Two men are walking the street. The shadows from the buildings do not match with their uniform. The buildings do not match with their uniform. Their species do not match with the hard forged metal, grotesque in all the blasted shapes, the ruble, and the odd mixture of those who survived.
It is of the shorter one that stops at a block. Over there in the distance lies the rest of the magnificent brand new city. That part of the metropolis is brand new. It is plastic. It is white. It is of that imprint that the shorter one wears – the red turtleneck clashing with the gray shoulder ‘pad’, the one strip to earmark his lower rank, finally of the shape of shuttles that do not set easily with the projected might that this city once had.
The taller one has a variant on the costume. There is a strange angled eagle merged with the UFP signal underneath. The pips on the collar do not match with his smaller companion.
He is armed as well. The weapon – fashioned in the style of an ancient pistol or revolver – is strapped to his side. He keeps an eye out. Out in the distance there are green skinned people aiding Cardassians – an odd sight to see – in their actual existence set amongst the other peoples of other origin.
It is not unusual to see duplicate signs set beneath their elder brethren, translating Cardassian into English. The Cardassians can translate it. To the taller one they seem almost runic; incomprehensible babble to their newly found occupants.
Suddenly it is his shorter companion that walks through the ruins of a lot.
“Davis –” trails the taller one.
“Relax – I’m getting a better view” comments the shorter, his feet upon the bones of the structure, ignoring the other walls around him.
“Davis –” repeats the taller one, yet again. There is no edge to the lot. It is empty. It is a void within other holes. The taller one takes a good glimpse around his surroundings. His brown eyes catch a work detail with the newfound colors of the New Cardassian Militia – the alien graft of their uniforms to pseudo-Starfleet colors.
“Jeez Pat - you should really stop being paranoid” replied Davis, after coming back, “It’s not like any Obsidian Order’s going to step out with guns a blazing”
“You should really watch what you say” added the taller one, already putting some distance away from that watcher and the rest of the caved out houses.
Davis snorted. “Who’s going to stop me – them?” he nodded towards the work detail, the sound of their shovels reverberating into the graveyard silence.
“Davis – this isn’t the place”
“What is then?” openly challenged Davis, wisely keeping pace, but stopping next to a crater that could have held an entire city block, “I mean don’t you dream of getting off this rock? It’s their fault that they were killed. If they hadn’t gone off the deep end – we would still be Starfleet – Captain Kirks every one of us – stretching the bounds of the Prime Directive to everyone and everything…”
“Have you even read anything of Captain Kirk?” retorted Pat.
“Of course – who hasn’t? Him and that other guy – they all got bogged down by this …stuff. Tell you what Pat – just once I want a call from people like him – perhaps Riker – saying that he needs more people on the Titan or perhaps Admiral Janeway. I mean – she defeated the Borg with one hand tied behind her back and she was moving all the while – none of this plant the whole fleet here and dry-dock any people who want to be in the Delta – Beta – and everywhere else but here Quadrant….Pat - Are you listening to me?”
Pat did not stare at the theatrics of his younger friend. There was that singular presence of that certain woman at the edge of his vision. Previously she was part of that silent stream of people going down the open roads and spaces. She had stopped from the usual course – off towards the local Starfleet base.
She had followed them. Her uniform was of the same artificial hybrid pair that he had seen earlier – with the exception of that same design that Pat wore on his jacket. She was somewhat human – had it not been for her green skin with the facial distortions that culminated with that singular skin mutation above her nasal bridge.
“Sir –” she said to Pat, giving him a salute, the heels crisp, “I’m sorry for interrupting – but I was wondering if you – sir – could ask your friend to repeat what he just said.”
“You mean Admiral Janeway? I don’t have the pad on me but I can share” interrupted Davis, a grotesque smile upon his lips, moving towards the girl in general. “She managed to convert this Borg drone into this stunning model – and saved a couple of kids as well. She’s really popular with the guys that I work with….” he added, coming even closer to her.
The woman stood there. Her mouth was open. Then it was crisp. “Sir – excuse me – I meant the insinuation that the Cardassians deserved their genocide-”
Davis shrugged. “I said nothing wrong. It’s all Starfleet issues ma’am– nothing more.”
