Levels One

Posted on 13 Nov 2012 @ 10:26pm by Lieutenant JG Donovan Muldaur
Edited on on 14 Nov 2012 @ 7:18am

1,919 words; about a 10 minute read

Mission: Episode 02 - Resupply
Location: Vega Colony, Shopping District
Timeline: MD 08, 1820 hours

[ON]

There was a great deal of movement on and above the streets of Vega Colony's shopping district that evening, many more people than he would have liked. Being immersed in a crowd of bustling thousands certainly had its benefits, but right now the numbers only detracted from his goal of success. He looked up toward the sky from his chair at a small wooden table outside a quaint little cafe. It was chilly enough to watch the steam whisp from his coffee but warm enough for his grey trenchcoat to be left unbuttoned. The blue sky was peppered with buses, cars, and shuttles following each other in neat lines between towering skyscrapers.

He returned his eyes to the streets, scanning the faces of those herding by with their smiles and shopping bags, emptier wallets, and broken dreams. He felt no pity for their sad existences; staying here, living in a neo-feudal society when there were options for an infinitely better life elsewhere, being unconsciously enslaved by private enterprise in order to suffer the delusion of earning a living, so they could buy their freedoms in the form of bling and gadgets. They needed to find meaning, if they could ever know what meaning was.

A large shuttlebus touched down a few metres away from him, on the street by the sidewalk, on the other side of the little metal fence that cordoned the cafe's property from the public's. What a concept, he thought. The bus' engines droned as they switched from propulsion to anti-gravitational thrust. The doors opened and a horde of people of all colours and configurations ejected themselves. He watched them disperse; at some point the stream of frantic bodies reversed inward, as the bus took on new passengers. The bus slowly moved upward, pitched toward the sky, and rejoined the current of flying vehicles.

He looked at his mug of coffee, black, steaming and lifted it with a definitively masculine hand. He sipped from it without slurping and scanned over the faces of the other patrons at the other tables. All the tables were occupied; two old men left with paper cups, obviously upset that most of the tables, which sat two to four, were all taken by a single person. Such was life.

A waitress arrived with a pot of coffee and refilled his mug without asking. She smiled at him because she had to and he smiled gratefully, mouthing the word thanks with a brusque nod. He had been there for nearly an hour, said a glance at his watch. He could wait all day if he had to; waiting and watching, watching and waiting - it was what he did.

He sipped at his coffee for another half hour, several women who came through the cafe's little gate looked in his direction and smiled, and he made no effort to hide his charming smiles back to them. In fact, he gave them flirting glances just as often - he needed to know that he looked good. He had a mission to accomplish, and attracting a specific woman was the easiest way in. He had read the file on the girl he was looking for several dozen times; it was extensive and remarkably thorough, stunningly detailed. He pretended to read the PADD on the table, but was actually thinking about her, predicting what she would be like, going over how he would befriend her.

Calling her a girl was hardly appropriate, but after seeing her pictures so many times; studying the many possible ways she dressed, the way she styled her hair and makeup, the way she carried her figure, the way she walked, talked, expressed herself, her body language - he thought that despite being a healthy woman of thirty-one, she was still girlish. Despite her background, which was dark compared to the pasts of most, she somehow retained her youth and a weird and complicated pleasantness. She reminded him of a refined aristocratic woman, if human aristocratic anybodies still existed somewhere.

He had never seen her with his own two eyes before that moment when he spotted her approaching the cafe, emerging from the the thick of the crowd. As expected, she was alone. She wore a long wool coat, jet black, that went down to almost her knees. Her face was white, sharp, her lips red and her eyes dark. Her hands were deep in her coat pockets, and she walked with purpose, even though she wasn't doing anything of consequence - not in the grand scheme of things. She had long legs over which she had on a pair of black leggings. He couldn't see it because of her coat, but he knew that she had a skirt on as well.

He had predicted everything. He knew that she would eventually come here, he knew it. That was why he was in his field, that was why he was at the top, and why he never left for another posting - though he doubted that he would be granted a position doing anything else, for he was so valued in what he did. He did not flinch, however. Nor did he smile, light up, or show any sign of his success outwardly. He continued reading the news, sipping his cup.

He timed finishing his coffee with the second that she stepped through the metal gate, two tables away. She continued toward the door, he casually stood up, pocketed his PADD with one hand as he pushed in the wooden chair with the other and too headed into the cafe. Without hurry, his motions were like clockwork, he positioned himself exactly where he wanted: just far enough behind her that she would hold the door for him, so that they would see each other. One of his biggest moves, the one had been planning for coming on two weeks, was about to be executed. The second objective on a list of many.

