The civilian docks of Davin’s Reach smelled of burnt plasma and desperation. Cargo haulers lined the bays like vultures, their crews arguing over manifests while shadowed figures slipped into back rooms to settle disputes with blood or latinum. 

Dathasa moved silently through the chaos, hood up, eyes alert. She’d left the Starfleet shuttle parked under a neutral transponder code, at least until she could make the exchange. She picked her way through the crowd to a small cantina that was little more than a hole in a wall and a line of barstools. Sitting on one of the stools, slurping on something from a steaming bowl, was a broad-shouldered Klingon woman. 

Dathasa’s face split with a wide smile. “Dranoj,” she greeted, taking the stool directly beside her. 

 The Klingon’s laugh rolled across the deck like thunder. “Dathasa! Still breathing, I see.” She clapped Dathasa on the shoulder with a strong hand. Dranoj eyed her up and down with the frankness of an old comrade. “You’ve gone soft. All that Federation silk has dulled your edge.”

“Edges can always be sharpened,” she replied, a sly smile curling the corner of her mouth. 

She barked a laugh, then jerked her ridged head towards the shiny Federation shuttlecraft in mock disgust. “You’ll stand out like a Vulcan senator in a Ferengi mud pit in that thing. You need something less… honest.”

Dranoj slurped the rest of her bowl down, then wiped her face with her sleeve. She stood, motioning Dathasa to follow, and led her to the far end of the bay. A battered freighter sat there, crouching like some mangy beast. Its hull was a patchwork of odd panels and scorch marks, and its engines wheezed with effort, even at idle. 

“She’s called the Xanatos,” Dranoj said, patting one of the panels like an old pet. “Ugly, temperamental, and she smells of old blood. In other words, perfect.”

Dathasa circled the freighter, tracing her fingers along the seams of the panel. “Smuggler’s grade?”

“Better. This old girl used to run blades for the Blood Fangs on D’Loth Prime. Her name still carries some weight in black market spheres.” Dranoj tilted her head at her. “Weight you’re going to need, if you’re serious about what you’re planning.”

Dathasa slung her bag off her shoulder and tossed it into the open door to the cargo hold. “I am.”

The grin on Dranoj’s face faded, replaced with a look of mild concern. “What is this job, really? You didn’t come out here for nostalgia.”

Dathasa paused midway through the hold door. “Someone I trust needs answers, and I’m the only one who can get ‘em.”

Dranoj gave a low grunt. “Then you better watch your back, Dath. You know better than anyone that they don’t play by any rules out here.”
“I know,” Dathasa said, placing a hand on Dranoj’s shoulder. “Trust me, old friend. I’ve got this. And I know who to call if I get into trouble.”

Dranoj nodded once, then backed away as Dathasa slapped the door close button on the inside of the ship. She picked her way through the ship’s cramped interior to the cockpit, sliding into the old pilot’s seat with a deep sigh.

Here we go again.

The old station loomed ahead on Dathasa’s viewscreen, its spider-like arms silhouetted against the low red light of a dying star. Half of its docking arms jutted out at odd angles, held on by kilometers of safety cables. 

The Xanatos slid into one of the magnetic safety clamps with a hiss. Dathasa killed the engines and exhaled deeply, watching the condensation appear on the window. She stood from the pilot’s seat and did a quick pat-down of her equipment. 

Her clothing was all functional and close-cut, with just enough intentional rattiness to be overlooked by everyone. Her twin disruptors still hung from a leather belt slung low over her hips. The biggest change was her hair, which was now a burnished copper colour, and the large scar on her cheek, courtesy of Doctor M’Ress and his ‘Disguise Kit’.  

She retrieved a slim case from the cargo hold, slapped the button, and descended the ramp to the deck of the station. The smell hit first, ozone and old coolant, layered with the stench of unwashed bodies and spiced ale. Voices rose from the gloom, clipped with laughter that didn’t sound like humour. 

