Joint Personal Log - Capt Ivanova, Lt Cmdr Waterhouse & Cmdr PontBrillant - "Why Have A Ballroom With No Balls?" - I/II

Posted on Sat Sep 13th, 2014 @ 12:00am by Commander Amelia Waterhouse & Admiral Rochelle Ivanova
Edited on on Thu Jan 8th, 2015 @ 11:23pm

2,914 words; about a 15 minute read

Mission: Are You Touched?

There was someone following them, ever since they left the resort grounds. Amelia had murmured a complement at the guards in Klingon when she and Rochelle had been let out of the gate — the nearest thing the language had to thanking them for getting the gate for her and Rochelle ­— and in that extra delay, she thought she saw someone slip out the gate before it was closed again. She wasn't sure because the lighting was horrible. She and Rochelle had continued to chatter the whole walk to the bar, and Amelia kept half an eye on whoever it was. The silhouette was familiar, but she never got a look at the face. Whoever it was, he was content to stay back and leave himself unnoticed by Rochelle. Amelia probably wouldn't have even noticed him had she not been glancing back at the gate when he slipped through.

When they reached the bar, it wasn't much brighter inside than it was out in the street, and Amelia lead them straight to the bar, yelling expletives to catch the attention of the bar tender. When she got a jolly laughing Klingon teasing her for her red hair, spots, and smoothish forehead, Amelia slapped down a fist full of gold pressed latinum, and demanded blood wine, 2309, in shouted Klingon. "Do you want the blood wine or something else?" she asked Rochelle switching back to Federation Standard to do so, having to keep her voice raised to be heard over the boisterous crowd. There was a round of Klingon drinking songs going, and no fight currently. A good time to let Rochelle adjust to the atmosphere.

It was loud, smoky... Disturbing. The entire atmosphere went against everything the little woman stood for, all of it. Her skin quivered as a drunken Klingon brushed against her, her eyes traveling along his form, instinctively searching for weapons. Amelia's voice broke through the din, forcing her to look up to meet her friend's gaze, "I do—" Rochelle shook her head. She never drank, not even when Landon would offer her a night cap after a long day's work, not even during her academy days. "Apple martini." When it Rome, she reminded herself.

Vlimar entered the bar only a few minutes after the ladies. Wearing black combat pants and a black, hooded shirt, he managed to slide by everyone that was there to stop him, slipping GPL onto the protesting hands he encountered. He made sure that he kept a close proximity to the Captain and her XO, while being far enough to prevent exposing himself.

Amelia turned back from Rochelle to the bar tender who stood waiting. Apparently the insults exchanged, the fist full of gold pressed latinum, and the call for top shelf blood wine had been enough to hold his attention. She tried to think how to explain Apple martini in Klingon, and with a shrug, gave up. "Apple-tini?" she asked, sheepishly, though still loudly, in Federation Standard. The roar of amusement she got for her troubles was infectious and Amelia found herself laughing along with a dozen Klingons who were nearest to her and Rochelle.

"Only because she's your date," he shouted in Klingon back at Amelia before he lumbered off to find the supplies needed. Amelia snorted in amusement, and settled so she was leaning against the bar and looking around.

For the first time in a long time Rochelle felt hot embarrassment creeping across her cheeks and ears. She'd always been so used to having control, being respected... Feared. On Qo'noS and in that bar the tables had been flipped and she was left being the small creature trapped at the bottom of the proverbial totem pole. Her eyes smoldered, flashing dangerously in the darkness as she looked away from the cumbersome Klingon barkeep and back to Amelia. This was torture, her own personal Hell — but it appeared that her friend was having the time of her life. "How pleasant."

"It'll get better once you have alcohol in hand," Amelia assured Rochelle with a wide shit eater grin. She was watching a younger Klingon posturing across the bar, and she could tell he was itching for a fight. Once she got some blood wine in her, she could go provoke him and have a good dance. There was a thunk, a slosh, and a soft clink that almost wasn't noticeable over the cacophony of the bar on the bar top behind Amelia, and she turned. The bar tender took about two-thirds of the pile of gold pressed latinum that Amelia had slammed on the bar, and Amelia nudged the rest towards him as she passed Rochelle her Apple-tini. Amelia's grin was wide when she brought the mug of warmed blood wine to her lips.

The shorter of the two redheads rolled her eyes and slid her drink closer. The green liquid looked almost like glass, shining almost lime even in the poor quality light. Something, however, seemed off. The last tendrils of a bubble escaped the verdant depths of the glass, coiling upwards as if the drink were carbonated and mixed with champagne. Even though she was far from a bar fly, Rochelle knew better. Drinking it wasn't an option, neither was leaving it.

