The red door of the Watchtower Wretch’s quarters loomed before Commander Kazim Gungor, its matte finish absorbing the corridor light like a warning.
He opened his tricorder in a smooth singular motion and scanned through the bulkhead, into the room beyond.
No life signs.
He did not relax.
He had seen sensors fooled before.
With practiced economy, he retrieved the Type-1 hand phaser from his belt — he was no stranger to it, but it was never his first choice for conflict resolution. Logic and deduction were always his first recourse over force.
He shifted left of the door, two paces back from the bulkhead and addressed the potential risk before him.
Jennings had called it the “Fatal Funnel,” a term borrowed from tactical manuals and grim experience – a deadly chokepoint. Gungor understood the geometry: a figure standing square in the doorway was a silhouette waiting to be eliminated.
“Computer, security override, Gungor Alpha-Charlie-Delta-Two-Two-One-Bravo.”
The door whisked open.
He scanned the room in angular sections; each slice revealed more of the quarters, a scene of relative tidiness. He advanced with a blend of slow caution and calculated swiftness, checking every alcove, every shadow, every potential spot where a subject might lie in ambush, masking his vitals with some advanced technology.
Nothing.
He reengaged the safety selector and returned the small . “Gungor to Jennings, Rooj Makarul is not in his quarters. Assemble a team and scour the promenade. I shall update you if my search here returns any leads.”
“Understood, sir. I shall coordinate with our new Chief Tactical Officer, and issue a silent notice to all security staff to be on the lookout for our custodian.”
Gungor’s eyes drifted toward the floor – a pair of boots stood neatly aligned before the closet, toes squared to the bulkhead as if awaiting inspection. The symmetry was unsettling. No one leaves footwear that precise unless they intend to return…or intend to be remembered.
He crouched, scanning the pair with his tricorder.
The readings came back ordinary – standard Starfleet-issued boots, size ten, standard composition – until the spectrometer registered an anomaly along the tread.
He lifted the left boot, turning it under the light. The heel bore a crescent-shaped abrasion, identical to the one catalogued earlier in the soil laboratory.
The same wear pattern.
The same soil composition.
Trace elements:
Silicate
Ferric oxide
Organic residue consistent with Delta Hodia soil
He set the boot back beside its twin, aligning them exactly as he’d found them.
The tableau was too deliberate to be coincidence.
Gungor’s search of the quarters resumed. A shallow closet with several jackets nested in the wall to the left of a small bed. The aroma of cigar smoke greeted his nose. Several distinct blends of tobacco…there are several tobacconists aboard the station that offer non-replicated blends.
Gungor examined each jacket. The scents were layered — not chaotic, but stratified, like sedimentary clues awaiting excavation.
I can detect the presence of three tobacco blends. It seems he prefers the Taproom Reserve, Highland Ember, and Citrus-Cured Blackleaf.
He lifted the first jacket — a drab grey chore coat — and wafted the aroma. The smoke embedded in the fibers was unmistakably the Taproom Reserve: a bold, peat-heavy blend with a faint metallic after-note. The Scottish Tap’s humidor kept it at precisely 18° Celsius and 68% humidity, a detail Gungor knew because he had once authored a treatise on the forensic identification of combustible organics aboard starbases.
The second jacket — a navy-hued civilian piece — carried a subtler aroma, Highland Ember. A sweeter burn with a caramelized edge; a blend favored by those who desired something less aggressive than the reserve, but still proudly non-replicated.
The third jacket was the most telling. A charcoal-black overcoat; cuffs on the cusp of fraying, and the left elbow worn smooth. This one bore the unmistakable signature of Citrus-Cured Blackleaf — a boutique blend only offered in one place aboard Eos Station: the private humidor of The Scottish Tap’s smoking lounge, The Highland Room, one of the few legal smoking venues on the Watchtower.
His eyes sharpened.
“Three blends. Three habits. But only one establishment,” he muttered softly.
He set the jackets down upon a small desk. Aboard a starbase, the air flow, filtration, and environmental cycles were meticulously regulated, and as such, tobacco use once more became an aid in the art of deduction.
He moved to the small desk. A faint dusting of particulate rested on the surface — macroscopic flakes of cured leaf, carried on the cuffs of Makarul’s coats. He scanned them with his forensic tricorder, pre-loaded with the files from his own studies and experiments.
Organic particulate composition:
72% Blackleaf variant
18% Taproom Reserve
10% Highland Ember
A perfect match.
He tapped his commbadge.
“Gungor to Jennings. Makarul frequents The Scottish Tap, specifically the smoking lounge. His clothing carries the traces of three distinct tobacco blends, all sourced specifically from their humidor.”
“Understood, sir. M’elar and I shall divert to the Tap immediately.”
“Exercise caution — he is not only a creature of habit, but also of escalation.”
Jennings stood at the security console, his weathered face creased with concentration as he processed Grungor’s report. The lines around his eyes deepened as he contemplated the implications of the evidence.
“Computer, locate Commander M’elar,” he requested, his voice carrying the weight of experience. After a moment, the computer responded: “Commander M’elar is in the security briefing room, deck four,”
Jennings made his way down the corridor, his steps measured and deliberate despite the urgency. He found M’elar reviewing tactical displays on one of the monitors. The Caitian’s ears twitched at his approach, turning his head slightly before fully facing him.
“Commander,” M’elar acknowledged with a slight inclination of his head, his amber eyes sharp and focused.
“We have an APB out on Rooj Makarul,” Jennings stated without preamble. “Commander Grungor has discovered evidence linking him to the soil laboratory incident. The boots in his quarters match the tread pattern and soil composition from the crime scene.”
M’elar’s tail flicked subtly, a sign of his heightened attention. “Any indication of where he might be heading?”
“That’s the interesting part,” Jennings continued, crossing his arms. “Grungor found traces of three distinct tobacco blends in Makarul’s quarters – all from The Scottish Tap’s humidor. The commander believes he frequents the smoking lounge there.”
M’elar’s expression hardened. “A creature of habit, then. That should make him easier to locate.”
“Do not underestimate him,” Jennings cautioned. “Grungor’s exact words were ‘a creature of escalation.’ The precise arrangement of his belongings suggest deliberation, not panic. This isn’t someone who’s simply fled. He is also actively masking his biosignature to evade internal sensors.”
“I’ll assemble a tactical team and head to The Scottish Tap immediately,” M’elar responded, his hand already moving to his commbadge. “We’ll coordinate with the Tap’s staff and establish surveillance at all exits.”
“Exercise caution,” Jennings added. “If Gungor’s assessment is correct, Makarul may be armed and prepared for confrontation.”
“Understood,” M’elar replied with a decisive nod. “We’ll approach with tactical precision.”
As M’elar turned to leave, Jennings called to him. “Chief.”
“Remember that The Tap will be busy; the second rush has begun. Blend in if permissible, but maintain tactical readiness. We don’t want to cause unnecessary alarm among the civilians.”
M’elar’s whiskers twitched in acknowledgement. “Discretion and efficiency, I’ll keep you posted.”
With that, he departed, leaving Jennings alone with the tactical displays. He ran a hand through his graying hair, his thoughts already calculating the possible scenarios. He knew that Makarul’s pattern of behavior suggested this wasn’t random – there was a method to his actions, and finding him was only the beginning of understanding his motives.
“Computer,” Jennings said to the empty room, “access station schematics for The Scottish Tap and surrounding corridors. Display all possible exits and service points.”
As the schematics appeared on the screen, Jennings prepared for what might come next, knowing that in moments like these, preparation was the difference between resolution and disaster.
