The Grand Opening
Posted on Tue Feb 11th, 2025 @ 5:43am by Captain Rovak & Commander Alex Flynn & Lieutenant Rune Thul & Lieutenant S'Lace & SubCommander Saa & Lieutenant Commander Atna & Ensign Nimah & Senior Chief Petty Officer Gaz & Vestar Khai
5,457 words; about a 27 minute read
Mission:
Masters of the Stars [2]
Location: 'The Spot', Civilian Sector
Timeline: MD03 - 1830
The invitation had gone out to the senior staff and many more, and while a handful of regrets had been returned, more than a few would be attending the opening of 'The Spot', the business owned by DS13's own Vestar Khai, husband to Security and Tactical Chief Rune Thul.
Rovak arrived precisely on 1830 with his daughter, both dressed in culturally non-distinct casualwear.
"'The Spot', is that a Trill pun?" T'Shan asked her father when she saw the sign.
"I am uncertain. You may wish to ask Mr Khai." Rovak told his daughter.
Inside, at the front of the room, Ambassador Velt had already put a couple of staff to work putting three tables together while he talked to another young female employee, who appeared to be nodding politely, but rather wanting to escape. The Ambassador's son Rom was racing around the room making a menace of himself, but the Ambassador seemed oblivious to it.
"Ambassador," Rovak asked him as they approached. "How long have you been here?" Rovak didn't know Velt to be someone to arrive early.
"Oh, long enough to get things ready. This is the Thul's night, obviously, but it'll be a good chance to say a few words." Velt said, gesturing for a passing waiter to top up his champagne. "Will the rest of the senior staff be around?"
"I believe so. Many have been invited."
"Good to hear Mr Rovak, good to hear. And how are you my dear?" Velt asked T'Shan.
"Well, thank you Ambassador." T'Shan said.
"Excellent, excellent. The Thuls are around somewhere I think, but please, take a seat. I'd like us all to get a holo together tonight, if nothing else." Velt said, gesturing, before looking around for the staff member he'd been chatting to who appeared to have used the opportunity to escape.
Alex entered not long after Rovak and T'Shan, and went straight to the bar for a pint. She was wearing jeans and a t-shirt, along with her boots. She didn't usually question whether she was underdressed, but for some reason she worried that might have been the case tonight. With a sip of her lager, she pushed the thought out of her head, and gathered alongside the others. "Evening, all." She said, milling about with them, giving a warm smile to T'Shan.
S'Lace had not wished to come, but she was a department head now and she knew she needed to form interpersonal relationships with the rest of the staff. She arrived dressed in a black slacks and low heeled boots, with a muted tan tunic. About her waist was wrapped her ahn-woon and her hair uncharacteristically was worn in loose bun. She paused in the doorway. It...was not too late to turn back. No one had noticed her yet...
Behind S'Lace, Intharia and Atna approached, connected by a subtle touching of index and middle fingers. Atna wore a dark robe with Vulcan lettering along the seam, Thari was in a long navy blue sleeveless dress. "Doctor, good evening. Are you coming in?" Atna asked S'Lace as Thari smiled. Atna noticed the ahn-woon serving as a belt, but made no comment on it, she trusted that the Doctor was not here to attack anyone.
"Of course," S'Lace murmured. Well, there was no retreating now. She entered in the wake of Atna and her companion.
Nimah couldn't possibly miss out on the chance to visit the new bar. She'd been hearing about it for quite some time now, in fact, from colleagues. So when the doors opened for the first time that evening, she'd made sure to go back to her quarters, change and return to the lounge in earnest. Her outfit for the night: a loose-fitting blue dress that showed off just enough of her figure.
Gaz was later than he'd hoped to be, still wearing his uniform. He was happy that they'd finally got the power systems in delta dock restored, but this event felt more like an obligation than fun. He got a beer from the bar and wandered over to where the rest of the senior staff seemed to be gathered.
