[Cavan] Reynard, Aralim Reynard pt 2

[Lynzie Austin]

Reynard, Aralim Reynard pt 2

The silence in the alcove was thick enough to drink. Reynie’s demand for the missing agent hung in the air, a direct challenge to Chalak’s authority. The Bolian’s placid smile was the only answer. 

It was the Ferengi who broke the tension, his voice a nervous squeak as he pointed a trembling finger. “Where… where did Sloane go?”

All eyes shifted to the empty chair. The sleazy human politician had vanished. In the intensity of Reynie’s confrontation with Chalak, no one had noticed him slip away. “Perhaps the pressure of the game was too much,” the Romulan sneered, though his eyes darted around giving away his nerves.

“He just folded,” Reynie muttered. He stood up, his chair scraping against the floor. “He wouldn’t just leave his winnings on the table.” He looked at Ellie. She was already on her feet, moving toward the heavy curtain that led to the private lounges and refreshers, her senses piqued.

The door to the men’s lounge conspicuously ajar. Ignoring all decorum, Ellie walked right through it. The body of the man known as Sloane was slumped against the far wall of the opulent, marble-lined room. His head was tilted back, his eyes wide with surprise. And protruding from the center of his forehead, driven in with brutal accuracy, was a large ornate gold handled letter opener that more than resembled a sword.

It was not the murder weapon that made her breath catch in her throat. That was reserved for the single playing card, placed over his heart. The King of Hearts. The card he had been dealt. The card that had made him the first better. The card he had folded.

She pulled the communicator from the hidden pocket in her clutch, calming the tremor in her hand. “Reynie. We have a body. The cause of death is a penetrating trauma to the cranium. And you were correct.” She took a slow breath, her gaze fixed on the gruesome scene. “We have found your King.”

Returning into the parlor a moment later, dispelling any notion of being an arm candy bimbo, Ellie was a force to be reckoned with. She looked more pissed than Reynie had seen her in ages. Instead of addressing the table, she lifted her communicator that she had adjusted to hijack the comms in the whole facility. 

“Attention. This is Lieutenant Commander Cavan of Starfleet Forensics. A capital crime has been committed on these premises. By the authority of the Federation Charter, Article 14, Section 9, this facility is now an active crime scene. All exits are sealed. All movement is suspended. No one enters. No one leaves. All persons present will remain for questioning. Compliance is mandatory.” 

She made a hand gesture to everyone at the table. “This includes you, this little game is all over.”

The effect was instantaneous. A wave of stunned silence, followed by muffled protests from the main casino floor, washed over the alcove. The Ferengi looked like he was calculating the liability. The Nausicaan’s hand twitched toward his disruptor. 

“You reach for that and you will be missing a hand,” Ellie leaned in on the table. “Put all your weapons in a pile… Now. I do not care if you have to pull them out of your unmentionable holes. Do it now. And do not make me tell you twice.”

Maim Chalak’s placid smile finally cracked. A flicker of genuine anger showed in his eyes. “This is an outrageous overreach, Commander. You have no jurisdiction here. This is a private—”

“A private establishment where a man has been murdered with a ceremonial letter opener to the brain,” Ellie cut him off, her voice like shattering glass. “My jurisdiction is death, Mr. Chalak. And it has just been violently asserted. You will sit down, and you will be silent.”

She turned to Reynie, her eyes blazing with a cold fire. “Investigator. Secure the scene. I want everyone at this table sequestered and scanned for residue. The killer is in this room.”

Reynie nodded and whispered into her ear. “Raven, if this wasn’t a murder scene I would be so bricked up right now.”

“Focus Aralim.”

“Yes ma’am.” 

“You heard the Commander. Let's make this quick and dignified, or slow and embarrassing. Your choice.” He gestured to the center of the table. “The pile starts here.”

With a grunt of disgust, the Nausicaan was the first to comply, slamming a heavy disruptor pistol onto the green felt. The Ferengi reluctantly produced a tiny, needle-like blade from his sleeve. The Romulan, seething with silent fury, placed an elegant, palm-sized energy weapon on the growing pile. Reynie’s eyes never left them, his own hand resting casually near his hip. 

