A Day In The Life, Part III

Posted on Apr 08, 2015 @ 12:35pm by Lieutenant James Barton
Edited on on Apr 08, 2015 @ 12:36pm

Mission: Limbo

“A DAY IN THE LIFE”

PART THREE



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“Randomness stalks us every day of our lives.” – Paul Auster



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SCENE: Atria

TIME INDEX: During the events of ‘Win If You Can’



Barnes strolled quickly through the Atria, clutching the leather satchel close he’d taken from Elx Rodn’s home close to his side with green-stained fingers. Inside the satchel were three bars of gold pressed latinum. He’d cleaned the package off as best he could, and left it where he found it outside of Rodn’s neighbor’s apartment. He’d glanced around, but the Bajoran call girl he’d scared off earlier hadn’t made good on her threats to come back with friends or the Black Stars, so he’d made his way as quickly as he could, without drawing further attention, out of the Penthouses.



Now, moving towards Fenk’s watering hole, he took a moment to reflect. He’d gotten lucky finding the package to give him a cover. He’d gotten lucky because Elx had been expecting the call girl, and so opened his front door without hesitation. He’d gotten lucky that the Romulan’s wife, whose name Rodn had begun invoking like a religious rite at a certain point, had never returned. All in all, he’d just been lucky all around and he wasn’t pleased.



*Stupid!* He berated himself. *Stupid!* Once again, he’d charged in without thinking, without a plan B. Hell, without a plan A! Another voice inside him tried to suggest that everything had worked out swimmingly; he’d gotten the money, he hadn’t gotten caught, Elx Rodn was alive to lose more money to Snek in the future. He damned that voice for a fool. If his luck hadn’t held, like it hadn’t for years, he’d have blown this one chance at getting paid. His next step would have been stealing food directly, and that was a good way to end up on the Black Stars’ radar, a place no one stayed for long. He sighed, and wrestled with a thought he’d had ten thousand times in the years since he’d come to LIMBO: He just wasn’t a very good criminal.



He was in the fourth round of a one-sided beat down to his self-esteem as he approached Fenk’s watering hole. The crowd was larger, now that ‘evening’ had arrived, meaning that around two thirds of the station’s manual labors had finished their daily shifts. The terrible Bolian cover of Terran jazz standards had been replaced by terrible Bolian covers of Bolian pop hits. Barnes wondered if the bar’s owner was also the band’s manager. If so, between the covers and the ‘bourbon,’ he should probably just quit, Barnes mused to himself. Still, if the music wasn’t better, the atmosphere was. There were more people, and fewer of them were drinking with the determination that the professionals earlier today had been demonstrating. Hell, even as he approached, Barnes could see people smiling. And laughing. It was like it was a whole different place…



…Until he walked in and saw the Fenk was still parked all the way at the back of the bar, and Barnes was going to have to wade through twice as many people to reach him as he had earlier in the day. He waded in and began muscling through, apologizing to those who responded to his jostles with grace, fixing those who decided to take offense with a stare that asked how far they’d be willing to go to correct him. One drunk seemed ready to say something until his companion, obviously more in control of his faculties, took him by the arm and led him away. Foot by foot, he pushed toward Fenk like an invading army. He looked for a bartender, but the nearest one was arguing with a short redhead and an Andorian on the other side of the bar. Figured.



The Ferengi waste-of-blood looked up at him with disdain as he finally got close. “Oh ho ho. It’s Junkie Barnes! How ya doin’, Junkie?”



Fantastic. He was drunk. “I’m alright, Fenk. I’m a lot more sober than you are.”



“No chance. Everyone knows Hu-mons can’t hangle their drinks like Ferendis…wait…” Fenk’s eyes crossed as he tried to play back his last words in his head, trying to catch his mistake. A moment later, he’d realized that he, of course, hadn’t made one.



“Whatever. Here.” Barnes hoisted the bag onto the bar beside Fenk. There was an audible ‘clunk’ as the heavy bag hit the synthetic wood countertop that Fenk could hear over the din of the club.



“What’s that?”



“What do you think it is?”



“How should I-“ Fenk cut himself off, his eyes going wide in realization. His hands darted for the bag, however Barnes quickly ripped it back.



“My cut?”



Fenk snorted. “Showing me a bag isn’t good enough, Hu-mon. You have to deliver the…” he glanced around and dropped his voice to a needless whisper, “latinum.”



Barnes rolled his eyes. “Do you *have* my cut?”



“Of course!”



