They tried four different clubs before settling on Embassy.

Q’ira had insisted on venues outside the centre of AC City, convinced the fringe would have more bite. But the occupation had gutted everything, and the city’s nightlife hadn’t so much bounced back as been curated for visiting diplomats, relief workers, and Starfleet personnel. The first club, they made it to the bar before Q’ira deemed the atmosphere ‘synthetic.’ The second, one drink in, a young man asked her to dance so politely she almost asked if he was a cop. The third, Nallera stopped in the doorway, declared the music was ‘engineered nonsense,’ and dragged them to the city centre.

Embassy stood on a corner just off the museum district, old signage restored but burn marks from the occupation still visible on the north wall. The music was from the Federation core, not Q’ira’s preferred thudding Orion synth, but at least the DJ was live and responding to the crowd. She could dance with two men at once and not have them look like they wanted her to sign a consent form, or grab her ass.

There was still a sealed off back lounge, signage saying it was under renovation. Cracks across the masonry that gave the old building an industrial vibe she didn’t think would have been there two months ago.

She collapsed against the bar, satisfied in her heavy breathing and sweat. ‘Okay! This place is suspiciously clean, but it’s at least a party, right?’

‘Right!’ Nallera rotated through drinks as the water was downed, passing over the next fruity cocktail. Her eyes danced down the bar, though, her attention not fully on Q’ira. ‘Think that girl’s checking me out.’

Q’ira took the drink. Sipped and turned as if scoping the room. Glanced down the bar to assess the trio of women at the corner of the counter, then kept sweeping on for a beat before she turned back to Nallera. ‘Redhead? Definitely. How did you not notice?’

Nallera grabbed her bourbon and had a swig, making a face. ‘Guess I’m rusty. All that war.’

‘In January, you said that blowing things up just made you hotter and hornier after we extracted that HVT from the smuggler’s moon.’

‘I did? Wow. I’m a class act.’

‘Go talk to her. All you gotta do is say you’ve been shore-side since the Battle of AC. She’ll be putty in your hands.’ Q’ira sipped more of her cocktail through the straw, her attention already drifting back to the crowds of dancers. It wasn’t exactly the debauched indulgences of nightclubs on Orion moons, but occupation and liberation seemed to be doing the Federation nightlife atmosphere some good, at least.

Q’ira closed her eyes, and for a moment, the thudding bass of the music and the hum of the crowd could wash over her. For a moment, she was back to her old life. Difficult and dangerous as it was, it was a flash of comfort. Familiarity.

When she opened her eyes again and turned to Nallera, this new weight was back on her shoulders, and she couldn’t fight the frustration in her voice as she sighed, ‘What?’

‘What?’

‘You said let’s party. So let’s party. Stop making that face.’ Q’ira poked her. ‘Spill or smile.’

‘I don’t…’

‘You’re like the least subtle of the team, Nall. What’s up?’

Nallera grimaced into her drink. ‘I was trying to not be a grump and party through it. It’s just – I got word from my folks on Vulcan.’

Q’ira sobered fast. ‘Vulcan was hit. Are they okay?’

‘Oh, yeah! They’re fine. They want me to visit.’

‘You don’t get on,’ Q’ira surmised. ‘Then just… don’t visit!’

‘Thank you!’ Nallera tossed a hand in the air. ‘This is why we’re buds. I say this shit to Aryn and he’s like… “oh, there’s been a galactic catastrophe, maybe you should see them,” like it’d be different.’

‘He said that?’

‘No, I didn’t tell him. But it sounds like him.’ She paused. ‘Okay, it sounds like other people. Non-Rooks. Normal people. It’s just – my dad’s the human, right? But he got all super immersed in Vulcan culture. Really assimilated. Has been like that my whole life.’

‘And you’re not like him.’

‘No, I want to experience joy for at least five seconds a day. He’s all “logic, logic, logic, why are you laughing at a funeral, Nallera?”’ With a scoff, Nallera drained her drink. ‘He was the weird one about it, too. My mother was all, “let her find her own path,” and shit – but all that just meant was she helped me pack when I left and never reaches out first. Dad reaches out sometimes. Acts like he cares. Then five minutes after I get back into his life, he can’t cope that I’m living my life differently.’ She waved at the bartender for a refill. ‘This won’t be any different.’

‘Except a bit of you thinks it might be. Because Vulcan just got bombed.’

‘No, a bit of me thinks I’m an asshole for knowing it won’t be, because Vulcan just got bombed.’ She grabbed the refilled glass and lifted it halfway to her lips before pausing. ‘Sorry. This was partying. Not therapy.’

‘We party to get it out of our system. Usually through dancing and drinking and not talking about it. But, well. Federation bar.’ Q’ira smirked and elbowed her.

Nallera gave a wry laugh. ‘Then what’re you dancing out?’

Q’ira took a long moment sipping her cocktail, wondering if she should obfuscate, before softly admitting, ‘The end.’

‘What?’

She gave a one-shouldered shrug. ‘Rourke’s offer. Reform the Rooks. Make us a respectable outfit.’ She gestured herself up and down, her scruffy yet – she liked to think – alluring fashion jarring with the more cultivated couture of everyone around her, even those trying to dress down. ‘You think there’s space for the galaxy’s worst provisional ensign in that?’

‘Cassidy won’t sell you out.’

‘He might not have a choice.’

‘Q’ira.’ Nallera put a hand to her elbow, the distracted air of concern fading as her eyes locked onto her. ‘Cassidy found all of us in some sort of gutter. Whatever comes next, you’re not gonna be left behind.’

Q’ira drained her cocktail. ‘Did you give that pep talk to Ranicus?’

‘Ranicus used us and left us for a better job.’

‘Ranicus was pushed around by Cassidy and Rosewood for weeks, kept on the outside and still expected to pick up the slack on their personal crusade, and then yelled at and isolated when she questioned them. Sure, maybe she would have left anyway; XO of Liberty’s a sweet gig. But they sure as shit destroyed any loyalty she might have had to us, just ‘cos that was easier.’

There was a beat before Nallera said, ‘Ranicus wasn’t a Rook,’ like she knew it was a weak defence.

‘And I’m the Orion dancing girl mascot to take you through the underworld and sneak you into places you shouldn’t be.’ Q’ira shrugged. ‘When the time comes for reform, am I a real Rook? Or just a walking policy violation that’ll need to get fixed so you can sleep on a real starship?’

‘That’s not fair.’

Q’ira turned to her, eyebrows raising. ‘People will say they want you, that you have a place, even though you don’t fit in. But eventually… they’ll revert to the default. And remember you’re a weirdo outsider. And then blame you for it.’

There was a beat. Then Nallera drained her bourbon. ‘You’re right,’ she said. ‘We should be dancing this out instead of talking.’

‘You’re damn right. Go play war hero with that hot chick.’

‘What’re you going to trawl for?’

‘Oh, you know, the usual. A string of disappointing men.’ Q’ira tossed her hair over her shoulder and sashayed off towards the crowd. ‘But at least they look at me adoringly!’