Once the entrance was clear, the air inside The Spot buzzed with a subtle hum of conversation, the soft clinking of crystal glasses, and the distant echo of music that was just refined enough to enhance the atmosphere without overwhelming it. The lighting, a careful blend of deep violets and soft golds, reflected off the sleek metallic surfaces of the bar and tables around the restaurant, illuminating the gathered crowd of elite patrons, dignitaries, Starfleet officers, Romulans and a few strategically placed staff. They were all here for one reason—him.
And then, the main doors parted.
Vestar Khai strode in with the effortless grace of a man who belonged at the center of every room he entered. His attire—a shimmering cascade of deep purple fabric that caught the light with every movement—seemed to command attention without so much as a word. The high collar of his coat framed his face like the throne of a galactic sovereign, and the golden insignia on his belt gleamed under the soft glow of the chandeliers, a bold declaration of his status as a Supremacy Incorporated’s Executive.
His eyes scanned the room, taking in the admiring glances, the whispers exchanged behind hands, and the palpable weight of expectation that settled in the air. A small smirk tugged at the corner of his lips—he knew the effect he had, and tonight, he intended to make the most of it.
He took a measured step forward, letting the hem of his coat sweep behind him in a dramatic flourish, pausing just long enough to allow the moment to linger. This was his night, his domain, and every detail—right down to the placement of the imported delicacies from around the Federation and beyond on the tables—had been carefully curated to perfection.
And then it hit him.
The Spot.
The thought crept in like an uninvited guest at his otherwise immaculate soirée. He allowed himself a brief chuckle, the sound low and private, escaping only for those closest to him to notice. The name had been chosen long before his ascent to power, long before he had advanced up the administration ladder of Supremacy Incorporated. Back then, it had seemed sophisticated—exclusive, even. But now? Now that he was an Executive, one of those in charge, the pun practically stared him in the face.
“The Spot,” he murmured under his breath, his smirk widening as he adjusted the cuff of his perfectly tailored coat. The place to be. A focal point of catering power and influence. And somehow, he'd only just realized the delicious irony of it all.
With a subtle shake of his head, he dismissed the thought and lifted his chin, stepping fully into the light. Whatever unintentional humor lay within the name, it was already too late to change it. Besides, as the murmurs of admiration continued to ripple through the room, he decided there was no harm in embracing the joke.
After all, tonight, he was exactly where he belonged—right in the middle of The Spot. "Welcome! Guests and Patrons. I am proud to announce that 'the Spot' is now open for business." Vestar said in a pleased tone, loud and clear. He had picked up the glass that one of his wait staff had offered him as they approached him from his left side. "Tonight and tomorrow will be on the house in celebration, if you have any requests for us, please let us know. Please enjoy yourselves!" Vestar concluded as he raised his hand slightly above his face with his arm bent. "Thank you all for coming!"
As he grabbed some of his regal cape with his empty hand in order to keep it close to him as he performed a 360 slowly turn offering nods, smiles and air clinks with his glass to those in attendance as they made eye contact with him.
Rovak, T'Shan and Velt all raised their glasses, though Rovak was only drinking water, and T'Shan a chocolate milkshake.
Gaz raised his beer.
Alex had just finished an impromptu drinking race with Warrant Officers Cage and Seth and won convincingly, but she raised her empty glass, belching loudly.
Intharia raised her sangria, but Atna, drinking only water, remained still.
Nimah clinked her glass with his before deciding to go off and socialise. "You know, I'm quite liking the vibes here." She said to the very first person she encountered afterwards. "And the name. The irony of it."
"S'okay." Gaz said, being constitutionally incapable of being positive about something from the outset. "What irony?" He asked, assuming something was lost in the translation, or that it was some socio-cultural thing he just didn't understand.
Toral tr’Vassel, one of the newest additions to The Spot’s roster, navigated the bustling lounge with a tray of assorted ‘finger foods’ balanced effortlessly in his hands. Despite his composed exterior, there was an unmistakable tension in the way he held himself—a quiet battle waged beneath the veneer of Romulan efficiency.
