Slaking thirsts

Posted on Sun Sep 13th, 2026 @ 9:18am by Freddie & Commander Alex Flynn & Commander Intharia T'Zor & Ambassador Drusilla Creon & Dowager General Kloh'theQ, Widow of Q'Lath & Ambassador Slake

6,402 words; about a 32 minute read

Mission: Shifting Shapes [4-5]
Location: Freddie's - Blue Sector - DS13
Timeline: After 'Glitz'

Freddie greeted the unexpected posse of Flynn, T'Zor and the Romulan, Klingon and Ferengi Ambassadors. He was simultaneously on the holographic stage with the latest iteration of the band; another version of himself on vocals, Jimi Hendrix on guitar, Wolfgang Mozart on keys, the 22nd century Andorian sensation Dhai P'Trell on drums and Charlie Mingus on the bass.

"Commanders, you're in esteemed company today. Welcome, Ambassadors." Freddie said with a polite bow.

"Freddie! Hey mate." Flynn said, entering casually.

"Afternoon, Freddie." T'Zor followed.

"Now, this is more like it." Ambassador Slake said, sizing up the hologram. "We want to rent the whole place out." Slake said with smooth enthusiasm. All to ourselves. Commander Flynn tells me you're the fellow who knows how to throw a party I'll like."

"Indeed, madam. What sort of party would that be, Commander?" Freddie asked Flynn.

"I was thinking, maybe the hen's night protocol? I realise you've got your own thing going on here, but, uh, I think she's probably a good customer to have." Flynn suggested, not expecting to have to do the planning part beyond throwing Freddie at the problem.

"I've seen your human hen's nights. I draw the line at phallic straws." T'Zor said firmly but with good humour.

"You heard the woman, no dick straws." Alex told Freddie.

"Speak for yourselves." Slake said.

"I'd love to ladies, but we've already got a few customers in who are hoping to have a quiet drink and watch the show." Freddie said with disappointed understanding.

"Stuff and nonsense." Slake said, producing a Bank of Ferenginar black card, and tossing it on the bar.

Freddie's eyes looked like they might pop out of his head, and suddenly the holographic band stopped playing and began to usher the other customers towards the exits with apologies and vouchers for future use. Soon they were gone, and it was only the posse of Ambassadors and Commanders remaining.

"Hit it!" Freddie called out, and suddenly the lighting dropped except on stage, where five different Freddies appeared in different occupational costumes, an obvious nod to the Village People. Muscular scantily-clad backup dancers and musicians appeared towards the back of the stage. Those that knew it would recognise the throbbing horns and disco chords of YMCA kicking in. All five came down from the stage and guided the excited Ambassador to a seat at the front, where they began their performance exclusively for her. Another Freddie appeared and offered her a drink.

"And for you ladies?" The original Freddie asked the four women who remained as the disco hit began to swell.

“Something expensive, sparkling, and wildly unobtainable.” Slake declared, dropping into the front-and-centre chair as though it had been built for her and her alone.

Freddie placed a hand over his chest. “Madam Ambassador, you describe half my menu and all my aspirations.”

“For me, bloodwine,” Kloh’theQ said, already scanning the room with a warrior’s suspicion for frivolity.

“A cold glass of shimmering ovkod,” T’Zor said. It was the closest thing she could get in this universe to a thessian apertif. And it was very pretty to look at, like a shimmering nebula in a glass. There was something that spoke to the elitist in her that humans couldn't drink it without getting sick.

Flynn leaned on the bar. “Pint. And one of those little bowls of nuts that never taste how they look.”

“Taking it easy, commander?” Freddie asked.

“Whisky after the pint,” Alex said. “ And keep 'em coming. I know how these things go.”

“A woman of vision.” Slake approved.

Freddie clapped once, delighted. Trays appeared in the hands of three immaculate holographic waiters and each was given one of their drinks to carry, all of them somehow had his cheekbones. The Village People tribute on stage reached the chorus and the backup dancers redoubled their efforts, gyrating with such committed professionalism that even Creon’s expression shifted by a degree.

Slake accepted her drink and took a long, approving sip. “Oh, this is vile. Marvelous.”

Flynn took her pint and settled in beside T’Zor, both of them beside the ambassadors. T’Zor inspected her glass with scientific suspicion, then took a measured drink and seemed satisfied that it was not going to dissolve her.