The bar, if it could be called that, sat in the space where an old ore sorting bay used to be. Its ceiling sat low and jagged, dripping with rusty water. A dozen or so tables sat under the handful of still-working overhead lights, each table filled with an array of faces that didn’t belong in polite spaces. She passed through them and made it to the bar, a rough piece of steel battered into shape behind a row of mismatched stools. 

The barman – a burly-looking Andorian man with one antenna missing – stopped polishing his glass as Dathasa sidled up and perched herself upon an empty stool. His one good eye studied her carefully, like a scanner.

“Name?” He asked, pouring her a glass of something dark purple and fizzy.

“Tol Vera,” she replied, giving him a wink and accepting the glass. 

“A stranger,” he mused, his mouth turning up into a grin, “What brings you all the way out to Ralath’s Grave?”

“Work,” she said, sliding the case onto the counter. She popped the latch and opened it just enough for him to catch a glint of the polished metal, a disruptor power assembly, which was nestled inside. The Andorian’s brows ticked upwards. 

“Old kit,” he said, in a nonchalant way, “could be worth something.”

“Worth enough to buy a conversation,” she said, snapping the case shut. 

The bartender gave a short, raspy laugh. “Maybe, but no one talks to nobodies out here. You wanna buy a conversation? You gotta play for it.”

He jerked his head towards a corner table where three men sat hunched over cards, a scarred Orion, a Nausicaan with a jaw like a warhammer, and a human, whose smile looked like it had never touched his eyes. 

Dathasa crossed the room with a small, measured gait. She could feel all the eyes on her as she did, sizing her up like she was prey. She dropped into the empty fourth chair at the table without asking. 

“Deal me in,” she said. 

The Orion snorted, but slid her a stack of chipped and worn chips. The cards came fast, and the games moved just as quickly. Dathasa played hard, sharp, and ruthlessly, folding when it counted and pressing when it mattered. By the third hand, the Nausicaan was snarling, and by the fifth hand, his chips were all gone. The Orion laughed at him, slapping the table with his hand, but the human didn’t. Instead, he leaned forward towards Dathasa with a thin grin. 

“Looks like Lady Luck is on your side,” he said, his smile widening, “Or maybe you’ve got something up your sleeve.”

“Maybe you’re just bad at cards,” she shot back. 

The human’s chair screeched backwards as he leapt across the table, lunging at her with his fists swinging. He tagged her with the first blow, but she caught his second mid-swing, then twisted his arm and sent him face-first into the table. He crumpled to the floor, murmuring weakly. The Nausicaan came at her next, strong and fast, but stupid. She ducked his flailing arms and drove a knee into his chest, then an elbow into his hammer-like jaw. He hit the deck hard. The Orion hadn’t moved. He remained at the table, a grin on his face, laughing and clapping like this was the best entertainment he had seen in months. 

“I guess you’re not just dead weight,” he chuckled, pushing the limp Nausicaan with his foot. 

Dathasa wiped a bit of green blood off her lip, then held her stance in case the Orion decided to get involved. 

Instead, she heard a voice slide in from the shadows, precise and unbothered. 

“Impressive.”

Dathasa turned, still keeping her posture in a fight-ready stance. A woman stepped forward, all lean grace and confidence. Her long coat was cut from midnight fabric and trimmed in crimson. Her long, dark hair swept back in a tight braid. Her eyes, dark and intelligent, studied Dathasa like she were a puzzle. 

“You play well,” the woman’s smoky voice purred, “You fight better.”

Dathasa cocked her head. “You watching the game, or the fight?”

“Both,” replied the woman, stepping closer until the dim overhead light caught her cheekbones. “You look like you handle yourself well.”

Dathasa shrugged. “I get by.”

A flicker of a smile crossed the dark woman’s face. Small, but genuine. “People who ‘get by’ don’t put a Nausicaan down in two moves,” she said, “and they don’t show up on the Grave, alone, carrying cargo worth dying for.”

Dathasa chose not to answer. Silence was better. The woman held out a gloved hand, not as an offer, but as a decision. “My name is Kaelen. I find work for people who have your… tenacity.”

“What kind of work?”

“The kind that pays,” Kaelan said simply. “Follow me. We’ll talk somewhere quieter.”