Some of the food on the tray… moved. Not much, but enough to make his skin crawl.
Probably Klingon cuisine, he thought with a mental grimace. It was contained, thankfully, sealed within a transparent dome that did little to hide its unsettling writhing. Toral, ever strategic even outside a tactical environment, kept that particular dish closest to himself, ensuring that anyone interested would have to reach over it—an unspoken barrier for the faint-hearted. He considered it self-preservation.
The first time he’d seen it, he’d nearly gagged—an involuntary reaction he’d masked with the grace of someone dodging a diplomatic incident. A quick pivot, a subtle cough disguised as clearing his throat, and he’d made his escape from the kitchen without anyone noticing his moment of weakness. Since then, he’d avoided direct eye contact with the dish, though its squirming presence haunted the edges of his vision like an unwelcome specter.
If he saw Klingons, though? Oh, he’d offer it to them with enthusiasm bordering on vengeance. He’d even been coached on how to describe it in ways that would appeal to their warrior sensibilities—words like 'alive with flavor', 'honour in every bite' or 'a battle in your mouth' were locked and loaded, ready for deployment.
When he saw Nimah and Gaz, Toral approached with the tray, his posture smooth, practiced. Despite the internal struggle, he presented the assortment with the confidence expected of someone twice his age of 18 or 19. Romulan pride ran deep, after all.
Holding the tray out slightly for them to inspect, he offered a polite, neutral smile.
"Anything here take your fancy?" he asked, his voice light, professional. "All of it is rather tasty."
That part, at least, was true. He’d sampled everything, from before the opening began with all the other wait staff—except the writhing horror directly in front of him.
Leaning in slightly, his voice dropped to a more conspiratorial tone, his expression softening with amusement.
"You know," he added with a quiet chuckle, "I overheard the pun about the restaurant’s name. The Spot. It’s quite ironic." His grin grew just a touch wider. "I don’t think the boss realized it until just before he made his announcement."
Toral chuckled softly, the sound genuine this time—a small moment of shared humor, a reprieve from the perpetual balancing act of youth, duty, and the horrors of semi-sentient cuisine.
There is no amount of living on Risa that prepares one for the sight of food squirming grotesquely as it sits on your plate. Nimah instantly looked a little queasy as she laid eyes upon it. "I'll have... these." She reached out to take what looked like an apple-sized cream puff. "I think it's quite nice, actually. The atmosphere isn't half bad." Nimah flashed a lopsided smile as she bit into said puff.
Gaz also took a handful of something he didn't recognise and chewed it up. It wasn't so bad. Like most Tellarites he knew what he liked, but there wasn't much he'd turn his nose up at. He was starting to think he wasn't ever going to understand the irony they were all going on about.
"Excellent choices," Toral said, he smiled, and pulled out a padd from his back pocket. "If you'd like to try any beverages here is our menu. Of course, just to remind you all is free for tonight and tomorrow."
Lieutenant Rune Thul, in Starfleet dress uniform, guided two 21-year-old boys and a 16-year-old girl inside. They had been outside and let Vestar be the star, all three sported smiles as they entered and Rune glanced around at those assembled. Ambassador Velt was the only dignitary present as far as he could tell.
He knew Vestar, and or Captain Rovak, had invited the Free State and Empire Ambassadors. Perhaps they sort to hold the fashionably late card. Rune gently tapped Tomnas, Kirk and then Priza in succession on their shoulders. "Alright, you have 6 hours to enjoy yourselves but do not make a fool of yourselves. This is your dad's night, and who knows what might happen should you embarrass him."
Rune left their side and went to collect a beverage from nearby wait staff who were making their rounds. He made his way over to Vestar and clinked glasses. "Congratulations Imzadi." The two shared an embrace.
"Thank you love." Vestar replied with a smile, the two remained in the middle of the restaurant so to be accessible for anyone to approach.