Maim, however, merely placed his hands on the table. “I carry no weapons, Commander. My thoughts are armament enough.” His dark eyes slid from Ellie to Reynie, and the smile became something… knowing and corrupt. “Isn’t that right, Captain? The most dangerous weapons are the ones we can’t see. The memories that scream in the dark Perhaps even, right at the Kessler trap—”

Reynie stopped dead in his tracks. His face paled, as though all the air had been sucked out of the room. The dead guy in the other room was suddenly small potatoes. What the hell did Maim Chalak know about him?

Ellie stepped forward, physically placing herself between Chalak’s gaze and Reynie. “Your amateur psychoanalysis is noted and irrelevant,” she stated, her voice colder than deep space. “You will be silent, or I will have you gagged. The choice is yours.”

She turned to Reynie once more, softly touching his shoulder. “Go double check those exits, I have it here. Security has locked up the building to my specifications and are cooperating,” Ellie tilted her chin to look him in the eye. “Double check, yeah?”

Reynie gave a tight, jerky nod, his eyes still locked on the smirking Bolian. “Maybe break that guy's thumbs by accident for me, Rave.” 

*****

Impact. 

A shudder that rattled teeth. Alarms shrieking. The world outside his viewport was a kaleidoscope of fire and shrapnel.

“Ghost-One, this is Ghost-Actual, we are—”

Static. A scream, cut short.

Another pod, ‘Iron-Horse,’ vanished in a flash of light. His own, ‘Vengeance,’ shuddered violently as a piece of debris sheared off a wing. They were falling, not flying. He would have much preferred the latter, but alas it was not the case.

Lieutenant Aralim Reynard was falling from the sky at an increasingly impressive speed, pulling out a parachute looking down at the wreckage. Rather, “Donut” as he was so lovingly referred to by his squadmates. If it was a formal occasion, “Bag-o-Donuts”. 

A name born from a single, forgotten incident in the academy involving a stolen pastry and a failed attempt at bribery. It was profoundly, gloriously stupid. There was no irony in it now. His face was smeared with soot, his eyes hollowed out by the sight of his battalion being shredded in the void.

On the ground, it was worse. 

The theoretical void of space was replaced by the claustrophobic hell of a shattered city. The elegant spires of New Geneva were charred ruins grasping at a smoke-choked sky. The only sounds were the crump of distant artillery, the sizzle of overloaded conduits, and the relentless, methodical pulse of Cardassian disruptor fire.

Command was gone. Chaos reigned. They were scattered, isolated. The Cardassians were methodical, advancing through the ravages of New Geneva.

They were scattered, isolated. A handful of Marines here, a single fire-team there, huddled in the carcasses of buildings, cut off from everything but the advancing enemy.

Reynard hit the ground, rolled, and sliced himself free of his chute lines. He came up with his phaser rifle in hand, his back against the shattered fountain that had once been the centerpiece of a public square. The statue of some long-forgotten civic founder lay in pieces around him, its stone head staring vacantly at the smoke-wreathed sky. The air crackled with energy weapon discharge, the sound echoing unnervingly in the open space. He was alone.

For a full minute, there was nothing but the pounding of his own heart and the distant, methodical crunch of Cardassian boots on the rubble. Then, a flicker of movement from a collapsed storefront. A glint of Starfleet-issue boots. He risked a low whistle, the all-clear signal from the drop briefing that now felt a lifetime ago.

A face, smudged with grime and wide-eyed with adrenaline, peered out. It was Private Chen from his own squad. A moment later, Lance Corporal Stavros emerged from the shell of a ground-transport vehicle, his helmet missing, a bloody gash on his forehead. They were ghosts, coalescing from the rubble.

“Sir? What's the order?” Chen whispered, everything about her seemed tense, raspy and with good reason.

Reynard looked from her to Stavros, then back to the advancing lines of grey armor. The order was to rally at the Athenaeum. The order was to establish a defensive perimeter. The order was predicated on a battalion, not on three Marines trapped in a square. Then he looked at the Cardassians again. Not a phalanx, but a patrol. Six of them, moving with arrogant confidence, believing the sector pacified. 

There was nothing more cocky than a Cardassian than one that thought they won the battle. 

“New order,” Reynard said, all trace of the jitters from falling gone. He tapped his comm, not to the dead command channel, but to the short-range, local band. “We’re not holding. We’re hunting. Ghost Pack is active.”