She opened the door, looked behind her before walking further inside, and saw him following. Good. He was just close enough that she knew she couldn't let the door close on him, and she made an awkward smile, showing her teeth, as she held the door for him.

"Thank you," he breathed, quickening his pace for her.

"It's all right," she replied, still smiling.

He saw her look him over, though with a certain graceful interest. She wasn't the type to do otherwise. He looked as studious as ever. His coat open, its belt dangling on either side; he wore a navy v-neck sweater with a white shirt and forest green tie poking through the neck. He had on a pair of brown trousers with polished brown derby shoes. His hair was slicked immaculately, and he was clean shaven. He gave her an interested, exhaustively rehearsed, smile in return. He made a distinct, though casual, show of looking her from her feet to her hair.

Holding his piercing blue eyes for several seconds more than she needed to, she turned around as her cheeks started to flush. She ordered a coffee and stepped over to where the barista would serve her. While he made his order, he glanced in her direction to see that she was looking at him. Of course she looked away when she saw that he had noticed. Objective complete.

"You would make an excellent pianist," he stated factually, as he watched her accept her coffee, his eyes on her hand.

She smiled. "Why do you say that?" she took a sip from her cup.

"Your hands," he nodded toward them. "You have perfect fingers for playing piano."

Flushing, she held up her free hand with a beaming smile, examining her longer fingers. "You really think so?"

"I know so," he said, "One second," he turned to take his coffee from the barista, leaving a few coins on the counter and thanking her. Everything he said and did was planned long in advance. "Yes," he returned to the woman, "I can imagine you ripping through the Russian Dance in Stravinsky's Petrushka."

She laughed. "Stop it,"

He tilted his head, his eyes seductive. "You play? It would be an awful waste if you didn't."

"I do, but I can't even dream of playing the Russian Dance."

He frowned at her. "Why not?"

"It's just so fast; the original tempo is - I just, I just can't," she insisted, but her voice was playful.

He smiled. "What kind of attitude is that?"

She sighed. "Well, it might please you to know that I'm actually looking for a piano, so I may get better."

His eyes lit up. "Well, it might please you to know that I happen to know a few things about pianos. When are you looking, where have you looked?"

She shrugged. "That's why I am out now; I am hoping to buy a piano this evening and have it beamed right to my ship."

"Your ship?" He asked, his voice sincerely curious.

"Yes," she was still smiling. "I'm a Starfleet officer."

"You're a traveller and a musician? You sound like a very interesting person, Miss... I hope you're still a miss." He was succeeding, he knew. She was easier to read than he had anticipated, and much easier to make smile than he had expected. What a sad person she was, he thought.

"I am," she made a clumsy curtsy. "I am a miss, and amiss," she laughed, but didn't realise how true her little joke really was. "Both figuratively and literally."

"And does this amiss miss have a name as lovely as her smile?" He asked, already knowing more about her than she probably knew about herself.

"Maenad," she nodded to him, her cheeks still rosy.

"What was that?" He asked, making a friendly puzzled face. "Mee-ned?"

She shook her head, laughing quietly. "No, no. Sort of. More of an ay. Imagine an e with an accent aigu, but with a bit more of an ee sound to it as well."

He stood there, making a show of pretending to be confused. A few seconds passed before she just laughed again. "Yes, you got it right."

"Okay, good." He laughed too. "My name is plain and simple; Don."

She held out her hand. "Pleased to meet you, Don."

"The pleasure is mine," he replied. Though the pleasure that he felt was very different from hers. His was calculated, planned, and precise. His satisfaction came from watching a series of objectives be crossed off a list. She was but a pawn in much larger game of intergalactic espionage and intrigue. The emotions of one person meant nothing, and the misery or happiness of one individual in a Federation of billions had to be sacrificed. She knew nothing of the Sienna Drive, but she knew and had access to people who did. She would take him to where he wanted to go, but for now, he had to play the game at which he was an expert.

"Since you're in Starfleet and don't care a cent for money, let's find you the best piano money can buy, shall we?" he said, holding out his elbow.

[OFF]

Lieutenant (JG) Donovan Muldaur
SFI Operative
Starfleet Intelligence

Lieutenant (JG) Maenad Panne
Chief Science Officer
USS Galileo

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