"Mr Khai, congratulations." Ambassador Velt said as he approached the two men. "And my goddess! This outfit. I'd recommend it for the diplomatic corps if it wasn't such a tripping hazard. It's already in our colours after all. Where did you get it?" Velt laughed, comparing the fabric of his uniform sleeve to Vestar's luxurious cape.
"I'll be over there." Rune said and made a 'cheers' gesture at the Ambassador before excusing himself. He made his way over to bar.
"As you wish love," he muttered to Rune and watched him leave his side. Vestar knew the Ambassador was too much for the Chief of Security/Chief Tactical Officer. He turned to the Caitian. "Thank you Ambassador." He replied. "I'm afraid, I cannot recall. I got this ensemble tailored many years ago, fortunately it still fits.
"I do have a request of you but it can wait til a more appropriate place and time. Do enjoy yourself." Vestar said with a smile, he held up his glass and sipped for a few moments savouring the taste of the beverage.
"And you, Mr Khai!" Velt said enthusiastically, moving across the room to intercept Counselor Bluke, who seemed to be standing alone.
As she made her way in, S'Lace found herself joined by Saa. The dolphin engineer looked a little more tense than usual as she fell in alongside the physician.
"Continue acting normal, Doctor," she advised in a hushed buzz. "And don't turn around. We're being stalked."
S'Lace stiffened ever so slightly. While one hand held the flute of altair water, her free hand deftly loosened the ahn-woon about her hips in preparation for releasing it.
Declining to elaborate further, she scanned the decorations at the bar until her gaze landed on a color-shifting Takaran geode, which she handed it up to the Vulcan with a manipulator. "Hold this," she asked.
Her distraction in place, the dolphin inched away and then, unexpectedly, darted around the table nearest them. There was a brief thrash and a felid yowl of alarm before she came up again with a squealing, laughing, four-year-old Caitian in her jaws.
"Letmego!" demanded Ambassador Velt's son, Rom.
"What's the password?" Saa asked, tightening her grip on her catch.
"I mean it!" he giggled, bringing his tiny fangs and claws into mock play against his captor's beak.
"I'd put those away if I were you," the dolphin teased. "What do you think, Doc? Do we throw him back?"
A child. It had been quite some time and S'Lace had learned to deal with the grief, but all the same there were times when she was reminded of the life that was, the potential her son had represented, ended by the Cardassians. All of that flashed for an instant through her mind as he saw the squealing, giggling child in Saa's grip.
"Perhaps we can keep it," S'Lace suggested, eyeing the child critically, "I could always use someone to clean beakers and test tubes in my labs," she cocked her head, "Can you braid hair, small furry mammal?"
Rom looked up at S'lace like she was Death incarnate.
"Never! You, you can't make me work!" Now he almost seemed to be using the cetacean's beak as a defense, moving to keep as much of it as he could between himself and the more threatening Vulcan.
"Waste of good eating," argued Saa, unwilling to relinquish the role of bad cop. "You've got a few things to learn about predation, kiddo. First thing is: you start with the old, the sick—and the young." Pinning him to the bar, she proceeded to loudly 'devour' his innards, drawing brief looks from a few of the closest tables.
Rom let out a squeal that was equal parts amusement and terror, S'Lace suppressed a wince as the child's voice hit certain notes that her sensitive Vulcan hearing barely tolerated. Sipping her altair water, she murmured, "the sub-commander might wish to let the prey go before it's adult arrives to rescue it. I would not wish to be in the sites of an irate Caitian..."
Atna closed her eyes involuntarily at the sudden loud noise but did not look around to it or react otherwise. Intharia laughed at the site of the Dolphin and the kitten rassling, it was another moment where she felt like she was seeing something nobody had ever seen in her own universe. It was probably true of everything she'd done since arrival, but it felt especially so in such moments.
"That's a point," Saa conceded, having let up and disentangled herself. "You got someone around here, squirt?" She hoped she managed to keep any look of pain out of her eyes. For all her display of apparent invulnerability, it had been a challenge not to drop the kid. Those little claws were surprisingly sharp.
