“Alright kiddos, last grown up is about to leave, so any last-minute requests, let’s hear them!”

Sidda Sadovu, a commander in Starfleet, executive officer aboard the USS Republic and most recently the personal rescuer of the bridge crew of the USS Atlantis above Betazed, swaggered onto the bridge. Black pants, a sleeveless purple top and a rather unneeded holster on her thigh went with the black leather jacket she was holding by a finger over her shoulder and the rather out of place, slightly oversized and off-kilter pinched hat on her head. Brooding mercenary or pirate chic clashing with absconded Wild West fashion.

The entire look she had put together was an intentional regression to a past life. Donning the same mask and motifs of self she’d used for years on end and for so many visits to Kyban.

And to which she felt comfortable wearing.

Feet carried her across the half-empty bridge, Republic’s crew drawn down to minimal levels as orders for shore leave had been issued to the entire crew, with lots drawn for who had to mind the ship and when so that everyone got a chance to relax on Kyban. And with a glance around to make sure certain individuals weren’t around, Sidda flopped into the centre seat, half-draped over one arm, a leg raised over the other in a manner she’d sat when commanding the Vondem Rose.

And wouldn’t dare do aboard Republic if the captain stood a chance of seeing her.

Jenu Trid was, by merit of two full pips on her collar, the senior officer in uniform on the bridge right now. She’d been talking with an ensign at Engineering, walking the young man through an operational systems display. But now she turned, raised an eyebrow and shook her head. A couple of pats on the ensign’s shoulder and she left him, walking over to Sidda.

“I want a tray of donuts from Reggie’s sent up in an hour, or I’m telling the captain what you’re doing,” Trid threatened, waving at Sidda and how she was languidly seated.

“Is that a threat, Lieutenant?” Sidda asked, spinning the chair with the one foot still on the ground just enough to look at Trid without having to move her head.

“No, boss,” Trid answered with a dangerous smile. “I was taught by someone I respect to not make threats, but promises.”

Sidda’s laugh filled the bridge, drew a concerned look from the ensign at the helm, who took only a moment to decide her readouts were far, far more important than drawing ire. Finally she drew breath, the captain’s chair having done a full rotation, and she was once more facing Trid. “Plain, frosted, filled, or a mix?”

“Chocolate filled and frosted.” Trid looked offended at the question even being asked. “You look like you’re going to cause trouble, not go on leave.”

“Can’t it be both?” Sidda slowly sat up, even swung her leg off the chair arm and sat mostly correctly in it. “I’ve got a little bit of business to take care of, then Revin is kidnapping me, to where I do not know.”

“Oh, I know.” Trid shook her head, killing the probing question. “No, I’m not telling you. I don’t want to get poisoned by pastry.”

“She did that once, and he deserved it.” Sidda’s defence of her wife was automatic. “We all agreed on it.”

“No, we all agreed she didn’t use enough poison.” Trid’s statement drew every ensign’s attention to the two women, all of them looking concerned, exchanging looks between themselves. The expressions ranged from worry to outright horror.

Sidda chuckled, slowly rose to her feet and closed the distance with Trid, a friendly smile on her face. “I think we’re scaring the normies,” she whispered.

“They need it.”

“Don’t scare them too much. I hate having to fill billets.”

“Least it’s easier to fill billets being legit, yeah?”

“More fun though hitting dive bars to find new recruits.”

“More bruises too,” Trid countered.

“Fine, fine, ruin my argument with good points.” Sidda shook her head as she stepped back, raising her voice so the young officers could hear her. “A dozen trays of fresh donuts for the conference room to be shared.”

“Oh, to generous, Commander.” Trid made a huge performance, unwatched sadly, of curtseying to Sidda.

“I know, I know.” A royal wave of her free hand and Sidda turned on her heel just in time for the turbolift on the starboard side to hiss open and admitting the only person on the ship whose mere presence always brought a smile to her face.

“You forgot something,” Revin said as she approached, bringing the only sword on the ship with her and offering it to Sidda.

