Writing Challenge: A Slice of Life!
SHORT TREKS
"A Piece of Quiet"
Ever so slightly he shut his eyes until the lashes of his lids gently converged and wearily fluttered. With vision nearly faded, he leaned forward into the glass he swirled gently in his hand and drew from it a deep breath, the aroma of the 2407 Pinot Gris permeating his olfactory organs. Comfortably ensconced on a stool at the end of the bar, Voleron had intentionally chosen the middle of three unoccupied seats furthest from the promenade, casually draping his excursion jacket across the chair to his right and positioning an old, paperback novel on the counter-top to his left, laying subtle claim to the entirety of the space as though anyone else was likely to patronize the establishment so late in the evening. It was nearly 2500 hrs and the best time to indulge in a quiet meal at Quark's he had learned, after having visited on innumerable occasions over the years. The Tycho seemed perpetually relegated to deep space and border patrol assignments, with only the occasional convoy escort mission offering intermittent relief from the otherwise monotonous task of patrolling the demilitarized zone. Voleron relished the few days of sojourn that re-supply at DS9 offered, for the relief it bestowed from the close confines of life aboard ship. As was his ritual when the Tycho was put-in at dock, he'd starved himself all day until the majority of the crew had long since retired to their quarters, so that he could enjoy the rare dinner in an atmosphere of near-solitude that he desperately craved.
Relishing a small mouthful of wine, its sweet, dry taste washing over his pallet, Voleron gradually exhaled through his nostrils and eased his posture into the back of the bar chair, which caught and embraced his exhausted body. They'd added backs to the stools, he noted, subconsciously musing that it was about time, recalling a particularly inebriated Cardassian having fallen to the floor and cut his face after a few too many glass of Kanar during a previous visit. Voleron slowly re-opened his drowsy eyes and caught the sight of the striking Dabo boy behind the bar staring at him; the lone remaining employee who was doubling as both barkeep and waiter, what with there being no bettors remaining at the wheel. Taken aback by having inadvertently met his gaze, Voleron sheepishly averted his eyes, not allowing himself to believe that the young man, likely 15 years his junior, may have taken an interest in his rugged, middle-aged appearance. More likely, he was annoyed by having to wait on a lingering late night customer and was wondering when he might be ready to order, Voleron theorized. He turned his attention to the menu, pretending to study it, knowing full-well that he would once again order his favorite dish that he'd been craving.
His salivary glands sprung to life as he beckoned the waiter over to order a bowl of Hunan Kung Pao, treating himself to another sip of his wine. But as he attempted to regain his server's attention, a station-wide announcement broke the calming ambience of the simulated evening environment. "USS Orpheus arriving at upper pylon three. Maintenance team four, report for duty assignments." "Oh fuuuuuu-ck me" Voleron muttered to himself, his typical poise giving way to obvious annoyance at the news of the unscheduled arrival of the Odyssey class starship. His now bitter glare caught the eye of the waiter once more, who appeared panicked at the prospect of having to single-handedly manage what was likely to be an influx of unanticipated patrons.
Scene: Fade out & fade back in to an overhead view of Quark's Bar
Not ten minutes later the establishment had erupted into chaos, with a mixture of civilians and off-duty Starfleet crew crowding the bar - the tranquility of the evening having been transformed into anarchy. The roar of the crowd spilled out into the promenade, awakening it from its former slumber like a Klingon being defibrillated by a painstik, Voleron imagined. At the bar in front of him, a Bolian once again erupted into a fit of obnoxious laughter, gasping for breath as he snorted and pounded the table repeatedly with clenched fist in response to a joke told to him by his companion, which Voleron thought to be of questionable comedic value at best. With each subsequent pummeling of the Bolian's mitt against the counter, a generous helping of wine sprung from Voleron's glass, which he had to quickly grab by the stem to prevent from overturning. "BULLSEYE!!!" screeched some woman behind him, causing Voleron to nearly jump from his seat, as he swore he'd felt a pointed projectile whiz past the back of his head on its trajectory to the inner ring of the dart board. "Who in this century even plays a primitive game like this anyways?!" Voleron demanded. "What is this, Naussica??", though his protest was drowned out by the noise of the horde. Sliding his hand across the back of his head, he checked his cranium for signs of blood, just in case.