For a time the party was exactly what Slake had asked for: loud, glitzy and populated by muscular holographic men. Freddie cycled through songs with theatrical precision, the room changing from disco to smoky cabaret to something with pounding percussion and shirtless miners who were absolutely not a subtle reference to anything.

By the second round, the Romulan ambassador had stopped pretending not to be entertained. By the third, even Kloh’theQ had emitted a noise that might generously be called a grunt of approval as one of the dancers executed an athletic slide across the stage and came up on beat.

Slake, now reclining with the lazy satisfaction of a cat in a treasury, swirled the remains of her drink and glanced sidelong at Flynn.

“Right,” she said. “Business.”

Alex gave her a look. “That isn't what this appears to be.”

“Oh, hush. Diplomatic business. Cultural inquiry. I’m newly posted, Commander. I must know the territory.” Slake tilted her head toward the others. “Specifically, your males. Your senior staff had some quality to them. A station like this must be dreadfully lonely. Someone is bound to be available.”

T’Zor’s brow rose. “You might be surprised.”

Flynn drank half her pint before answering. “Depends who you mean.”

“The captain, for a start,” Slake said at once. “Your handsome Vulcan. Very stern jaw. Excellent shoulders. He looked like he’d disapprove magnificently.”

Alex let out a breath through her nose. “Yeah, no.”

“No?” Slake echoed, scandalised. “No because he’s attached, or no because you’re selfish and want him for the station?”

T’Zor answered before Flynn could. “Captain Rovak’s personal circumstances are… complex.”

Slake brightened. “Complex I can work with.”

“Complex even before one considers the fact that an Ambassador and a Starfleet Captain would cause a scandal with their torrid romance,” T’Zor said.

Flynn nodded into her glass. “The captain’s had a whole life before DS13. More than one, really. Marriages, children, losses, things turning up again when they ought to have stayed gone, and vice versa. Even if he weren’t the captain, which is already enough to make it a bad idea, he’s not a simple man to walk up to with a drink and a smile. Besides, his daughter is his world when he's not on duty. And his wife is... a question mark. MIA.”

Slake considered that. “So tragic, senior, responsible, and emotionally expensive.”

“Yeah.” Flynn admitted.

“I do like a challenge.”

“He wouldn’t,” T’Zor said, with polite finality.

Slake sighed theatrically and flicked two fingers. “Fine. Next. The Betazoid security chief. Lovely face. I enjoy a man who knows what I’m thinking before I do.”

“Rune?” Flynn smiled despite herself. “Not just spoken for. Married.”

Slake paused. “Happily?”

“Very,” said Flynn. “Vestar. He owns The Spot.”

“The one you declined to bring me to because I might corrupt the clientele?”

Flynn took another drink. “Yeah.”

Slake clicked her tongue. “Wasteful. He had a graceful sort of severity. I’d have enjoyed making him frown.”

“Then you’d have enjoyed it from a respectful distance,” T’Zor said. “Lieutenant Thul is devoted, and good at establishing boundaries.”

Slake gave a small, appreciative hum. “Mm. Devotion can be very flattering in the abstract. Fine. The navigator, then. Nimble fingers. Good posture. Quiet. I liked him.”

"Saez. As far as I know he's not taken." Alex said with a tone of uncertainty.

“Finally, a hyoo-mon with potential.” Slake said, sitting forward. “Now we’re getting somewhere.”

“Not really,” said Alex.

T’Zor folded her hands around her glass. “Commander Saez is competent, calm under pressure, and exceptionally reliable. Those are attractive qualities.”

“You’ve only been here two months, how do you know him so well?” Slake asked.

“He used to run metaphysics for me, before he got the call-up to lead navigation.” T’Zor clarified.

“There you are,a scientist and a pilot!” Slake said, triumphant. “He’s perfect! Take me to my perfect hyoo-mon.”

“But,” T’Zor continued, “we don’t actually know whether he is available in the sense you’re hoping.”

“He’s fun, but he doesn’t really share much about himself. And having heard from others who’ve tried, he may not be interested in being collected by an ambassador on a night out,” Flynn put in.

Slake waved that off. “Interest can be cultivated.”

Creon, listening despite herself, let one corner of her mouth twitch.

T’Zor nodded. “He has the air of a man who keeps his life trimmed to the necessary and the preferable. One suspects any entanglement would have to survive a fairly rigorous internal review.”

Slake leaned back. “You make him sound annoyingly sensible.”

“We’re trying to help,” Flynn said.