It wasn’t long, and in its sheath was rather unassuming. The Starfleet delta in the hilt was certainly an interesting design choice. But the blade, Endeavour, had its own history. And for Sidda, a proven record.

Of being far, far too sharp.

“The twins are in town,” Trid offered, then continued when Sidda looked at her. “A blade made from the old Endeavour? Come on, we can do better. I can track down R’tin, get him some cast off hull plating and get a new sword fit for Republic.”

Sidda blinked a few times, then nodded her head. “Do it,” she ordered. “Also, find out where Endeavour actually is as well. If we’re going to make a Republic sword, might as well send this beauty to its namesake.”

“And either make friends or enemies?”

“Can’t it be both?” Revin and Sidda both asked in unison, causing all three women to snicker briefly.

“Right, enough delays!” Sidda declared, donning the sword belt, waiting for Revin’s nod of approval, then gentle reached out, taking Revin’s hand in her own and heading for the turbolift. “Don’t call me unless someone with at least two admiralty pips is calling.”

Only a few minutes later and both Sidda and Revin were once more amongst the streets and people of Banksy City, the thriving tropical paradise of the Archanis Sector. The shining beacon of Starfleet Tower kept making its presence known through the gaps of lesser buildings, repairs having been made to the façade in quick order after the Vaadwaur retreated.

Orange-red light from was pouring down streets, reflected from many a glass window, filling the city with the warmth of a beautiful and clear sunset, the first lights of nightlife starting to come on. Nightlife that both women would be indulging in once they made their way to their hotel for the next few nights.

“We’re being followed,” Sidda whispered to Revin as they came into sight of the hotel.

The streets weren’t packed, but they also weren’t deserted. It was the transition period from one stage of dense urban life to the next. Plenty of people about, meeting early, or finishing late. Seeking food or running late for work that was soon to start.

“I know.” Revin’s grip tightened. “Remember, phaser first.”

“I know.” Sidda’s other hand had dropped to the holster on her thigh, thumbing the strap off that kept the Klingon disruptor in place. But then raised to phaser kept hidden by the jacket she’d put on before beaming down.

Then in practised unison, honed by hours in simulations in Republic’s holodeck, both women spun around to confront their shadow. Revin had opted to raise her weapon clearly, intent unmistakeable. Sidda’s had barely left the hidden holster, ready to fire from the hip and far more circumspect.

“I was hoping,” the drawling voice said from behind the brim of a hat the exact copy of the one on Sidda’s head, “that we could have made it to the hotel and off the street before introductions were made this fine evening. With less witnesses, should certain parties become a little trigger happy?” His eyes locked on Sidda’s, ignoring Revin completely. It was obvious who he was referring to.

The man was dressed all in black, a heavier and far more imposing black then Sidda’s own. Far more formal, looking almost brand new, as compared to Sidda’s lived in attire. The duster stopped just at the top of his boots, which were a mixture of matte and gloss black, the only exception of the flat, clean, immaculate black of everything else he wore.

He looked like an escaped Wild West holodeck villain, save he was standing in the streets of Banksy City, was smiling and holding both hands open at his sides in clear indication of at least civil intentions.

“Manfred,” Sidda growled. “Can’t you just stay dead?”

“Being dead is bad for business,” Manfred answered in his overly dramatic accented way. “So are bad actors working in my name.”

“Unless you’re here to start something, go away. Fuck off. I’m on holiday.” Sidda’s growl hadn’t lessened.

“I’m actually here with a business proposition for you,” Manfred said. “I need someone killed.”

“I don’t do that.” Sidda waited a second, then corrected herself. “Anymore. Besides, you’re the expert here, do it yourself.”

“I would, but I need some help and an expert on his particular target.” Manfred took a step closer, then immediately retreated when Sidda finally raised her own weapon to a proper stance.

People had taken notice now, fleeing, giving them space. Someone was calling for Kyban Security. Soon enough they’d be here and then questions would be asked and holiday plans would end up getting disrupted in quick order.

Not that they weren’t right now, anyway.

“Who?” Sidda demand.

“Myself,” Manfred answered, a smile pulling at one corner of his mouth. “Interested?”