Lost and Found
Posted on 05 Feb 2023 @ 3:12pm by Moon-Young Chung & Brek - Timeless Treasures Art Gallery
Mission:
M3 - Into the Deep
Location: O.C. - Promenade
Timeline: MD 9: 1100 HR
2064 words - 4.1 OF Standard Post Measure
Following yesterday’s disagreeable confrontation with artist Bajeem, Brek had decided that it would pay to take care of his investment. He would pamper the Romulan artist and make sure that he delivered “The Fall of Freljord’ (version 2) in due time. If need be, he would even treat the artist like a baby. Brek had, in his time, taken good care of green plants, one pet spider and also a lizard. A downhearted artist should not represent a problem. Well, it would be less of a problem than a disgruntled Senator Thitur - should the painting not appear in his quarters at the right time.
This is why, dressed in his usual three-piece suit (midnight-blue and gold), Brek had just left a restaurant. He had in his hands a large platter with a domed cover set. Underneath were seared bluefin tuna steaks and a bowl of seaweed soup, a little-known Romulan recipe he had discovered during his years as a diplomat. This would be Bajeem's breakfast.
His intention was, as usual, to mind his own business, but there was, not far from him, a woman who seemed to be unsure of her destination. Had she looked like trouble, he would have given her a wide berth. However, her appearance (Terran, of the Asian variety) was absolutely charming and so resistance proved to be futile, he intervened.
“I hope you will excuse my interference, you appear to be uncertain which direction to take. Maybe I can help?” And then he thought he had better introduce himself, in case she got the idea he was a local thug. “My name’s Brek and I run an art gallery on this station.”
Moon had been scanning the area for Q’or, her hand clutching her red suitcase. How one managed to lose a seven-foot-tall Klingon carrying a large metallic case was a mystery. They’d been separated after becoming entangled in one of the crowds of shoppers that moved about the Promenade like a school of fish. Her first time on space station – her first time anywhere other than Earth – and she’d lost her escort.
At the appearance of a stranger at her side, she reacted in the most New York-ish manner, quickly putting space between her and the new person with equal parts fear and hostility. When she realized what she’d done, she flushed with embarrassment.
“I’m sorry! I just arrived and…” Moon had a passing acquaintance with a Ferengi textile seller who visited Earth every couple of years. He’d been an impeccable dresser, sporting outrageous, multi-colored costumes that often looked like the love child of a rainbow and unicorn. Disappointingly, this one wore something that looked vintage Terran. Maybe the cloth was different? Like a moth to a flame she reached out and began to feel the sleeve of his jacket. “What’s the fabric? Is it Baezian fiber plant? No. Not the right touch. Maybe Fibonan goat wool? It’s hard to tell the sheen under these lights.”
Brek wasn’t fast enough to step back, and he nearly dropped his platter of food when the woman examined the quality of his sleeve so closely. Could she be a rogue after all, despite the fact that she didn’t look the part? Why else would she be so passionate about refined fabric? Yet, despite his consternation, when he spoke, he did so candidly.
“Fibonan wool... now that’s something I wish I could afford. I’m afraid that what I’m wearing is more conventional. It’s only heavy merino tweeds. Nehru suits, you may recognize the cut, are often made that way.” He produced a light smile, to encourage her to remove her hand.
“Merino? Oh.” Her disappointment complete, her hand fell away. “I mean. I was hoping for something non-Terran. Hoped too much apparently, completely dismissed merino as an option. The cut is very – er – Terran, too. You look like you raided my grandfather’s wardrobe. I was hoping it was more of an homage as opposed to a complete…I’m sorry again. You asked something?”
“Well, Terran is exotic to me.” Brek said, piqued that she found he lacked style, whilst his suit had nonetheless cost him quite a bit... “I’m afraid you caught me wearing average clothes on an average day. Anyway,” he added, eager to change topic, “You’re new to this station, you say? Is there some place you wish to go to? I won’t pretend I know Obsidian Command like the back of my hand, but I’m usually good at finding locations, and information, too.”
“You don’t know Lieutenant Commander Maurice Rubens, by any chance?”
“A Commander Rubens? I cannot say that I do. Although the name has a nice ring to it. Do you want me to find his whereabouts?”
“It's okay. I don’t think he’s been here long. A few days at most. I’m here to surprise him." She chuckled nervously. "Really surprise him. I don't know how it’s going to go. Anyway, the Security guards said that the station is on lockdown and I don’t have clearance to be in any of the areas he is. Or isn’t. At least not right now. They did tell me he went down to the planet for some unknown length of time. The guards didn't tell me when he's getting back. Not very helpful, really. I had an escort from the ship that brought me here, but I’ve lost him, and now I’m just wandering around…”
Brek considered her with a critical eye. Here was a young attractive lady who had lost her bearings, her escort, even her Starfleet friend (lover?), was out of reach. He knew a great many Ferengi and even Hewmons, who would take advantage of a situation like that...
“…and I’m babbling on and on to the first person who asks me a question. I'm not usually like this. Just nervous and new and. Sorry, starting to rapid fire with the words again. Like, 'hello, shut up Moon-Young.' Where are you going with that? What is that? Is that food?”