"My daddy's the 'bassador! He'll get you in trouble!" Rom yelled, not quite at the point of squealing. On the other side of the room Velt was completely oblivious to his son's perils, far too bewitched by the Risan charms of Counselor Bluke. Oriath did not have the instinctive parental responses some would expect of a parent hearing their child in distress, and indeed seemed to have a selective deafness for it.
Saa glanced back in the direction she'd last seen the ambassador, finding him preoccupied. Now it made sense.
Priza Thul strode forward with a sense of purpose, flanked by her 21-year-old brothers, Tomnas and Kirk. Though none of them wore official uniforms, they weren't Starfleet nor 'The Spot' Staff, though the unspoken presence of authority was unmistakable, since their father was the owner—especially in the way Tomnas and Kirk positioned themselves on either side of her, their posture unmistakably protective.
The 16-year-old girl’s sharp eyes flicked between the trio in front of her—the Doctor, the Dolphin, and the Caitian boy—before gesturing toward them with deliberate intent.
"What is going on here?" she asked, her voice carrying the weight of expectation, though not without a tinge of curiosity. She had come on behalf of her fathers, but that wasn’t the only reason. She wanted to help out.
Behind her, Tomnas liked to analyze and so what he did best—assess. His gaze moved across the trio, methodical and measured, taking in every detail as if cataloging potential threats, weaknesses, or ulterior motives. Kirk, meanwhile, followed suit—but his approach was less calculated, more instinctive. His watchful eyes scanned in a different order, his body language slightly looser, yet still exuding readiness.
Neither of them said anything—yet. Instead, they stood as silent sentinels, allowing Priza’s words to take the lead. Now, it was up to the trio before them to answer.
"Captured on safari," replied Saa. "A friend of yours? I was just about to ask if he wanted to go back over to his dad or hang out with us." She turned back to the Caitian, now sat up on the bar, and fixed him with her permanent smile. "What do you think, sport?"
His four-year old thought process was obvious as Rom looked between Saa, S'Lace, the strangers who'd shown up, and his distant father in the crowd. His claws withdrew as he relaxed, and tapped his soft hand-pads on Saa's snout. "Again, again!"
"All right, but not so loud this time." The dolphin lunged, and the two resumed their tussle.
"I believe I shall take my leave," S'Lace murmured, taking a step back, "Before I am asked to participate...
"That's all right, Doctor," Saa said, her foodmouth full of giggling, biting kitten. Thankfully it played no part in her vocalizations. "We'll move. Come on, let's go somewhere we're not bothering people."
She supposed that babysitting the ambassador's son was as productive a use of her time as anything else she was likely to do here. And there was bound to be a dermal regenerator on the premises.
A few minutes after Vestar's toast to the room, Ambassador Creon and a party of half a dozen Romulans entered, including her daughter, the business owner D'Deridex Tebok and his son D'Darius, as well as Ixim the security director and others from the embassy.
She stood near the doorway, awaiting the service from venue staff that she assumed would follow.
S'Lace sensed the arrivals and glanced over her shoulder. She sipped her water, curious to see what this new arrival might herald.
Vestar spotted the Romulan delegation entering and offered a warm, practiced smile. He made his way toward them but halted just short, allowing them to step further inside before formally greeting them.
"Welcome, Ambassador Creon, Ms. Creon, Centurion Ixim, Mister Tebok, Master Tebok—and all of you," he said, acknowledging each by name where possible while extending a broad gesture to encompass the entire party. His tone was smooth, professional, and laced with genuine hospitality.
"Jolan tru, Mr Khai." Drusilla said, speaking on behalf of the party.
Pausing just long enough for the pleasantries to settle, he continued. "Since you missed the announcement, I wanted to personally inform you that all food and beverages are complimentary for tonight and tomorrow’s service hours." His expression was light, inviting. "A small token of my appreciation for your presence at the opening." He inclined his head slightly before adding, "I highly encourage you to sample some of our experimental drinks—each enhanced in unique ways."