He didn’t wait for a reply. He simply moved, a low, fast shadow skirting the fountain. He didn't give a complex plan. He pointed to a narrow alley—a perfect kill zone. Chen understood, moving to flank. Stavros, with his heavier rifle, took a kneeling position for suppression.

The Cardassians never saw it coming. A shot from Stavros pinned them. Reynard hit them from the side, phaser set to maximum dispersal. Chen finished the last one from behind.

As the last Cardassian fell, Reynard keyed his comm again, holding the button down. The unit emitted its pre-programmed data-burst. A moment later, from Chen's and Stavros' belt speakers, came the sound, a brief, distorted, digital howl.

It was the sound of a new pack, claiming its first victory.

That’s when the Hellhounds were first born.

It didn’t happen with some formal declaration of grandeur. It happened gradually. When Jabber sniped out the Cardassian base from 5,000 meters to allow the rest of the team to easily claim without even having to pull a weapon. It happened in a grimy basement where Sergeant T’Var, a Vulcan with a shattered arm, calmly rerouted a damaged comms unit to broadcast a looped, fake Cardassian distress signal, luring an entire platoon into a pre-selected ambush zone. Reynard spent two days living in the vents over a Cardassian mess hall before slipping away with more information than Starfleet had provided them in months. 

Their ghost squad had taken down more in a few months on Veridian III than they were able to count. They had gone feral. Practically abandoned Starfleet Doctrine, not out of rebellion, but because the textbook had been written for soldiers who had the luxury of supply lines and orbital support.

*****

Reynard pressed his forehead against the cool metal wall, trying to push the ghosts back into the past where they belonged. The scent of blood was a phantom in his sinuses. Donut. He scoffed under his breath. He hadn't heard that name in almost twenty years. He’d buried that guy both under layers of wit and sarcasm.

He took a deep, shuddering breath. Ellie was in there, holding a den of vipers at bay with nothing but her will and a crimson dress. She had given him an out. A task. Double check the exits. He pushed off the wall, his body moving on autopilot while his mind raced. How? How did a Bolian art collector know about the Kessler Trap? It was a black op, scrubbed from public record, a wound known only to the broken men and women who had survived it. The name “Hellhounds” was a piece of grunt-level folklore, never making it into any official after-action report.

He reached a secondary service airlock, its status panel glowing a soft, reassuring green. Locked. To Ellie’s specifications. Of course it was. She was always thorough. He moved on, his sensible shoes silent on the deck plating, his mind still playing out the DMZ as if it were yesterday. 

The doctors had said the damage to his Orbitofrontal cortex made him a different man. Yet, on the rarest of occasions, he could see glimpses of the man he once was. Practically serious to a fault. Doling out orders. Cracking jokes only to ease tension. 

It was sunlight through a boarded window, he didn’t want to deal with. Reynie liked who he was. That Reynard wasn’t ever happy. He knew that much to be true. Taking a breath to return himself, he felt his confidence return. A smirk tugged at the edge of his mouth. He pushed through the beaded curtain. The scene was just as he’d left it, frozen under Ellie's command. Her eyes met his, and he gave her a slow, deliberate wink. The show is back on.

His gaze swept to Maim Chalak. The Bolian’s knowing smile was still in place, ready to feast on the shattered man’s return.

He was met with Reynie’s most brilliant, insouciant grin.

“Apologies for the interruption,” Reynie drawled, sliding back into his seat with a practiced flourish. “Had to ensure our… guests… wouldn’t be leaving before the main event.” He picked up a stray gaming chip, flipping it idly between his fingers. “Now, where were we? Ah, yes. You were attempting to unnerve me with some delightfully obscure historical trivia. Charming, really. But a bit passé. If you’re trying to get a rise out of me, you’ll have to do better than that. Perhaps try complimenting the shoes. They’re surprisingly contentious.”

Maim Chalak’s smile was a thin, cruel line. His eyes slid from Reynie to Ellie, who was scanning for residual residue, seemingly off in her own world. 

“The shoes are a fascinating choice,” Chalak purred. “So… practical. A stark contrast to the rest of your attire. One might almost see them as a concession. A symbol of being… tethered. Tell me, Captain, does she hold your leash? Is the fearsome Hellhound soothed by this Vulcan Doctor, here? A most effective pacifier for a troubled soul, I imagine. A living, breathing reminder to stay in your kennel.”