“Then the tactical officer,” Slake declared. “The limber one. Lieutenant… Zuul, was it? There was something there. Alertness. Dangerous hips.”

Kloh’theQ barked a laugh into her bloodwine.

“Akaar Zuul,” T’Zor said. “Also very competent.”

“Oh, come now, don’t tell me all your men are competent. Some station somewhere must keep one for decoration.”

“Freddie,” Alex said, jerking a thumb at the hologram host.

“I heard that,” Freddie called merrily from the stage, where he was now in sequined naval whites as they began a rendition of In the Navy.

Flynn went on. “Zuul’s tactical. That’s his whole personality when he’s on duty, and a fair bit of it when he’s not. He notices everything.”

“That can be delightful.”

“It can,” T’Zor agreed. “But not for the hunted.”

Slake narrowed her eyes. “Meaning?”

“Meaning,” T’Zor said, a little warmer now the drink had softened her edges, “that he would likely see you coming from several decks away, assess your intent, calculate outcomes, and place himself somewhere near a clear exit.”

Creon actually smiled at that. A man after her own heart.

“And if he couldn’t he’d turn it into a conversation about emergency evacuation procedure obligations for an embassy until you gave up.” Flynn added.

“I am not known to give up.”

“You’d become bored.” said Alex.

Slake opened her mouth to deny it, thought about it, then conceded with a small tilt of her glass. “Possibly.”

“Chief Gaz, then?” Kloh’theQ rumbled, unexpectedly joining in. “You were admiring his hands.”

Slake brightened at once. “Ah, yes. The Tellarite. Sturdy. Experienced. A little rough around the edges. I’ve done excellent work with rough edges.”

Flynn nearly choked on her drink.

T’Zor, to her credit, remained serene. “Chief Gaz is brave, fair-minded, and possessed of an earthy sense of humour.”

“Now that is a recommendation.” Slake said.

“More of a description.” T’Zor corrected.

Flynn set her pint down. “Gaz is also one of those men who takes first impressions very seriously, and rarely revises them. I don't think he's likely to change his reaction from the one you got at the dock.”

“I was being welcoming.”

“He visibly recoiled.” said Creon dryly.

Slake looked mildly offended. “I thought it was bashfulness.”

“It was not.” said Flynn and T’Zor together.

That got a laugh out of everyone except perhaps the holographic construction workers on stage, who were currently too busy flexing under a spotlight to participate.

“Plus he’s married. To a hyoo-mon.” Flynn added as an afterthought. She maybe should have started with that.

Slake slumped back into her seat in exaggerated despair. “What a disappointing station. Married, tragic, tactical, or stubborn. Is there not one senior man on Deep Space Thirteen who might make a reckless choice?”

Flynn lifted her whisky as Freddie silently traded it in for the empty pint. “Probably. But not with an ambassador they have to see at briefings.”

T’Zor considered that and added, “Also, you are very noticeable.”

“That has never before been presented to me as a disadvantage.”

“It isn't, generally. But it does reduce your ambush potential.” Said T’Zor.

For a second Slake stared at her. Then she threw her head back and laughed, rich and sharp and loud enough that one of the holographic dancers glanced over.

“Oh, I do like you two,” she said. “Hopelessly protective. Very well. I shall spare your officers my more direct attentions.”

“That’s kind of you,” Flynn said.

“For tonight,” Slake added.

Flynn shut her eyes briefly. “There it is.”

She watched the stage a moment longer, then turned back with renewed purpose.

“Alright,” she said. “Maybe I’ve been looking too close to the bridge. You’re a station. You must have more men than this. What about that Andorian colonel? The one with the face that says he’s already heard the joke and found it beneath him.”

Flynn snorted softly into her whisky. “Colonel Vhau.”

T’Zor gave a thoughtful nod. “Spot on.”

Slake smiled in vindication. “There we are. I knew I was getting somewhere. He has muscle and I’m guessing, flexibility. Andorian men do tend to have a useful amount of flexibility.”

“Ambassador your methodology remains grotesque.” Creon said dryly.

“And flawless.” Slake countered.

Flynn rolled the glass between her palms. “Vhau’s got that laid-back thing going on, but it’s not softness. More like he’s already worked out six ways a situation could go wrong and decided to make a joke to soften the worst of them.”

“Oh, I like that,” Slake said at once. “A dangerous man with timing.”

“He is witty,” T’Zor conceded.

“Mm.” Slake leaned in. “And is he spoken for?”

Flynn tipped one shoulder. “Don’t know. Andorian relationships can be... fluid.”