Vestar allowed a moment of anticipation before offering a sly grin. "And, just for you, my bartenders have crafted a special tribute to Romulan Ale." A subtle admission flickered in his eyes. "Regrettably, I ran out of time to secure an official shipment before tonight, but it is en route. In the meantime, I trust our tribute will be worth your consideration."
With effortless grace, he extended a hand toward a Romulan who had just stepped up beside him. The man, dressed in a striking purple and white-dotted crop top paired with sleek black pants, exuded confidence. His presence was as carefully curated as the establishment itself—an intentional blend of style and professionalism.
"Allow me to introduce Thulek ir’Ratoris Mnor," Vestar said, his cadence shifting to one of deliberate emphasis. "He is one of my newest staff members, and he will be attending to your party this evening."
Thulek inclined his head in a measured bow, his movements as fluid as his words. "Welcome to The Spot, Ambassador Creon, Ms. Creon, Centurion Ixim, Mister Tebok, Master Tebok, and esteemed guests." His tone was warm yet deferential, the kind of Romulan grace that carried an unspoken assurance of competence. "Shall I escort you to your table?"
With a poised motion, he gestured toward a set of two tables seamlessly arranged together, adorned in the Free State’s colors and regalia. The setup was refined, unmistakably intentional—separate from the general seating using 3 two-meter high mobile panels, anyone seated at the table had a view of the bar and holostage. A careful balance of prominence and privacy.
"If you wish, Ambassador, the decorations can be removed," Thulek continued smoothly, his voice carrying the careful neutrality of one accustomed to anticipating rather than assuming. "However, I would recommend keeping the dividers in place. They provide excellent sound dampening, allowing you to enjoy the holoprograms in relative quiet once they begin." His brow lifted slightly, offering the suggestion without expectation.
Then, hands folded neatly in front of him, he awaited their preference.
"Leave them." Creon instructed regarding the decorations before telling him, "You may escort us."
Thulek allowed himself a brief, measured grin before straightening to his full height, exuding the quiet confidence of someone who had recently mastered the art of graceful hospitality. "This way," he said smoothly, stepping aside with a fluid motion to allow the delegation to follow at their own pace. He turned and led the way toward the elegantly arranged tables, his stride precise yet unhurried, as if every step was part of a carefully choreographed routine.
Upon reaching the joined tables—draped in the Free State’s rich colors with subtle accents of regalia reflecting Romulan artistry—Thulek paused, extending a graceful arm toward the chairs. "Please, sit wherever you wish," he offered, his voice carrying the warmth of practiced courtesy without a hint of formality overreach. He then took a respectful step back, standing at ease just to the side of the setup, his posture attentive without imposing.
After giving the delegation a moment to settle, Thulek returned with seamless precision, carrying a sleek tray of crystal glasses and a large, elegantly designed decanter of chilled water. The decanter caught the ambient light, casting faint reflections across the polished tabletop. With practiced efficiency, he set the tray down at the center, arranging the glasses within easy reach, each placement deliberate but unpretentious.
"Chilled water for you all," Thulek said softly, gesturing toward the decanter with an open hand, his tone as smooth as the pour would be should they request it.
His fingers then lightly grazed the holographic display panel integrated into the tabletop. The menu illuminated instantly—sleek icons representing a diverse array of dishes and drinks, each one designed with subtle animations to catch the eye without overwhelming the senses.
"This is our menu," Thulek continued, his voice pitched just right to command attention without disrupting the relaxed ambiance. "Simply tap the items you’d like, and I will bring them to you promptly." He gave a polite nod, stepping back once more into his attentive stance, his presence a perfect blend of formality and approachability—ready to assist without hovering.
"Our thanks." Creon said, looking through the menu items to see who else was present in the room.
As Thulek moved to go, Ixim politely intercepted him, offering him one hand to shake, while placing a slip of latinum into one of the pockets on Thulek's torso subtly. "Jolan tru, brother." Ixim told him.