It is of the shorter one that stops at a block. Over there in the distance lies the rest of the magnificent brand new city. That part of the metropolis is brand new. It is plastic. It is white. It is of that imprint that the shorter one wears – the red turtleneck clashing with the gray shoulder ‘pad’, the one strip to earmark his lower rank, finally of the shape of shuttles that do not set easily with the projected might that this city once had.
The taller one has a variant on the costume. There is a strange angled eagle merged with the UFP signal underneath. The pips on the collar do not match with his smaller companion.
He is armed as well. The weapon – fashioned in the style of an ancient pistol or revolver – is strapped to his side. He keeps an eye out. Out in the distance there are green skinned people aiding Cardassians – an odd sight to see – in their actual existence set amongst the other peoples of other origin.
It is not unusual to see duplicate signs set beneath their elder brethren, translating Cardassian into English. The Cardassians can translate it. To the taller one they seem almost runic; incomprehensible babble to their newly found occupants.
Suddenly it is his shorter companion that walks through the ruins of a lot.
“Davis –” trails the taller one.
“Relax – I’m getting a better view” comments the shorter, his feet upon the bones of the structure, ignoring the other walls around him.
“Davis –” repeats the taller one, yet again. There is no edge to the lot. It is empty. It is a void within other holes. The taller one takes a good glimpse around his surroundings. His brown eyes catch a work detail with the newfound colors of the New Cardassian Militia – the alien graft of their uniforms to pseudo-Starfleet colors.
“Jeez Pat - you should really stop being paranoid” replied Davis, after coming back, “It’s not like any Obsidian Order’s going to step out with guns a blazing”
“You should really watch what you say” added the taller one, already putting some distance away from that watcher and the rest of the caved out houses.
Davis snorted. “Who’s going to stop me – them?” he nodded towards the work detail, the sound of their shovels reverberating into the graveyard silence.
“Davis – this isn’t the place”
“What is then?” openly challenged Davis, wisely keeping pace, but stopping next to a crater that could have held an entire city block, “I mean don’t you dream of getting off this rock? It’s their fault that they were killed. If they hadn’t gone off the deep end – we would still be Starfleet – Captain Kirks every one of us – stretching the bounds of the Prime Directive to everyone and everything…”
“Have you even read anything of Captain Kirk?” retorted Pat.
“Of course – who hasn’t? Him and that other guy – they all got bogged down by this …stuff. Tell you what Pat – just once I want a call from people like him – perhaps Riker – saying that he needs more people on the Titan or perhaps Admiral Janeway. I mean – she defeated the Borg with one hand tied behind her back and she was moving all the while – none of this plant the whole fleet here and dry-dock any people who want to be in the Delta – Beta – and everywhere else but here Quadrant….Pat - Are you listening to me?”
Pat did not stare at the theatrics of his younger friend. There was that singular presence of that certain woman at the edge of his vision. Previously she was part of that silent stream of people going down the open roads and spaces. She had stopped from the usual course – off towards the local Starfleet base.
She had followed them. Her uniform was of the same artificial hybrid pair that he had seen earlier – with the exception of that same design that Pat wore on his jacket. She was somewhat human – had it not been for her green skin with the facial distortions that culminated with that singular skin mutation above her nasal bridge.
“Sir –” she said to Pat, giving him a salute, the heels crisp, “I’m sorry for interrupting – but I was wondering if you – sir – could ask your friend to repeat what he just said.”
“You mean Admiral Janeway? I don’t have the pad on me but I can share” interrupted Davis, a grotesque smile upon his lips, moving towards the girl in general. “She managed to convert this Borg drone into this stunning model – and saved a couple of kids as well. She’s really popular with the guys that I work with….” he added, coming even closer to her.
The woman stood there. Her mouth was open. Then it was crisp. “Sir – excuse me – I meant the insinuation that the Cardassians deserved their genocide-”
Davis shrugged. “I said nothing wrong. It’s all Starfleet issues ma’am– nothing more.”