“Then at last, a live one.”

“That wasn’t the important part of my answer,” Flynn said.

T’Zor rescued the point before Slake could ignore it. “Unknown status means unknown status. We wouldn’t assume. But even setting that aside, Colonel Vhau is not exactly… casual company.”

“Because he’s a marine?”

“Because,” said T’Zor, “I suspect he would respond to overt flirting with sarcasm so refined you might not notice you’d been dismissed until half an hour later.”

Kloh’theQ let out an approving grunt.

Flynn nodded. “Aye. You’d think it was banter right up until you realised he’d sidestepped the whole thing and left you talking to your own reflection.”

Slake considered that, then smiled into her glass. “Dangerous, funny, difficult. Keep him on the list.”

“No, no list. We put this down on paper and we become walking harassment claims.” Flynn said.

“An internal list, then.” Slake corrected.

She scanned the room again, then clicked her fingers. “The Barzan pilot. Major… Nhan, wasn’t it? He had a pleasant steadiness to him. Pilots usually either become insufferable or very attractive. Which way’s he gone?”

“Nhan’s attractive enough,” Flynn said before she could stop herself.

T’Zor turned to look at her.

“What?” Alex said. “I’ve got eyes.”

“Noted,” T’Zor said, with the faintest hint of amusement.

Slake pounced. “Oh, excellent. Tell me everything.”

“Not everything,” Flynn muttered. “Major Nhan’s alright. Good at what he does. Leads from the front, backs his people, bit aloof sometimes. Sort of fellow who’d volunteer for the dangerous test flight and then ask everyone else if they wanted it more.”

“That is an extremely flattering combination.” Slake said, pleased.

“It probably is,” T’Zor allowed. “He also has the air of a man whose primary romantic commitment is to flight operations.”

Flynn nodded. “Squadron leaders get that way. Half their soul lives in rosters and launch windows.”

“So he’s dependable.”

“Yes.”

“Supportive.”

“Yeah.”

“Brave.”

“Oh, heaps brave.” Flynn confirmed.

Slake spread her hands. “I fail to identify the obstacle.”

Flynn took a sip. “There isn’t an obstacle. There’s a pattern. Men like that are usually half married to the job before anyone else gets a look in.”

“And the other half?”

T’Zor answered with perfect seriousness. “The wing. They get very close, combat pilots.”

Slake tutted. “You two do have a gift for turning virtues into red flags.”

“We’re being helpful,” Flynn said.

“Then help me with the Bajoran. Onda Duros.” Slake said his name like she was tasting it. “Now there is a man who knows he’s a man. Diplomat, tattoos, divorced. Finally, some texture.”

Flynn and T’Zor exchanged a look at that.

“Ah,” Slake said, delighted. “That look means I’m right.”

“It means,” said Flynn carefully, “that Onda Duros is probably the one you’d find easiest to talk to.”

“Ha.”

“He’s charming,” T’Zor said. “Objectively. He’s also a showman, plain-spoken when he chooses to be, and very, very practiced in persuasion.”

“A diplomat,” Creon said, as though pronouncing a diagnosis.

“A good one,” Flynn said. “And that’s the trouble.”

Slake frowned. “Because?”

“Having fun is important to him. Lots of fun. With lots of people. Doesn’t really take to ongoing arrangements.” Flynn said knowingly.

Slake swirled her drink. “You make him sound almost ideal.”

“Only if you enjoy being swindled out of your own seduction,” T’Zor said.

For perhaps the first time that evening, Slake fell briefly silent, lost for words.

Then she smiled, slow and bright. “I might.”

"He's not here much longer anyway. He's accepted a transfer to the Swiftsure, he'll be their new XO." Flynn said as an afterthought.

"Bah. And the Android... Alph, is it?” Slake asked, abruptly changing tack. “Quiet one. Efficient. The sort of man who looks like he doesn’t ever want to say no to you.”

Flynn let out a breath through her nose. “Alph’s a more complicated case.”

Slake’s eyes lit at once. “Excellent.”

“Not excellent,” Alex said. “Complicated.”

T’Zor folded her hands more neatly around her glass. “Alph is an android.”

Slake tilted her head. “Is he now?”

“Yes,” said T’Zor.

“Hm.” Slake considered this with visible seriousness. “Well that needn’t be disqualifying.”

“No,” Flynn said carefully. “But it does complicate things.”

“In what way?” Slake asked.

