The Watchers

Posted on Sat Jun 25th, 2016 @ 3:05pm by

Mission: Mission 1 - Bridges
Location: Starbase 7
Timeline: MD 02 - 1205 Hrs
2767 words - 5.5 OF Standard Post Measure

::ON::

After a few drinks to placate the bartender that had been feeding her information, all free thanks to his... interest in her, Allison had all of the information that she needed to find this Barton Harkins. He was apparently a peculiar type, out spoken dress, one to think and spin a long tale to say something that could be done in a single sentence. Allison took that to mean that he didn't want people to understand him, not to judge him. He threw them off by speaking slowly, making them volunteer more information than they wanted. If it was all true, then Allison already knew he was good, good at getting what he wanted. It was going to be interesting meeting this man, a man that knew what he wanted.

Another tidbit of information she had managed to glean was that he enjoyed sitting at the edge of the promenade in a cafe watching his ship, the ship that she wanted to be on because it meant getting away from here. Having taken a quick stop over to clean up, change into a rather showy tank top with tight leather pants and rather fancy pair of boots, Allison headed to the cafe. She doubted her attire would phase him, but if it threw him off even a bit, it would be worth it. Besides she wanted something, and sex sells as the old adage went. Taking a seat in one of outer tables that gave a wide view of the old Constitution class sitting in dock, Allison ordered a cup of tea and set in to wait.

The day had been long, and Barton could feel every hour of it in the ache of his neck and throbbing of his mind. His eyes watered from scouring across star charts, his faculties drained from the endless calculations and blisters puckered the skin of his fingers, from twisting dividers in endless repetition.

So long had his gaze spent affixed upon numbers, so fatigued had his mind grown of the plotting, that presently any symbols he took in held little more structure than the pulp from an overcooked stew. If he stayed at planning much longer, Barton knew he would require the aid of a computer, even if only to ensure there were no errors to his calculations. That never sat well with him, you could not flush a toilet, take a shower or even open a damned door, without several computerized circuits controlling the action; and as Barton liked to know the why of a thing, he found this unnerving. Since he had been taught how to plan, how to astro navigate, how to keep books and write logs; he'd done it all long hand like some ancient mariner. It soothed him mostly, and also allowed for his mind to see factors and options computers left otherwise undiscovered.

There was also another aspect to this little whimsy; no matter how adept at iso-linear routing you were - you just could not hack a book, a grey-lead and a selection of rolled up maps of the stars speckled about the skies.

No computers, he'd stop for the day, that was always his preference. There was still plenty of time before all this needed to be finalized anyway, and he was still missing more than a few sections in the plan, gaps he could not yet figure how to come close to bridging. He needed a fresh perspective, not pouring over the same details he had crossed referenced ten thousand times already.

With a gentle massage to his temples and a wipe of his tired eyes, Barton willed his mind to let go of the endless ream of information. To rest spell. With careful fingers he cleaned up his desk. No, not his desk, but the thing now sitting in the corner of his study, the meek excuse for a table he was currently using.

Placing his Dividers in the old machinist tool-box he used to store his navigation equipment, sliding shut the draw with sextant and slide-rules and distance markers, He pulled down the large wooden flap which covered the draws, and locked it with the keys always on his person.

He did the same for the large book he kept as a log, writing down all the information pertinent to his life, his goals, his desires. Years of scribbles and hand-ruled tables and charts, all stamped on paper and bound between covers, guarded by little more than a metal clasp and rotunda-pin lock.

Slipping the book into the case lining his new study wall, jamming it between a unmarked copy of Aesops fables and a shabby re-print of the Adventures of Baron Munchausen, Barton sighed. The SS Mary Rose still felt off to him. Despite already having his ready room laid out as he wished, even if sparsely so, it lacked those time worn touches he had come to love, the ones which had greeted him years on end. Or had, until everything changed.

His chair with the worn arms, the wood of it's seat worn into a groove which matched his body. Those red leather winged chairs guests to his study would sit in, while they smoked cigars and talked legends over the walnut wood writing desk with green leather top. The better part of his collection of books, his globe, the radio set given to him as a gift. These were all missing from here, missing from his life.

