically, complete with fog machine spewing more of its cigarette smoke. 

Standing center stage, holding the microphone, was a formidable sight. She was tall and broad-shouldered, her powerful frame clad not in spandex, but in worn, black leather trousers and a harness of metallic chains that looked less like an accessory and more like light body armor. Her dark hair was not teased into a fluffy halo but was instead shaved on the sides, with the rest pulled back into a severe, intricate series of braids that resembled a war helm. Her forehead ridges were pronounced, and her eyes, even from the wings, burned with an intensity that the stage lights couldn't fully account for.

"This one... is for Zogg," the bassist growled into the mic, her voice a low, threatening rumble.

Reynie, watching from the wings, made a sharp gesture to the security officers who had started to move. "Hold," he said, his voice low but firm. He met Ellie's questioning look. "Let L’Rell play."

"This is a waste of time,” Ellie's eyebrow arched. 

"No," Reynie countered, a slow, appreciative smile spreading across his face as the heavy, distorted version of "Heart of a Latinum Lover" kicked in. "This is the crime scene. She's not just taking over the band; she's re-consecrating it in her own image. She's telling us exactly why she did it, right here, in front of everyone."

He was right. L'Rell did not sing the lyrics; she spat them, transforming the saccharine plea for affection into a Klingon war chant, her every gesture radiating contempt for the original and triumph in her own brutal reinterpretation. The purists in the front rows, who had come to mourn, were now on their feet, fists pumping, their earlier disdain forgotten in the face of this raw, aggressive takeover.

As L'Rell held the final, screaming note, the crowd erupted in a frenzy. She stood, chest heaving, a conqueror surveying her newly won kingdom, the spotlight making a halo of the sweat on her brow. The applause was a physical wave, and in that moment, she looked totally invincible.

That was when Reynie chose to step into the edge of the light. Clapping slowly.

On his signal, the house lights slammed on, harsh and unforgiving. The spell was broken. In the sudden, sterile silence, security moved with brutal efficiency, pulling a sputtering Flix from his drum kit and ascending the stage to escort a rigid, furious L'Rell away from the microphone.

She did not struggle. She simply fixed Reynie with a look of pure, venomous hatred as she passed. "You let me have my victory," she snarled, low enough for only him and Ellie to hear.

"I did," Reynie replied, his voice equally quiet. "And I'm about to take it away. That's show business."

The door to the supply closet slammed shut on her reign. Back on stage, the only sound was the faint, sad hiss of the fog machines. 

Inside, the air was thick with the smell of stale synth-ale and the sharp, clean scent of Ellie's antiseptic wipes as she methodically cleaned her hands. L'Rell stood ramrod straight, her arms crossed over her chain-adorned harness. The brief euphoria of her performance had hardened into cold fury.

Reynie leaned against a stack of speaker cabinets, looking utterly at home amidst the backstage detritus. "A hell of a eulogy," he began, his tone conversational. "You didn't just take his place. You rewrote his song. Totally removed the guy. Tell me, was that the plan all along? Or did the poetic justice just present itself?"

L'Rell's eyes, still blazing from the adrenaline of the stage, fixed on him. "Do not pretend to understand Klingon cunning—"

"I understand ambition just fine," Reynie countered. "And I understand that you needed a scapegoat. Jorl was perfect. A nervous, secretive scientist you could bully into providing the means. But why frame Commander T'Pel? She had nothing to do with the music."

"A house must be cleansed of all vermin," L'Rell stated, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "The tone-deaf singer, the logic-obsessed science officer who stifled all passion... they were two sides of the same worthless coin. Removing one and pinning the crime on the other was... efficient. It would have purified this vessel."

Ellie finished with her wipes, placing the used cloth neatly into a biohazard pouch. "Your efficiency is noted. You coerced an officer, murdered another, and attempted to frame a third. There is no honor in this path."

"Honor?" L'Rell let out a sharp, bitter laugh. "You speak of what you do not know. There is no honor in silence! There is no honor in allowing a farce to continue! Zogg dishonored every note he sang. My challenge was just. My method was... a necessary deception for a greater victory."

"A victory that lasted three minutes," Reynie said softly. "The crowd loved you, L'Rell. They really did. For one song, you were a star. But you'll be remembered as a punchline. The queen who reigned for a single chorus."

For a moment, the sheer, crushing waste of it all seemed to hit L'Rell. The fire in her eyes guttered, replaced by a hollow realization. She had won her stage, only to immediately lose everything else. She had sought a warrior's glory and found only a criminal's infamy.

She had nothing more to say.

As security officially charged her and led her away, the backstage area fell silent, save for the distant, muffled voice of Captain Malone trying to salvage the night with an acoustic rendition of Photograph that seemed to be hitting with half the crowd. 

“Could have spoken to Zogg, could have kicked him out of the band,” Ellie got to her feet to tap in the security guards with an authorization. “Poison is a coward’s weapon.” 

It was the one accusation L'Rell had no defense against. All her talk of challenges and purification crumbled before that single, undeniable truth. A true warrior faced her enemy. A coward tricked theirs.

L'Rell’s proud shoulders finally slumped. The last of the fight drained from her, leaving behind a shell of shame. She offered no retort, no final defiant roar. She simply lowered her head, allowing the security officers to lead her away in a silence more profound than any she had ever conjured on stage.

The door clicked shut.

Reynie let out a long, slow breath, the adrenaline seeping away. He looked at Ellie, a wry, tired smile touching his lips. “You really didn't pull your punch, Raven.”

“She built her justification on a foundation of Klingon honor,” Ellie stated. “I merely pointed out that it was fundamentally rotted.”

“I love it when you talk dirty to me,” Reynie slung his arm around her shoulder. 

“Reynie, you are paraphrasing Poison now, I think it is time for you to go through some bio-scrubbers—”

“Hey, they had some good songs!” he protested, his voice a mix of mock offense and genuine, if sheepish, defense. “Every Rose Has Its Thorn’ is a cultural touchstone! It’s about the inherent fragility of beauty and love in a harsh universe!”

“It is about a man complaining that his girlfriend is not as perfect as he imagined,” Ellie corrected, steering them both towards the corridor. “It is whining, set to a G-C-D chord progression.”

“You say whining, I say emotional vulnerability!”

“What I feel is the urgent need for a sonic shower and a report that does not include an analysis of 20th-century ‘butt rock’ aesthetics.”

“Butt rock? Ouch. That’s a low blow, Rave,” He clutched his chest as if wounded, but his eyes sparkled. “You’re lucky I’m a forgiving man.”

“You are lucky that I am forgiving at all, have you looked at yourself in a mirror today?”

“Have you looked at yourself in a mirror today because daaaaamn girl, no wonder Captain horn-dog was trying to get up in your jumpsuit,” Reynie kissed her hair playfully. “You look like your name is Lil’ Debbie since you’re a straight up snack.”

“You think they still make those snack cakes in the future?” Ellie looked at him skeptically as they headed back to the runner. “That seems unlikely.”

“Girl, everyone loves a twinkie.”

“Speak for yourself, I am obviously an oatmeal cookie girl.”

“Do you think we’ve lost the plot here?”

“No, I think we are doing a call back to that banter joke from earlier.” 

“Oh yeah, good good.”

[OOC: i probably should've had a part four where they got harassed by the captain again, but like, AT WHAT COST. Oh and obviously, the ferengi got arrested too, offscreen. duh. god i hate writing ferengis.]