T’Zor answered first. “In the sense that we do not know whether he experiences attraction as you mean it. Or at all.”

Slake frowned. “Surely he must have preferences.”

“Possibly,” T’Zor said. “But if he does, he doesn’t advertise them.”

Flynn nodded. “He hasn’t shown romantic interest in anyone. Not that I’ve seen. He goes to every social occasion he can. Has friends and hobbies. He’s methodical, professional, always thinking three steps ahead. If there’s something resembling romantic potential under the hood, so to speak, he keeps it very close.”

“Or it may simply not be part of how he moves through the world,” T’Zor added. “We don’t know.”

Slake looked faintly concerned now, which on her wore the air of a merchant discovering an unfamiliar customs form. “So he’s… unavailable?”

“Not necessarily,” Flynn said. “Just unknown in a bigger way than the others.”

“He’s excellent in a crisis,” T’Zor said. “Logically-minded. Calm. Very capable. If something were going wrong, he is exactly the sort of person one would want nearby.”

“Very much so,” Alex agreed. “But if what you’re asking is whether there’s a warm hidden romantic nature under all that, I honestly couldn’t tell you.”

Slake leaned in. “Is he… fully functional?”

There was a beat.

Then Flynn and T’Zor looked at one another.

Creon, who understood enough about humans to recognise when one of them had walked directly into something, took a slow sip of wine.

Kloh’theQ barked one short laugh.

T’Zor recovered first. “We don’t know him well enough to say.”

Flynn nodded into her whisky. “Aye. And nobody’s going out of their way to investigate.”

“Nor would it be polite,” T’Zor added.

Slake lifted both hands in innocence. “I’m only asking on behalf of diplomatic completeness.”

“Of course you are,” said Creon, dryly unconvinced.

“Point is,” Flynn said, rescuing the conversation before Freddie could somehow make it worse from across the room, “Alph’s not one I’d advise pursuing. Not because there’s anything wrong with him. More because I don’t think anybody here has enough of a read on him to know whether that would be welcome, comprehensible, or just awkward for everyone involved.”

Slake gave a small, regretful click of the tongue. “Shame. There’s something appealing about the very composed ones.”

“There usually is,” Flynn admitted. “But Alph’s composed in a way that makes me think he’d turn a flirtation into a diagnostic. Subtlety isn’t something he’s renowned for, particularly when he’s experiencing new forms of socialisation. He’d ask you what you were doing, and when he realised, start asking you all about it. How you do it, why, what you’re hoping for. His curiousity is endearing, but it'll kill any romantic mood stone dead.”

Kloh’theQ laughed into her bloodwine.

T’Zor, despite herself, smiled. “That tracks.”

“And even you tried something subtle and physical, like you brushed his arm,” Alex went on, warming a little to the bit, “I suspect he’d either not register it at all, or ask whether you required assistance.”

“Hm. What of Ambassador Velt, I know his reputation with the ladies. You’re telling me he’d say no to all of this?” She gestured to herself with fanned out fingers revealing her extravagantly detailed nails on her non-dominant hand, though her other hand was equally impressive in its jewels.

“Even if you get past the fact that obviously no two nations are going to approve of their Ambassadors being in a romantic relationship, he’s got a young son who’s a lot of work.” Flynn said.

“Oh, I see. Infirmed?” Her tone was surprisingly tactful.

“No, just half-Kzinti. The feisty biting half.” Alex explained.

Slake frowned at that, more disappointed than previously. She took another sip of her drink and smiled again, laughing dryly. “I think maybe you don’t want me entangled with any of your males.”

“Hey, this is helpful. You don't want to see unhelpful.” Flynn said, shrugging with a deliberate lack of diplomatic tact.

“You are,” Slake admitted. “Cruelly, but yes.”

Freddie materialised by the table as if summoned by comic timing alone, carrying a tray of luminous shots that looked faintly radioactive.

“Ladies,” he said, “I couldn’t help overhearing that the station’s flesh-and-blood men have failed to align with requirements, and its non-flesh alternatives have proven ambiguous. I therefore present an alternative: six ounces of possibility, sugar, liquor and contraband luminescence.”

Slake took one at once. “You understand me, Freddie.”

“It is both my calling and my curse.”

She lifted the shot, but paused before drinking. “Very well. Colonel Vhau stays on the internal list. Nhan remains hypothetically promising. Onda seeks varied good times, with a ticking clock on his presence here. Alph is a beautifully unresolved question mark.”