"Those things are poison, you know." The gruff sound of a Klingon voice to her left, and so very close to her ear, made her pause. She blinked, not daring to look over her shoulder and run straight into the source of the hot breath teasing along the bare skin just behind her ear.

"A poison apple. I see you follow your fairy tales." She replied, her fingers smoothing along the cool glass and down it's fragile stem. The Klingon behind her chuckled and pushed a stray strand of red back behind her ear. Rochelle's blood began to boil, her lips pursed tight as she stood as tall and rigid as humanly possible.

"You're about to be a fairytale. You've been betrayed, Captain... Or should I say, your highness." His voiced rolled low as his hands lay on the little woman's hips. Cold shivers ran their way up and down Rochelle's spine as she tried to quietly twist away from him. He could feel the tension building, her muscles tightening. She was building to defend herself and that alone was enough to make the much bigger Klingon smile, "Good girl. Be scared, however your secrets are safe with me, Captain, but there are a couple here who plan to take you in for the bounty on your pretty head. Nod that you understand." She was quick to nod, her eyes quickly darting from person to person in an attempt to figure out who her enemies were. God damn it, she needed Tristan. He'd know off the bat.

Poison apple.

The bartender was one. He continuously looked over at her and Amelia to see what they were doing. "You care about her more than yourself, don't you? She's safe, little one. They'll drag her out in other ways. She's a Klingon, succumbing to a drink isn't what we do." He snorted, following her gaze to where they lay on the Cheshire ginger. His words made sense, Klingons could drink the biggest Irish lush under the table in a heartbeat, this she'd taken as fact simply at face value. "I'll take care of her, you take care of yourself."

"Then what?" She asked, her voice low and made dangerously broody by the entire situation. She'd known going out was a bad idea, horrible, really. He chuckled again, her fingers tightening their grip as he shifted behind her.

"Do what I know you want to do," He voice crooned, his lips brushing the shell of her ear and the hair of his beard tickling along her pale, creamy neck. "Throw your drink at me. We've made enough of a scene and I'll handle your friend when she comes to defend your honor. Welcome to Qo'noS my dear." His fingers pinched the cheek of her ass through her jeans and all at once Rochelle was in motion with a defiant little yell as she spun in his arms and wasted the alcohol in a single toss. He sputtered, his eyes widened and darkened all at once in what was an Oscar worthy performance as he spat at least a dozen Klingon obscenities in her direction.

"How DARE you touch me like that!" She bellowed with a snarl. It wasn't acting for her, he'd violated her privacy and her fury was pure. Her heart raced as she set the glass back against the bar with a loud clang. The bar was now watching, waiting, the scent of blood now permeating the proverbial water.

Vlimar, upon seeing the interaction, swiftly moved across the room into a position about five meters behind the ladies, grabbing a mug on a nearby table. He entered a group of Klingon and stood specifically a meter or so away from them so the group would ignore his presence, but if Amelia or Rochelle would turn, they would assume he was part of the group. His blue eyes were fixated on the Klingon, awaiting the need to intervene. He trusted that Amelia could take the abuse, but was concerned enough that weapons might be used, even if in this context it would be considered dishonorable.

During the exchange between the little phoenix and the Klingon fox, which she kept half an eye on, Amelia had been evaluating the young Klingon across the bar. He looked to be in the defense force, perhaps his first leave home since joining, and a few years younger than her. She'd been about ready to chug the last of her mug of blood wine and go introduce herself with a love tap to the jaw, to ensnare him in her proverbial lasso, when the situation between royalty and riff raff erupted.

The urge to finish her blood wine first had flashed across her mind for a fleeting second, but she knew the extra seconds needed to chug would mean leaving Rochelle to deal with this guy twice her size for that time. So the mug went onto the bar top, knowing either it would be gone when she was done or she couldn't trust it to not have unexpected additions.

She was between Rochelle and the Klingon in the blink of an eye, fist already swinging. Knuckles on flesh sounded, along with a loud crack of her knuckles — she was suddenly very glad to know her regenerator was back at the hotel. She danced backwards into the open space she knew had bloomed behind her, for bar fights for sport or slight had the same organic progressions in a Klingon bar: first the opening salvo, then the arena forms, finally the choir of cursing, betting, and critique from the living barrier mostly made up of Klingons. She shook out her hand as she snarled at her dance partner; she wasn't sure if it was broken or not, but between the adrenaline and three-quarters of a mug of blood wine, she wouldn't feel it for a while yet if it was.

As Amelia stepped back, Vlimar followed the crowd and placed himself in the circle, voluntarily approaching Rochelle and trying to keep as little distance as possible to ensure his cover while still being able to intervene. He pretended to take wager on the fight while drinking from his empty mug, his pure blue eyes observing Amelia and Rochelle from beneath his hood.