“Indeed, it is food,” Brek replied, sounding like he was emerging from a daydream. “In my lowly position,” slight pause here to smirk at her notion of refined clothes, “I have to cater for several artists, and one of them is feeling poorly at the moment. But this can wait a little.” Indeed it could, for he didn’t want young Miss Moon to stay on her own for too long. She would make a bad encounter, he could just feel it. “Your Lt Cmdr Rubens, what does he do? You see, restrictions can often be bypassed, all it takes is a little imagination. Say you were joining the volunteers who help the Romulan refugees. You would then have access to Obsidian. Still, maybe the wisest step would be to locate your escort first?”
"He should be hard to miss..." Moon paused, the rest of what Brek said filtering through. "Did you say artists? Several artists? Is there an artists' colony on the station?"
“Not yet, but I’m working on it.” With his free hand, Brek fetched the PADD he always kept in his breast pocket. “Do you like artists, Miss Moon?” He glanced at her. “If I may call you this way, that is?”
“Just ‘Moon’ is fine,” she said deciding to answer the second question first, “I am an artist, in fact. A designer – clothing. Costumes mainly. Mostly theater, though I’ve dabbled in couture. I like to sketch on the side, too.”
Brek queried his PADD about a Cmdr Rubens, and when the device displayed the information he was after, he coughed, seized by a bout of that dreadful emotional state that no Ferengi should endure: guilt. “I see...” he added. “Your Starfleet Friend is a diplomat... You should have said so, I would not have troubled you with this reckless idea of impersonating a volunteer. Anyways... you might have to wait a few days until his return. It’s a safer option. You could take advantage of this time to explore this fine station. What do you say?”
“I think that is a wonderful idea – and there’s Q’or!”
The seven-foot-tall Klingon, jet black hair pulled back and braided into a long ponytail, came lumbering toward them. His clothing was not the dark, brooding armor that most Klingon’s wore, but a brown button-less, double-breasted light jacket that was held closed with a wide red sash and a thick brown belt. He still clutched the silver case in one hand, but the other held a PADD that he thrust toward Moon when he came close enough.
Confused, she took the proffered tablet; she examined the screen and smiled. It explained where her escort had gone. “I hadn’t even thought about that! Thank you for getting me one, Q’or. “Turning to Brek she explained, “I had to register when I got here and they were going to send me my room assignment – er – quarter assignment? Whatever. Anyway, I didn’t think about needing a PADD to get the message. Q’or this is Brek. Brek, Q’or.”
The Klingon gave the Ferengi a baleful look and balled his now free hand into a fist. The action cracked his knuckles in rapid-fire explosions.
Brek, who, as soon as the impressive Klingon had appeared had stood as still as a statue (in fact he was barely breathing at all), took a few seconds to recover from the sudden apparition.
“Mr Q’or, I’m delighted to meet you.” Has a lie ever been so blatant? Maybe not. But Brek, who wanted to look perfectly honorable, went as far as to smile. “I run an art gallery on the station. Nothing to do with costume design. You’ll find paintings in my gallery. There are even a few epic ones among them...”
“Brek is going to show us around until either Rice gets back or I get a room,” Moon said, not noticing the sudden tension. “Where should we go first?” she asked following a moment later with a laugh. “You’re still carrying that food. We should go drop it off first, right?”
“Yes absolutely!” Brek agreed, making another effort to look cheerful. It wasn’t that he disliked Klingons, only that their quick temper often worried him. “There’s fish on that tray, and it’s getting cold. If the two of you would care to follow me? I’ll deliver this to my artist, and then I can be your guide.” He indicated a row of turbolifts, not far from them. “Sooo... what sort of theater productions have you been working for, Moon? During my time as a diplomat, I have seen a few plays, mostly by that great Terran master called Shakespeare.”
“My last gig was a ‘modern retelling’ of Henry V. ‘Modern retelling’ is code for a director who believes they’re a genius. This one certainly did. Half the cast was parading around nude – his idea.” The odd party of three boarded the turbolifts. Moon suddenly remembered a detail of Ferengis. At least, she thought it was something true. “Ferengis parade around naked all the time, right? Something about not liking clothes?"
Brek nearly dropped his tray. “You are misinformed and amazingly direct, Moon. Old-fashioned Ferengi men often keep their wives at home, naked. They do so to deprive Ferengi women of their rights. It is a detestable tradition, which, now that we have a progressive Grand Nagus, is fading away.”
"Perhaps it's a practice you should consider," Moon said as the doors hissed closed. "Nude would be far more interesting than Nehru suits made from merino wool."
Brek chuckled, he couldn’t help it. Moon's repartee was clever.
“Perish the thought.” He countered. He could easily add a quip about travelling without a PADD and getting lost, however, with Moon likely dating a high ranked diplomat, and the presence of a formidable Klingon, he chose a risk-free strategy. “Point taken, you find merino wool crude. Maybe this jacket has a sentimental value to me, you don’t know.”
Here Brek grinned. When was the last time anyone had seen a Ferengi with sentiments? It was like the Terran pegacorn, it didn’t exist.