Shared Sentiments
Posted on 22 Oct 2023 @ 6:42am by Brek - Timeless Treasures Art Gallery
Edited on on 06 Feb 2024 @ 10:14pm
Mission:
M4 - Falling Out
Location: O.C. Station - Ara's Guest Quarters
Timeline: M4 D2 Afternoon - Right after Phantom Grove
1493 words - 3 OF Standard Post Measure
Thankfully Ara and Kreca had eaten aplenty on the Cassio, and it had not been necessary to order any food or drink for this little reunion. After two obligatory hugs, to which Brek had given in only with reluctance, Ara and Kreca had taken place among the profusion of cushions chosen with great care by Brek.
“I hope you like those quarters, Ara,” Brek said. “They were specially selected for you by Mrs R'Trerah-Johnson, I believe, and I added a few things to the decoration. What about the gifts? Do you also like them?”
"Everything here exceeds my expectations, including the presence of giant felines. But you are late, little beetle," Ara remarked. "I hope it was for a profitable cause."
"I wouldn't dream of having any other causes,'' Brek said, unable to smile. Ever since his little adventure in the holodeck, he couldn't get rid of Oroff's image. The tall Bolian, in his saddest ghostly appearance, was following him. This, he knew, was the burden of guilt. He had saved Desha, but not the Blue Giant. And so, while Ara was babbling about his life and his many failures, Brek reminisced on his last days on Volchok.
With more diligence it is very possible that, on the fateful night where he and Desha had been pursued by a hewmon killer, he could have saved said hewmon from a quicksand. However, scared shitless as he had been, he had acted in a slow and clumsy manner. His body had simply refused to cooperate with Desha’s loud incentives.
"Beyond your precious books and their numbers, you are truly useless!" Desha had shouted. "We could have questioned that man and taken his weapon. Are you that dumb that you don't see that we need answers? Now we are on our own once again!"
"Those books are not mine, but your father's," he had replied, despondent, and secretly relieved that the hewmon had sunk to the bottom of that quicksand. "Trust me, being alone right now is our one and only asset."
"Is it?!" Her voice has been loud enough to alert any other assassin present on the island. "You had better have a masterplan to get us back to the trading centre, Mr Bookkeeper."
She went to sit on a rock, a dark figure seemingly prepared to sulk and complain for hours. They had remained like that for a while in the dark, powerless, throwing insults at each other, their silhouettes occasionally lit up by lightnings.
At this point, Ara insisted that Kreca produce her swamp Ogogpo painting, which was done in complete obedience by the artist. It was rather scary how Ara seemed to subjugate most Ferengi. The old bag’s latinum was so desirable, few dared to annoy her. Still, under the vapid glare of 'Oroff', Brek marvelled at the picture. A bright and cheerful marshland populated with dozens of flying insects. The painting was bursting with life, something that he found pleasing, even if this scene could also be interpreted as a giant banquet where both preys and predators had gathered for a great slaughter.
“I think you should keep this painting,” Ara added. “It will remind you of Kreca, and her talent.”
This was, obviously, not a thought, but an intimation, which was fine by Brek. He liked the picture and to keep it meant he wouldn’t have to struggle to sell a painting made by a Ferengi woman.
“It’s not a bad idea,” Brek agreed. He glanced at the artist, who looked rather uncomfortable.
“Good. Kreca painted this new version of the swamp with great care and loads of love. Haven’t you, my dear?”
“I did my best.”
“Don’t be modest,” Ara continued. “Past a certain age, modesty is an attitude that women cannot afford. Besides, you did more than that. It took you close to forty eight solid hours to produce that thing. A lot more time than it takes to make a baby, when one thinks about it. When I was your age, little beetle, I had already....”
Behind Ara, Oroff’s ghostly illusion rolled his eyes, as if to say ‘I wish she would stop gassing.”
“Excuse me,” Brek interrupted. “I don’t feel too well. Must be something I ate...” He made a beeline for the bathroom and locked the door behind him. There he splashed his face with cold water. It kind of made his thoughts clearer, but Oroff’s apparition was still there, behind him.
“I said I was sorry,” Brek whispered. “I really am. What do you want from me?”
The illusion shrugged. “Nothing. I’m not responsible for being here, young master. You are still tripping. It will pass.”
The Ferengi slid to the ground, listless. “By all that glitters,” he muttered. “I’m losing my marbles.”
“No need to be so dramatic,” The illusion said, towering above him. “Let’s not waste time though. What happened after you got rid of the hewmon menace?”
“What happened...” Brek echoed. “We walked along the shore for hours, in silence. We had exhausted all the trash-talk we could think of...
In fact, by the time the sun, a weak yellow and pink light, rose, Desha was in tears once again. She had convinced herself that she would be stuck on this island for ages, with me for sole company. The sentiment was shared, I can tell you that much. According to her, there was a Hewmon tale about a Robinson, who had been cast away forever.
If we all start believing in tales, no one would be going anywhere.
Anyhow, after that long walk, which had killed our feet and our spirit, we heard some noise. So we hid in the thick vegetation, some long blue grass with spiky tufts. Thankfully, we found no predator, hewmon or otherwise, but a poacher, who had reached the island on a miserable rowing boat. It turned out that the guy, Ferengi and about twenty-five, was more scared of us than we were of him. His idea of a free meal was to go to this island, and hunt there for an hour or two. His family had been doing that for generations apparently. Good on them. He clearly didn’t reveal all this easily. Desha, annoyed that a poor sod had landed on her island, had menaced him galore. In the end, he had accepted to take us to the nearest town. There, we freshened up and we took a shuttle to Volchok’s trading centre, where we discovered that Asax’s house and its occupants were no more.”
“Are you alright in here?!” It was the shrilling and rather alarmed voice of Ara. “Little beetle, don’t make a mess in this splendid bathroom. Do you hear me? Besides, there’s no need to die of shame if you have the Squits. I have all the medicines you can dream of, for that sort of thing... and more beyond, in actual fact.”
“I’m fine!”
“Of course you are not. Don’t lie to me. I heard you rambling like a demented fool.” Ara added. “What the hell did you eat? Do you need a physician?.” And then, talking to Kreca: “I swear, I’ll sue this station if something happens to my little beetle!”
“It’s probably nothing but a slight indigestion,” Kreca offered.
“Indigestion, my ass.” Ara protested. “Brek is either really sick or he is once again avoiding his responsibilities, which, in a way, is worse!”
“You had better go, young master,” Oroff’s spectre said. “You can tell me the rest of your story later on.”
Brek groaned at the prospect of seeing Oroff’s ghostly face beyond those quarters. When would the effect of that drug stop? He nonetheless got to his feet and he left the bathroom.
“What is wrong with you?” Ara asked as soon as he reappeared. “You look like you’ve seen....”
“Stop right there, Ara, I’m fine. Really fine.”
To prove it he was going to suggest that he and Kreca spend the evening together, in a restaurant of her choice, but he received a call from Glutik. Speaking in a low voice, the Tellarite informed him that there was a ‘situation’ in the gallery. A woman, Vulcan, tall and lanky, giving the impression she only ate once a week, wanted to see the owner of ‘Timeless Treasures’.
“She is taking offence at your display of Romulan art, Brek,” Glutik went on. “I was going to kick her out, forthwith, but she is wearing a Starfleet uniform, and there are 3 pips on it. So I thought I would ask. What do you want me to do, boss?”
“Nothing. Don’t you dare doing anything. I’ll be right there!” He then turned to the two Ferengi women. “Sorry, duty, and profits too, are calling!”
And just like that he disappeared again, jumping from one problem to another.