"Jolan tru, sir." Thulek replied, he was a server after all and must remain professional as instructed by his manager. His eyes did widen slightly at the slip of latinum. Tips were of course acceptable but must be considered by payroll, Supremacy Inc had across the company rules about it but as long as its reported, the receiver usually gets to keep it. He quickly whispered, "thank you sir."
However he said at the appropriate volume. "Was there anything in particular I can help with Centurion?" Thulek asked with respect as he used Ixim's rank and gave a small bow of his head.
"Just make sure the Ambassador and her guests aren't kept waiting." Ixim said, giving the young man a pat on the shoulder, and moving to the remaining seat.
Within the hour, more of the station’s senior staff had arrived, as well as Admiral Gali and his senior officers, who sat at a table at the back, and didn’t stay long. More than a few civilians, including a few Klingons had also discovered the venue.
Toral's chance had come as he watched Klingons enter and sortie around for a table. He approached them with vigor. Much on his tray had been taken, including a few from the writhing. He'd somehow against all odds not looked directly at the Klingon cuisine, he continued on.
Once he'd got in with the Klingons he called out to them. "I give you a dish that is 'alive with flavor', you'll be 'honoured with every bite' especially since this will bring 'a battle inside your mouth' honoured Warriors. What say you?" Toral questioned with a respectful challenging leer while he moved the writhing to the front of the tray than lifting the lid. Instantly a scent of bloodwine that was combined with a range of different flavours spread out to the Klingons surrounding him.
He took a step back as he extended the tray out for them. "Be first to tell about this dish." Toral encouraged with a gruff voice.
There wasn't quite enough in the container for all of them, so once one Klingon grabbed it, Toral had to pull the tray out of the middle and dash back to the kitchen to get more. He knew they'd be after more as the growls and punches were exchanged. Thankfully confined to their table and remarkably low in volume.
Toral had an inkling it was the music.
As a musical number seemed about to start on the holostage, Ambassador Velt strode up to the hologram and politely took control of the microphone, to the holgram’s slight confusion. Unwilling to make a scene, the performer surrendered it.
“Good evening everyone, my apologies for the interruption but we’ll be back to our scheduled programming in just a moment. Firstly, my heartfelt congratulations to Mister Vestar Khai for his opening tonight. It is no small thing to open a business on the other side of the galaxy, and not only has Mr Khai done so at a moment’s notice, he’s done so well enough to put on the delightful evening we’ve all enjoyed tonight. Let’s give him a hand.” Velt gripped the microphone with his tail for a moment, allowing him to clap.
“As an Ambassador of the United Federation of Planets and former Captain in Starfleet, I am privy to the careers of a great many of Starfleet’s finest. Tonight, I wish to acknowledge one of the best that I have seen.” The Ambassador announced comfortably, he was no stranger to the stage.
“Former Master Chief Petty Officer Grey Horse is sadly leaving us, but we take heart in the knowledge that his career in Starfleet will be reborn as a cadet in Starfleet academy. Few men are brave enough to take on the academy, let alone in their 50’s! You go with all our best wishes Marcus, and our thanks for your decades of fine service.” Applause began in the audience, Velt clapped his free hand against his thigh.
“Foooooor… he’s a jolly good fellow,” The Ambassador began, and soon much of the room was singing along, with even the holographic band playing the tune. Once the applause had subsided, Velt handed back the microphone, and the performance began in earnest. Velt shook Grey Horse’s hand and hugged him. The celebration had only just begun.
Vestar couldn't help but roll his eyes at the very old human song as the crowd sang along.
S'Lace dutifully sang along with the rest and tried not to wince as more strident voices tweaked her sensitive ears. Having 'gone mustang' herself she was well aware of the challenges the Master Chief would face. He would have to 'unlearn' half of what he knew. There was no advice she could give that would do any good; it was the sort of journey unique to everyone in those circumstances. All the same, if she believed in such things, she wished him well. Well, she would wish him well anyway; Luther would have...
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