Pistol Problems

Posted on Wed Mar 22nd, 2017 @ 1:00pm by

Mission: Mission 3 - Negligence
Location: Bajor
811 words - 1.6 OF Standard Post Measure

Ezra had traversed through the various walking paths on his route back to where he was staying, keeping the garish Bajoran robes of a young Prylar, a practitioner of the old Bajora faith. Wearing the robes was peculiar, especially as a scientist at heart and training. Albeit he himself had been a rather paradoxical young man growing up in a perplexing household. His father and mother were both of reasonably sound logical mind, well educated people. His father was respectful of spiritual beliefs, but never prescribed to anything himself. Ezra's mother was the spiritually inclined one of the house, holding onto scared beliefs and teachings her ancestors had held, though she openly recognized a lot these beliefs required 'blind faith' and were not supported by empirical data of cold brash sciences. This, however, did not prevent her from raising her children to have a respect for their cultural roots and ancestral heritage. They of course were not Bajorans though. Ezra was fully human. Not a drop of alien in his genetic makeup so far as he was aware.

The slit like marks that adorned his nasal ridge, a trait of Bajorans were fake. Doctored up by some unprofessional and improvised surgical altering. Ezra felt that going around as a Bajoran was a lot easier than some of the less human looking species. There was no way that he could off the emotional discipline needed for a convincing Vulcan and there was no chance he had the skills necessary to sculpt himself into a Cardassian. When in Bajor look, say, and do as the Bajorans. So, it was 'vanilla' Bajoran for him as far as guises go. The fact that he went around dressed as a Prylar simply helped him blend in without being asked too many questions. They tended to have the freedom to be left alone in peace and permitted to traverse through sanctuaries and around sacred ruins, places he could hide if some Ferengi liquidators were on his trail.

When he returned to the place that he was staying, a home of a young widowed Bajoran woman and her daughter, Ezra began to pack up the belongings he had. It was time to move on. He had noticed more than one Ferengi on Bajor the past couple of days and that was a sign of trouble. It was rare for a Ferengi to really come to Bajor, but it happened from time to time for trade and business, but seeing more than one Ferengi in several hours was a good indication they were there looking for him. And now he had found a potential way off the planet and away from the Bajor sector. This starships, the SS Mary Rose was going to be his ticket to live another day. At least that had become his plan. He just was not yet sure if he would be able to convince the Master of the vessel to take him on as crew, or if Ezra would have to resort to some clever means of sneaking aboard and being a stowaway for as long as he could remain undetected.

The young man had packed the clothing he had, the books and the PaDD. His personal items were all set, he was ready to leave in the morning or at least make the attempt to. He had to find the Master of the Mary Rose, but even if he couldn't leave then and there, he did need to get out of this woman's house sooner rather than later. He had already been a bit of a burden to her the past few days. She had taken him in out of the kindness of her heart under the impression he was a Bajoran Prylar from a far province who needed a place to stay for the time being. Something was missing though. Yes, something rather important was missing from the room he had been staying in. Having been on the run from Ferengi, Ezra had not slept peacefully unless he was armed. When he arrived on Bajor, he acquired a Bajoran phaser pistol and had kept it in his room. Where the heck? he thought as he checked the bed and his luggage. It was no where to be found.

“What does a Prylar need with a pistol?” came a soft somewhat high pitched feminine voice from the threshold, the entrance to his room. It was then that a chill came over him and ran down his spine. He did not need to turn around to almost feel with certainty that the pistol was pointed at him and that his cover was close to if not already blown. “You're no Prylar. Who are you?” asked the voice as Ezra contemplated his next move...if there was even a move to make that would not result in death.