The Phoenix shielded her face as a mug flew too close for comfort and the entire bar erupted into yells and chants of goading. The Klingon, soaked in apple martini, took one last look at her as if to ensure she was safe where she stood before he followed Amelia for blood sport. His eyes seemed to hold warning, concern, a promise that she was now on her own in hostile territory and she nodded to him in quiet understanding. The game was afoot.

He growled and lunged for Amelia, his cheek smarting where she'd landed a decent but feeble punch. He was a Klingon, a warrior, and a damned big stag. If he hurt her, the more sensible part of him loyal to Starfleet would regret it — but the Klingon part of him demanded he either destroy her or bed her, there were no other options. Rochelle watched, her back pressed up against the bar to avoid being swept into the growing circle, as he lunged for her friend to grab her shoulders and try to guide her into a kick aimed for her belly. The little redhead would never understand the why or the how, she only understood the need to get the Hell out of the situation they were in.

She turned, quickly, to be brought face to face with the less friendly Klingon bartender who's nose was scant inches from hers and he leaned on the damp bar top. "Another apple martini? Captain?" He asked with a leering grin that chilled her blood.

"I think I'm good. Have one your self." She hissed low in return, the Klingon rolled his eyes and grabbed her wrist, pinning her to the spot while half a dozen or so large Klingon males rooted for their chosen fighter behind her. She was trapped. She knew this, he knew this. Amelia was dealing with a buck now working on trying to land a fist against her face, an eye for an eye. "Make it good, half-bred bitch!" She could hear the Klingon yell in Federation standard, he was purposely goading her, leading her on. Or it may have been the start of a love sonnet, with Klingons one never knew.

"I'm waiting for you to give me something worth replying to, petaQ," Amelia shot back, in Klingon for the amusement of the rest of the bar. "I'm not a cheap date." Those who spoke Klingon in the audience roared with approval at her response, even as she dared lunge in close. She was moving slower than she'd liked, he had landed the blow to her midsection after all, though she'd twisted out of reach of the punch. When he moved to grab her as expected, she darted back out of reach, causing him to stumble after her. She took the opening to move around and land a blow on his back as she moved past.

"Oh no I think you really must have one." The Klingon bartender insisted, "It's an insult not to drink what's given to you here. On the house." His grin broadened, deepening the crows feet beside his eyes as he slid another glass of lime green liquid towards her.

He knew she was damned either way. On the one hand she became a target having insulted the Klingons in a charged situation where she no longer had her Klingon blooded friend to protect her, on the other she had what appeared to either be death or a heavy drugging that would eventually lead to a very public execution by Federation First. Rochelle laughed and smiled in an almost nervous fashion, her head canting ever so slightly as she looked between the Klingon and the drink. The little Captain's heart raced in her chest as she quickly thumbed through options and fell on one that seemed the only chance she'd have at making it off Qo'noS in one piece.

"Well," She started, that nervous little smile embraced with a shrug as she took up the glass and rested it against her lips, "I guess you leave me no choice but to embrace your hospitality." The Klingon nodded and motioned for her to drink up, his nails digging into the tender flesh on the underside of her wrist unnecessarily. It was enough to cement her plans as she quickly brought the drink from her lips to his face in a slosh and the crack of glass meeting teeth. It was quickly dropped, shattering behind the bar as she leaped up and forwards, her belly resting on the now soaked bar top as she grabbed purchase on the Klingon's Fu-Man-Chu and wrapped it around her fingers, tugging him down and towards her as she un-beached herself from the bar top.

"Crazy bitch!" He spat and Rochelle ripped harder in response.

"Let go of my wrist or I rip it out as a preamble to what I rip out next, do you understand?" She hissed, bristling and using the bar as leverage against him.

As Amelia had danced around him, making him chase her and taking cheap shot with each pass, she mercilessly mocked him. Not a very Klingon technique, but an effective one with the size difference. Wear him out, and weaken him slowly. She had youth and agility on her side after all. As the bar fell silent around them, in response to Rochelle's confrontation with the bar tender, Amelia and her dance partner both stopped and gaped at the same time. It was as if their fight was completely forgotten about. A proud smile bloomed on Amelia's lips, even as she realized that Rochelle probably was not having fun with the situation. She tried to push through the crowd to reach her friend's side.

=/\= Continued in Part II =/\=

Captain Rochelle Ivanova
Commanding Officer
USS VINDICATOR

Lt Commander Amelia Waterhouse
Executive Officer
USS Vindicator

Commander Vlimar PontBrillant
Strategic Operations Commander
USS Vindicator

 

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