The insult was deliberate, designed to provoke, to make Reynie defend her and in doing so, reveal a vulnerability.

Reynie's grin didn't falter. If anything, it widened. He let out a soft, genuine chuckle.

“Oh, you’re good. You’re very good. Leash? Pacifier?” He shook his head, still smiling. “Not that I would necessarily complain about being collared by that particular big tittied goth girl, but that’s not the kind of partnership we have.” He leaned forward, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “You see a handler and a hound. You think she stops me from biting? Darling, you have it backwards. She’s the one who points me at the right throat.”

He leaned back, the moment of intensity gone as quickly as it came. “But we’re getting off-topic, and frankly, your amateur psychoanalysis is starting to bore me. Why don’t you tell me how Sloane wound up dead in the men’s room with a letter opener in his head?”

“A tragedy,” Chalak recovered, his voice regaining its oily smoothness. “A man loses a fortune at the table, perhaps he despaired. The pressures of the game can break weaker minds.”

“Despair?” Reynie repeated, his tone light, almost conversational. He picked up the King of Hearts from the deck, turning it over in his fingers. “He folded. He walked away from the table. Men who are about to kill themselves in despair don’t usually take the time to neatly place a calling card on their own chests.” He looked up, his eyes locking with Chalak’s. “Who would think to do such a thing? This is your table after all.”

“You assume the card is a ‘calling card,’ Captain. A boast. A signature. Such a… linear interpretation.” He leaned forward slightly, his voice dropping to an intimate, conspiratorial tone. “Tell me, when your ‘Hellhounds’ cleared a sector of Cardassians on Veridian III, and you sent that data-burst—that howl over the comms—was it a boast? Or was it a statement? A declaration that the territory was yours. That a specific, brutal piece of work was now complete.”

Maim Chalak steepled his blue fingers, his face stayed stone, one of detached, academic interest. Yet, his eyes sparkled. “This is no different. The King folded. His territory was forfeit. The card is not a signature. It is a marker. A declaration that the work is done. You of all people should understand the economy of such a message, Donut.”

Someone was hunting the players in the casino. Chalak confirmed it, in his own loathsome way. Reynie’s eyes swept the sidelines, where the Nausicaan, Ferengi, and Romulan had sat. Ellie had clearly put them in a security lockdown for him to talk to separately. 

His gaze found Ellie’s, thankfully still there the whole time. Silent in the corner observing the whole thing. She gave him a nearly imperceptible nod. She’d reached the same conclusion. 

The entire establishment was a crime scene. Any player who showed a moment of weakness, was a potential target. Who knew how many bodies were shoved in the air vents or hidden in other opulent corners of this gilded cage. Reynie watched her pull her scanner back out with a little deep breath. 

He got to his feet, ignoring Chalak. “This is the most fucked up scavenger hunt Reynie,” Ellie whispered. “Is it bad that I would prefer the Diggler Drizzler? Hell, I can think of about a hundred other things… except maybe that swamp bloater.”

“I know, baby doll,” Reynie breathed. “This is exceedingly bad—”

She pulled Reynie into the men’s lounge, pointed at Sloane’s body. “Bad does not even begin to cut it. I want to lay my hands on that man in there. Just beat the living tar out of his smarmy face,” she muttered. “I cannot abide his behavior.”

Ellie turned to look Reynie square on. “The man is a fuckwit who thinks he holds some kind of intellectual superiority when he is just some reject from the Blue Man Group with a card game,” she finally took a breath. “And I have to find out this body count Reyn and—”

“You need to focus on that,” Reynie put his forehead to hers. It wasn’t the first time that they’d talked in front of a dead guy and he was sure it wasn’t going to be their last. There was something oddly comforting about that. “This guy isn’t rattlin’ me. Trust me, Rave.” 

His voice dropped even lower. “I mean, if he was trying to mess with me? C’mon babe, face it… he blue it…”

She shook her head. “Oh my god, seriously? That is what you are going with?” A smirk crossed her face. “Right in front of my dead guy?”

“You love me.”

“I do… Now, go break that bastard.”