“And none of that constitutes intent on our part to assist you with any romantic advances.” Flynn said, lifting a finger.

“Of course not,” Slake said innocently. “It constitutes research.”

Slake knocked the drink back, winced theatrically, and then, already recovering, looked past the table toward some memory that had only just reasserted itself.

“There is another who has caught my eye. Not of your senior staff. That enormous one.” she said.

Flynn looked over. “That narrows it down less than you think around here.”

“No, not one of your usual sturdy Federation varieties. Not a Brikarr or a Rhaandarite. Certainly not a cetacean.” Slake waved vaguely through the air, trying to capture an outline too large for gesture. “Massive. Muscular. But hyoo-mon at his core, I think. Looked like a mountain had put on boots and decided to glare at people. I saw him once in a holo taken by my advance team from the upper concourse. Who is he?”

T’Zor and Flynn exchanged a look.

Creon saw it first. “Ah.”

Kloh’theQ’s mouth curved. “The giant.”

Slake brightened. “So there is a giant. Wonderful. Tell me about the giant.”

Flynn took a slow sip of whisky. “Can’t tell you much. Technical specifics beyond his name, species, role and age are classified. Which are Ramielos Volsunga, Human, Tactical Advisor and 43.”

“Oh, you absolutely can.”

“Not much I’m allowed to tell you,” Alex corrected.

T’Zor inclined her head. “There are security considerations.”

Slake pressed a hand to her chest. “Do I look like a security concern?”

All four women looked at her, and each other.

“Fine,” Slake said. “I’m not interested in his obvious weaponised genetic modifications; I just want to know what sort of male he is. The broad strokes. What story I can tell myself when I think of his handsomeness in times of whimsy.”

Flynn relented first. “Broad strokes, then. He’s a warrior from another universe.”

“That’s all?” Slake wheedled.

“That’s what you’re getting. And only because we’re allies. You let that out, and Starfleet Security will be knocking on all of our doors.”

Slake frowned. “And here I thought this station existed to reward inquiry.”

“It does. Just not every kind.” T’Zor said.

“Sporting of you Commander to assume we don’t already know all there is to know about Battle-Brother Volsunga.” Creon said in defence of the Romulan intelligence apparatus’ honour.

Slake tapped one painted nail against the side of her glass. “Is he attached?”

Flynn almost laughed. “Ambassador, this is a man whose culture would sooner wed him to a gun than a woman.”

“That isn’t a no.”

“That is a very serious ‘don’t even think about it.’ Telepath tried to read his mind against his will once, his psychic defences caused the man’s entire head to explode into red mist.”

Flynn turned to Creon and Kloh’theQ, “This information is technically classified, but I share it in the interest of protecting any telepaths your governments may have in their service. But if we start finding headless bodies with clouds of blood and powdered bone decorating surfaces, we’ll probably figure it out.

Slake looked between them. “Interesting.”

Kloh’theQ drank deeply, then said, “He carries himself like a warrior who has never once expected mercy.”

“That’s true enough.” Alex said.

“And?” Slake prompted. “Come now. He is conspicuous even by station standards. By hyoo-mon standards he is godlike. You must have opinions.”

Flynn leaned back in her chair. “I do.”

T’Zor turned to her, mildly surprised by how quickly she’d said it.

Alex noticed the look and gave the smallest shrug. “What? I’ve spent time with him. I think I'm the only one, outside of Tactical and the usual professional interviews. Enough to see there’s a person in the killing machine.”

“That,” said Slake at once, sitting upright, “is the most interesting thing you’ve said all night.”

“It isn’t promising,” Flynn said. “He’s still a killing machine.”

“It is to me.” The Ambassador wouldn’t let this go. “Have you and he been spending time together long?” Slake asked with salacious intent.

“He’s our charge, madam. I won’t entertain insinuations about myself.” Alex said with a polite and jovial seriousness in her tone.

“The size difference between you. It must be… a complicating factor?”

“Ha ha.” Flynn said mockingly.

Freddie appeared just long enough to silently replace Flynn’s empty glass with a fresh one, then vanished again with the instincts of a man who knew when conversation had become too interesting to interrupt.

Slake settled in like a merchant about to hear the opening bid. “Go on, then. What kind of man is he?”

Flynn rolled the fresh whisky once around the bottom of the glass. “Well. First thing is, whatever you think from seeing him at a distance, up close he’s… gentler than that.”

T’Zor’s head turned fully now.

Slake blinked. “Gentler?”