Sure, this study had been replicated to match the old almost identically, but you can not replicate patina. The falseness of everything inside just jibed him, as if it were merely a cheap reproduction of the original, and not a perfect match.

Enough of such thinking, Barton reminded himself as he stroked Mr. Evil through his cage. The fluff ball purred like a friendly kitten, lulled and wanting at the simple act of attention.

He latched up the cage, asked the computer to plunge what was his new study into darkness, and then moved through the hissing door, into the corridor beyond and the waiting Turbolift.

Perhaps sleep was a wiser idea than espresso, but to much still needed to be done to allow him peaceful rest. Questions would coil on his faculties, forcing him to turn over and over in the bed, like a sausage on the grill. There would be no sleep, not until the final aspects of his upcoming plan had been laid. So coffee it was, coffee and the chance to look over the SS Mary Rose again. The ship. His ship.

The visage of the Rosie always inspired him, and the thought of it put a pep in his step as he walked down the gangway. Below, he could already make out the crowd, shifting across the promenade like the ever changing patterns in a kaleidoscope. A dizzying array of colors, flashing this way and that, all propelled by a thousand different errands, chores and events; none of them even stopping to look up at Rosie, to give her the moments thought she had earned after so long in space.

Walking through the crowd a little dejected, pointedly trying to ignore there movements and hubbub, as if they must notice his aphonic kvetching at them and accordingly change their ways; Barton made a b-line for his usual table.

He waved to the tender, who by now knew his order well enough for there to be no need to speak it. Extra-strong espresso, unsweetened, with two drops of lemon juice and a slice of zest on the saucer. Sitting in his usual spot, the table by the railing, were Barton was offered a fine view of his ship, he settled his gaze on it's target.

So absorbed was he with watching the men on the promenade, the four who kept trying a little to hard to look like they were not keeping track of everything that went up and down Rosie gang-plank, that he remained completely unaware of the piercing blue eyes that were tracking him, like a hark gazing a rat, preparing it's final swoop, just a few tables over.

Allison had watched as the tall man had appeared out of the crowd. Rather she had seen him coming from a while away. The peculiar nature of his dress, as reported to her had been one of the things that had given him up, then with his towering stature over the rest of the crowd it hadn't been to hard to follow him as he had approached the small cafe. Having simply walked in to the cafe and made a b-line for a table that had a rather nice view of the starbase's internal dock. The peculiar thing about it was that he was not taking in the view of his ship, rather looking off into the crowd focusing in on something. What that something was, Allison could not see from her vantage point, but for the moment, it didn't matter to her.

Collecting her tea, Allison stood and began to wind her way through the large set of tables scattered around. Taking it slow, Allison moved with purpose and caution at the same time if the stories about him were true at least the Gwven ones he was a man that was not what he appeared, someone who could be dangerous. Very Dangerous. As she rounded a support pillar she finally took notice of what he was staring at, a small knot of men who looked rather unassuming.

Setting her down to his left, Allison pulled the chair out and sat down beside him. "Hey there hun, you know if you keep staring at those men over there they might take notice. It's kind of rude actually." She said as she played it off, getting his attention and trying to get him to stop staring. "You're not very subtle." She said as she leaned in towards him, a fake smile gracing her face.

It took at least the first sentence for Barton to realize the comment was addressed to him. He watched on bewildered, but not offended, as the graceful little thing sat down at his table as naturally as if she’d been invited. Her figure was slender and she moved with an elegance that instantly put him in mind of her. Yet there was a serious edge to her blue eyes, suggesting at the razor shape motives lying just under her appeasing and soft demeanor. She was calculating in a manner that made him think her life was none to easy and suggested nearly all she did, was done for the sake of surviving. What ever she had been through, this women would sooner kill than endure it again. That made her careful, powerful and dangerous; which could go either way, depending on for whom she was fighting.

