The bar was loud and full. There were workers mixed in with citizens together with pirates.  It smelled of sour sweat and sick blood, a recipe Henry Wyatt did not enjoy.  He’d each crew pair off into the large room to see if they could listen to anything or strike up a conversation.  The theme of the mission was ‘casual’, and the directive from Captain Walton emphasized that very idea.  They didn’t need to be in a bar fight, street fight, or any fight.  Everyone had to play their roles.  He’d partnered with Gabriela Castillo, aka Tessica Trunow.  They sat at a table at the far end, two rust-colored beers in front of them.  He spoke low enough for her to hear him, “Drink slow.”  The effect of actual alcohol wasn’t something they were willing to test.

They sat for a few minutes until two raggedy civilians sat roughly down on the other end of the table.  Their faces were caked with dirt and muck.  They sucked on their beers, eyes closing in relief at the taste of freedom, even for a moment.  They eyed the two newcomers and commenced ignoring them.  Wyatt waited a few moments before he cracked, “Y’all look like hell burned over.” The two snapped their heads to stare at him, lips tight.  What were mere seconds felt like hours as pause pushed from pregnant to foreboding until the two of them smiled and laughed at the joke.

They raised their dirty glasses to the two, “You don’t look much better.  What awful hole did you crawl out of?”

Wyatt smiled, “A desperate hole.  This is our last chance to break even and maybe see free daylight with all the money we’re owed, and we owe.”  He hoped this would resonate with them.  It did.  They slid closer.

“Tell me about it,” the older of the two spoke low, “This place changed about six months ago.  We’ve been trying to get off this rock…without success.”  

The younger, her face littered with scars, nodded.  “It gets worse each day.  We think they will take everything of worth…and burn it to the ground.”

Castillo felt her heart beat harder as she asked, “How do you….?”  She was shushed as two guards entered the main door, strolling through the room.  The conversations stopped or slowed while the armed thugs gave the crowd hard looks until they climbed the stairs and disappeared into the upper floors.

The young woman looked to her friend, and he gave her a slight nod to continue, “I overheard some of the upper guards talking about cleansing the ground with fire…I saw some packing up last night…they’ve all been rougher with us recently.”

Gabriela locked eyes with Wyatt and continued commiserating with the two new friends.

Juliet Woodward led Oscar Reede to the opposite side of the bar, eying the stairway where the two guards had ascended.  They could hear a conversation going on above them.

A high-pitched voice groused, “The boss called.  We’ve got to move up the evacuation.  Long-range sensors have a Task Force Flagship or something on the way.”

A low lumbering bass rumbled, “People are already starting to notice our moving of stuff.  He’s suddenly afraid of Starfleet and the Federation?  Come on…this man ordered the Mackenzie put in the ground.”

Another high-pitched response, “You miss where I said Flag Ship?  Get the shit together and on its way to the evacuation pads.  Move up the extermination and slaving protocols.  Now.”

Woodward and Reede inched back and slipped into a suddenly empty table where they sat and grasped the left-behind beers as a tall Romulan thundered down the stairs, snarled at them, and pounded through the bar and out into the cold air.  Reede’s eyes widened as he could no longer hide his feelings as he whispered, “They said…”

Woodward shushed him, “They said a lot of things.  Come on, follow me.”  She grabbed his arm and pulled him along as she climbed the stairs, eyes cautiously scanning the landing above.

Seraphina Pearce and Henry Longfellow were standing outside enjoying some recently acquired cigars.  It had taken Pearce longer to get used to them.  She twisted it in her fingers, “It’s amazing something like this doesn’t get banned outright.”

Longfellow chuckled, “As a doctor, I cannot recommend them for long-term use.  Much of the disease and ailments of the past stemmed from the unmoderated use of such things.  Every so often, it is helpful to remind oneself why such vices were treasured and even protected during crackdowns by the security forces of the day.”  He puffed contentedly until the main door blasted open, and a tall Romulan stalked out, his tongue sharp with words from the saltier side of his language.  He stared at them, angry.  

Pearce wondered if he was about to use them as a stress relief from whatever had pushed him to the edge.  She relaxed a little as he spat on the ground before them and walked off.  “Think one of our people pissed him off?”

Henry shook his head, “I know our crew.  If we’d pissed him off, we’d have pissed off everyone in there.  You’d be seeing bodies getting thrown out of windows.  No, he’s angry for another reason.”  He turned his head to track where the angered agent was headed, “We could follow him, see what we can find out?”

Seraphina gave him a warning look, “You know how this place works.  I guarantee you there are eyes all along his path.  We follow, they’ll follow, and then we’ll be lost in the mess of this place.” Longfellow mouthed, ‘They’, and she nodded, gesturing to the shadows on the rooftops and the edges of the darkness in the ally across the way.  “We’ve been followed since we landed.  I think they’re pretty standard in Syndicate towns – they suspect even the best pirate producers.  Everybody gets followed, and everybody gets eyes put on them.”  She observed, “I was talking to our boss…he said they’ve got a direct line back to their boss.  The guy can decide to cut his losses and cut us in the end.  Not a lotta honor in a Syndicate town.”

A new voice broke through, “There’s still some honor in this town.  You just gotta find it.”  There was a sigh from the shadows and a few thumps sounded from the rooftops around them.  A short and old Romulan stepped out of the shadows, a cruel smile crossing her lips, “Or it’s gotta find you.”  She glanced around, “We have fifteen minutes before the ones we killed are noticed.  The bar is clean.  Come with me.”

Longfellow frowned, “Your face is familiar…who are you?”

The sixty-one-year-old Romulan grinned as she motioned them to follow her, “Commander Thasaz, Hazard Team Rose.  Lots to explain.”