“Aye.”

“That was not the word I expected.” said Creon, with dry precision.

“Me neither, first time,” Flynn admitted. “He’s blunt. Very blunt. And he’s obviously dangerous, before anyone says otherwise. But he’s not swaggering. He doesn’t loom for the sake of it. Half the time he seems more aware of the effect he has on other people than they are.”

“That's not what I expected either,” T’Zor said.

Flynn smiled faintly into her drink. “No. It sort of throws you.”

Slake narrowed her eyes with delighted suspicion. “You like him.”

Alex gave her a flat look. “I like literally thousands of people aboard.”

“That’s not a denial.” Ambassador Creon teased with a rare smile.

T’Zor, still studying her friend, said nothing.

Alex ignored her with moderate dignity. “He’s peculiar. In a sort of… earnest way. He takes things exactly as they’re said unless he’s had time to learn otherwise. I made some daft comment once about stretching his legs and he took me through his stretching routine for ten minutes. Plus he’s got a brain like the lovechild of all of history’s great tacticians. His slowness is impressive when almost every part of him except his mind is telling him to be ready to kill all the time."

Kloh’theQ barked a laugh.

Even Creon looked briefly amused.

T’Zor’s expression shifted from surprise to dawning understanding. “Oh.”

“Yeah,” said Flynn, hearing it in her own head as she said it. “There’s a lot of that. Idioms die on contact. Small talk appears, gets inspected, then either accepted or not. If you ask how he’s been, he actually tries to answer. Properly. Like the question matters.”

Slake’s smile sharpened. “And that appeals to you?”

“It’s… different.” Flynn frowned a little, not at Slake but at the effort of saying it aloud. “Most people dodge. Or posture. Or think they know the shape of a conversation before they’ve had it. With him there’s none of that. If he says something, he means it. If he doesn’t understand you, he asks. If he does understand you, you know.”

T’Zor let out a quiet hum into her glass. “I had not appreciated that you’d thought about it this much.”

“Neither had I,” Alex said honestly.

Slake’s grin became positively predatory. “Oh, this is excellent. He’s not even one of your staff, so he’s free for pursuit.”

“Not for anyone who is at all concerned about the dangers of a walking war crime who could kill you by sitting on you.” Flynn said.

“No, no, please continue. This has become anthropologically fascinating.”

T’Zor set her glass down. “You said he was gentler than he appears. Considerate, even.”

“Aye.” Alex nodded, more serious now. “Not soft. Never soft. But careful. More careful than someone that size has any obligation to be. He’s learned to move around people without frightening them if he can help it. He notices when he’s having an effect. He doesn’t like being treated as a spectacle. And he’s lonely, I think.”

That last part surprised even her a little.

T’Zor saw it immediately. “Lonely?”

Flynn nodded once, staring into the amber in her glass rather than at any of them. “Aye. Or if not lonely, then… set apart in a way he’s only recently had time to notice. He spent his whole life preparing to die in glorious battle for his Emperor. Then suddenly he’s here, and we keep asking him to be something else, and somehow he’s actually trying, and actually doing it. I think he’s more surprised by it than we were.”

Slake’s expression had shifted now too, away from amusement and toward curiosity of a different sort. “You admire that.”

“Obviously I admire it,” Flynn said, a little more sharply than she meant to. Then she exhaled. “Sorry. Yes. I do.”

T’Zor’s brows rose another fraction. “Alex.”

“What?”

“You’re sounding very protective over a man who put serious effort into murdering us all, and who could do so unarmed with very little difficulty.”

Flynn gave a soft, disbelieving laugh. “Yeah.”

“Protective?” Slake repeated, delighted all over again. “Commander Flynn, is there a softy under all that swagger?”

“Behave, madam.” Flynn said as she was about to take another drink. But she was smiling now, just a little, and there was no real heat in it.

“He’s calmer than he ought to be,” she said after a moment. “Or maybe calmer than anyone had a right to expect. He’s been… adjusting. Finding work he likes. Thinking instead of fighting. I took him to a holodeck once. Showed him mountains. Forests. Things he’d never really had. And we've been out on the promenade, tried foods, listened to different music. He didn’t say much at the time, but he looked at it all like it mattered.”

T’Zor stared at her. “You've taken him out of an evening.” she said.

“Yeah.”

“Just the two of you?”

“Yeah.” Alex admitted casually.

Slake, thrilled, leaned toward T’Zor. “Was it a date?”