“Let me tell you a little about secret about me.” He offered straight out of the gate, gesturing for her to join him despite the fact she had already sat down. Usually, he might have introduced himself, but her presence here made it clear she already knew who she thought he was, which troubled him. “I’m rather blind. Near-sighted is what they called it, back a few hundred years. Everything beyond this table appears indistinct, a fluff of color and movement, impossible to define with any clarity. Hence the intensity of focus required in the staring. If you ever wish to kill me, a sniper phaser and a few hundred meters would make short work of it; quite literally, I’d never see it coming. 15 Minutes in a holo-med would fix me right up.” He wiggled a finger at his face. “My eyes, could be good as new, if I wanted as such. But, the side effect of this blindness you see, while everything out there is… indeterminate, that which is close; words on a page, a snippet of program code… or say a face which wonders up to my table as if a welcome old friend, I can make out with a kind of supernatural clarity.” He paused and leaned back in his seat as the sever slid his espresso across the table.

“Thank you Balda, would you like a fresh tea Miss?” He raised his eyebrows toward his guest questioningly.

"Please. The same as before, the Rocask blend from Trill with two sugars please." Allison said as she flashed a smile as she watched the man across from her with a careful gaze, one that showed only as much as she allowed. He was smart, that she knew from his first word. Careful like her, calculating. This was going to be interesting. He was as dangerous as she thought her self to be, in entirely different ways.

“As your presence here, and the men watching my ship, indicate; my reputation in this sector is stretched far beyond the merits of my actions. I’m gaining enemies and coadjutors faster than I track; hence the ship and a flight plan the hell out of this place; but all of this you knew, I take?”

"Word spreads when a ship such as yours pulls into port. Especially ships run by such a man as you." Allison replied with a rather flat tone, not really wishing to reveal anything about it, though it was probably obvious to him how word would spread about such jobs. Friends of friends, drunken bar discussions. His ship was destined for the far reaches, to places many wished to escape to from worries and fears from within their little worlds.

“Before, you said I was rude in my manner, watching those men. I disagree, rudeness is those in uniform believing the tall-tales and hear say that filter in via the back entrance, then assuming that a legitimate business man like myself must be up to no good, merely because of those whispers. To add insult to injury, they mock my fineness by expecting I’d reveal my master plan, through walking the components of it up the fucking gangway. If the sheer numbers were not so against me, I’d rather enjoy plying my skills to ending the Federation, just for their impertinence. But enough about me, I’m sure you know more about me already, than I do myself - so lets cut to the brass tacts of our little situation. What brings you to my table, to me? Are you declaring yourself as an enemy or hoping to sign on as an accomplice?” Barton took a sip of his coffee, holding out his hand to show he was not done talking just yet.

“I don’t mind either way,” He continued, sitting the little cup back onto the saucer again. “I enjoy ending a rousing foe with the same audacity as I do in aiding a loyal ally.” He fixed his eyes on her pointedly, almost coldly. “Are you intending to challenge me, or aid?”

Taking a measured sip of her tea as she listened to Barton's thinly veiled insults at the Federation and Starfleet, Allison knew they now had at least one common ground, no love lost for an organization that did nothing for people like them, only trying to change them to their own idealistic ways in a galaxy ruled by the shadows. Something they hadn't even learned after the disastrous war with the Dominion. Setting her tea cup down, Allison stared right back at him, her eyes just as focused as his own, "I've found myself looking for a new opportunity after my last job ended. I have worked alone for far to long and feel the need for companionship. Your ship, your... mission? I suppose it is a mission no? Seemed like a good opportunity for myself."

Not waiting for his response to that, Allison's gaze shifted to the ship that dominated the interior window, "One's freedom is paramount to me, none more than my own. Your ship at the moment stands for that freedom that I wish to keep. If you can promise this freedom, I believe we could come to terms that both sides would find favourable." Looking back at Barton, Allison allowed a sultry smile to come to her lips, one that she had long ago been trained to use to her advantage. A small part of her mind rebelled at it's use, but it was crushed by the larger majority, it was but a tool she could use, one she had used many times before, using it now was no different from then.

Allison Price
Mercenary
SS Mary Rose

Barton Hawkins
[Former] Captain
SS Mary Rose