From across the bar, Voleron caught another glimpse of the questionably clothed Bajoran Dabo boy, who was now noticeably perspiring while frantically running from table to table delivering platters of drinks to demanding guests. Stains of spilled beverages were noticeable on his revealing, white uniform shorts as he bustled from table to bar and back. Voleron's state of annoyance momentarily melted away to a feeling of compassion for the overwhelmed barkeep. Just then, a legion of Ferengi filed into the premises, grabbing PADDS and serving trays, their race's equivalent to sending reinforcements into the front lines of some active battle, Voleron reckoned. "Finally, maybe someone will take my ord--", Voleron hoped... "SMACK!" his musings were interrupted by the the crushing blow of an open-palmed strike to his upper back. "VOLERON, MY GOOD FRIEND!" thundered an obnoxious voice from behind him. "Oh for God's sake" he thought, as he instantly recognized the vocalization. It was Lieutenant Robert Janeway, a problematic gambler who knew his way around a Stonewall credit.
"DAAAAA-BO!!!!!" erupted the crowd from elsewhere in the bar. Voleron motioned his meal order to the nearest Ferengi, slammed back what remained of his glass of wine and turned to face his assailant, who had already helped himself to the vacant seat beside him, sitting on and crumpling Voleron's jacket. "Do you know... the Orpheus just got back from a rescue mission where I personally saved three civilians from being hunted and sacrificed to some sort of entity?" Janeway bragged in his usual manner. Voleron breathed deeply, preparing to feign interest in the conversation when his performance was cut short by an erupting brawl between two Caitians. Chairs were over-turned and cheering patrons pushed aside as as the pair circled one another, hissing and pawing at each other's manes. Finally the larger of the two beasts grabbed the other and threw them clear across the bar in front of Voleron, the victim letting loose a "REEEEEEEEEEEER" that only a Caitan could vocalize, taking Voleron's wine glass and freshly delivered meal with him across the counter and crashing to the floor. "Oooo, a cat fight" joked Janeway as Voleron stared solemnly at him, thoroughly unimpressed by the attempt at humor.
That was it. The Trill had had his fill. Wine had been spilled this night and now his Kung Pao decorated the floor. Voleron hadn't worn his uniform, wanting to disconnect from his vocation for just one night. Approaching the Caitian he grabbed him by the scruff. "You're under arrest" he decreed, pulling from his pocket his Starfleet I.D. as an assertion of his authority, which identified him as Captain of the Tycho - an influence that the rowdy feline declined to recognize. Dragging the meowing cat to the security office, Voleron deposited the irate prisoner into their care before retreating to his quarters aboard ship.
Scene: Voleron's Quarters: Soft instrumental music playing in the background
"Computer, one glass of Pinot Gris", Voleron ordered from the replicator, approaching the receptacle from across the room wearing nothing but a form fitting pair of white Class of 2399 embroidered shorts from back in his academy days. "There are fourteen varieties of Pinot Gris available from this replicator..." replied the device. "With ice, with air bubbles, Bolian style..." "Plain" interrupted Voleron. "Specify room temperature or cold" responded the machine. "Cold. Cold, plain Pinot Gris" responded Voleron with palpable annoyance.
Grabbing the replicated beverage -- a sorry substitute for the real imported vino stocked at Quark's, Voleron at long last laid back in his chaise and closed his eyes. Finally sliding into some semblance of peace, he was once again jarred from his rest by rambunctious laughter growing ever louder as it approached his quarters. "No, no, nooooo..." he muttered to himself. A ring of his quarter's chimes followed. Once... twice... three times more. Not even bothering to further clothe himself, Voleron answered the door, finding Admirals Hawk and Nick boisterously present, arm in arm, with the Dabo boy and Lieutenant Janeway in tow. "Can we come in?" they asked, feigning the formality before barging in. With them, a rare, Captain Sisko figurine that Voleron had long since sought for his collection that they had no doubt come to brag about... it became clear that there'd be no rest tonight.
Scene: The camera zooms out as Short Trek end credits and theme song play.
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