“Probably not,” said T’Zor.

“No,” said Flynn at the same time.

That only made Slake cackle.

Creon shook her head, though now there was unmistakable amusement in it. “How very Starfleet. Find an interdimensional war-beast and immediately begin rehabilitating him with scenery and chit-chat.”

“It’s worked on some Romulans,” Flynn said.

Creon lifted her glass. “Cruel.”

“You’re both unbearable,” Slake declared, beaming. “And you still haven’t told me whether the giant is available.”

Flynn opened her eyes again and pointed at her with the glass. “No.”

“No because he isn’t, or no because you wish to pursue him?”

“No because he’s classified. You get to know who he is because he’s hard to miss, and he advises our crew. That doesn’t mean technical details.”

Slake threw up her hands. “You’re impossible.”

“No,” said Alex, with a surprising firmness. “Just protective of those in my care.”

That changed the air a little.

T’Zor looked at her, really looked this time, and whatever she saw there made her expression soften with something close to fond surprise.

“Oh,” she said again, much quieter now.

Flynn caught it and immediately went defensive. “Don’t you start.”

“I haven’t started anything.” T’Zor said with feigned innocence.

“You’ve got the ‘discovery discovered’ look. This is a scientist thing across the multiverse, obviously.” Alex said.

T’Zor’s smile was small and entirely unhelpful. “Perhaps I have.”

Slake looked between them with ravenous delight. “Ah, I adore this station. You two are lucky women to be among such verdant and complicated life.” She said to the two counterpart ambassadors.

Creon muttered “May the furies protect it.”

Freddie’s voice floated from the stage. “Ladies, for the next number I shall require either applause, singing along, or both.”

“Applause,” Flynn said at once.

“Singing along,” Slake countered.

Kloh’theQ raised her bloodwine. “Both.”

The music swelled again, something slow and smoky this time, and the lights shifted to deep gold. A suddenly bleach-blonde Freddie did a typically fantastic performance of Hot in the City with the audience’s help and a number of holographic backup dancers designed specifically to please Slake.

Flynn took a longer drink and stared determinedly at the stage.

Beside her, T’Zor leaned just slightly closer, not enough to crowd, only enough to make the gesture felt.

“You know,” the asari said quietly, pitched for Alex alone despite the noise, “I'm surprised to see you endangering yourself by getting so close to Volsunga. I'd be surprised to see anyone.”

“Thanks.” Flynn said flatly, but with a knowing look.

“But not displeased.”

Alex looked sideways at her. “There’s nothing to be pleased about. I said he was interesting. And decent. That’s all. And besides, everyone else is too petrified to volunteer to help socialise him.”

T’Zor’s eyes gleamed with amusement. “Of course.”

Flynn gave her a look.

Then, after a beat, in a voice much closer to honest than she would have liked, she said, “He is decent, though.”

T’Zor’s expression gentled. “Yes,” she said. “I think perhaps he is. And not just because he put his life on the line down on Dreizhen for us.”

And for once, Slake let the subject go - not because she’d lost interest, but because even half-cut on expensive drink she could smell when a conversation had crossed from gossip into something more delicate.

She lifted her glass toward the stage, toward Freddie, toward the whole ridiculous evening.

“To the station’s impractical men,” she declared.

Flynn snorted.

Creon lifted hers anyway. Kloh’theQ did the same. T’Zor followed, eyes still faintly amused.

“And,” Slake added, glancing sidelong at Alex, “to the ones who sneak up on you.”

Flynn muttered something into her whisky that nobody made her repeat.

Freddie swept in from nowhere with another tray. “Ladies, seeing as the romantic prospects of the senior staff have proven so uncooperative, might I interest you in our next act? This is select songs from ‘Miners of Musculon XII.’ It is entirely tasteless.”

Slake sat upright at once. “Salvation, Freddie, salvation. Hit it!” She cried, pointing at the stage with imperial certainty.

The lights dropped again. A bassline rolled through the room. From somewhere behind a curtain of holographic steam came the rhythmic clang of picks on ore and the silhouettes of broad-shouldered men in absurdly tiny mining harnesses.

Flynn reached for her drink and glanced sideways at T’Zor. “We are absolutely not telling the captain about this in detail,” she said.

T’Zor watched the first of the miners emerge in a wash of gold light, outfits that were more a tasteless joke than an attempt to conceal anything, and considered the matter with grave seriousness. “Only in summary.” she agreed without looking back, transfixed on the holographic dancers.

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