Barnes returned the bag to the bar, but didn’t remove his hand. Fenk didn’t catch the obvious implication and again lurched at the satchel. He pulled with all the strength greed gave his tiny frame, but held in place by the much larger Human, the bag didn’t move. “Show me.”



It was Fenk’s turn to roll his eyes and he reached into his vest pocket. He pulled out a handful of latinum strips and placed them on the bar, keeping his hand cupped over the pile. Barnes heard the *clink* of the gold against the bar and his mouth began to water. Fenk slid his cupped hand closer to Barnes. “Same time,” asked the stunted Ferengi in a mocking tone. Barnes nodded once and withdrew his hand. In the same instant, Fenk released his hand from the small pile of strips and tore the satchel from the bar into his lap. He flipped open the case and greedily looked inside. Again, that disgusting grin split his face like a fault line. “I don’t believe it.” Then, the grin faded. “There’s Romulan blood all over them! What did you do?”



“It’ll wash off,” Barnes dismissed. He was staring a hole through the latinum on the bar. All four strips of it.



“Well, I can’t believe I’m saying this, but good work, Barnes.” Fenk had draped the strap of the satchel over his neck and was beginning to drift off of his barstool. “You didn’t completely fu-“



Barnes’ hand was a bolt of lightning, and it landed on Fenk’s shoulder with all the speed and viciousness of a god’s judgment. Fenk was dropped back onto his barstool so fast that his tiny ass bounced. The Ferengi’s entire shoulder assembly fit in Barnes’ hand like a fruit, and the bearded colossus squeezed like he was trying to draw juice. He could hear the air slice through Fenk’s bodkin teeth in a hiss. “We had a deal, Fenk. You’re short.”



Fenk’s insecurities apparently went deeper than his understanding. Indignantly he protested, “I’m not! You’re just the size of a damn tree-“



“That’s not what I mean, you maggot,” Barnes hissed in a savage whisper. “Five strips! Not four!”



“It’s all I have,” Fenk insisted.



“Rodn said that after he gave me the second bar. I persuaded him to find the rest, you want that?”



“You know what the difference is? Rodn HAD the money. I don’t.” Fenk tried to twist out of Barnes’ grip, so the human clamped down harder. He could feel the grinding of bones beneath the Ferengi’s flesh. “Nggggggah,” Fenk hissed. “I only have what Snek pays me. Beating me won’t put money in my pocket or yours. Take what you can get.”



“Maybe I should do exactly that,” Barnes said reaching towards Fenk’s neck and the satchel strap draped around it with his other hand.



There was a sudden crack like the peal of thunder from near the front of the bar. Barnes craned his neck, and saw that the short redhead and the Andorian were now being dressed down by a guy near as big as Barnes. He said something to the woman that Barnes couldn’t hear, but he gathered she’d responded when he saw the huge man swing. Barnes blinked, and missed the redhead’s dodge. *Holy Hell,* he thought. *She is fast!* Barnes was the fastest person he knew in a fight, despite his size, but this lady was… No doubt about it, she was faster. Once that thought would have offended his pride. Now he just accepted the new fact, and appreciated that he’d been here to see this woman work. She sent a glass of bloodwine bouncing off of her larger attacker, and a half a heartbeat later, she’d hoisted one of the heavy tables into the air at him.



Jacen’s eyes narrowed as he watched that. In addition to her ridiculous speed, this woman was also obviously strong. Those tables were designed to have drunk people trip into them, onto them, or sprawl across them without losing stability, so they here as heavy and dense as they were ugly. He guessed he could lift one with one arm, but it would be a workout. But Barnes could see she had sent the table in her assailant’s general direction, rather than guiding it like a missile at him. Maybe as fast and strong as she was, she wasn’t experienced enough in a fight to recognize the opening. Some other explanation worried at the edges of his mind, but wouldn’t make itself known.



For a brief moment, Fenk’s treachery was forgotten (though he didn’t loosen his grip or relieve the Ferengi’s paralysis) and the entire universe was composed of a bar fight taking place yards from him. He watched, forcing his eyes and his mind to see every frame, to slow things down enough to be comprehended. It was a mental trick that had served him well back when…well, a long time ago. The table hadn’t landed before she’d reached out and grabbed a bar stool. He nodded in approval; that was good strategy: create a diversion and fill your hands with something as soon as possible. Maybe she was more experienced than he’d first guessed. Or maybe…she’d had training?



He groaned inwardly as he saw her grip on the bar stool. She’d grabbed it too high, near the cushion. She wouldn’t have the leverage to get a good swing and, in fact, was pretty likely to have it…



Sure enough, the man assaulting the younger woman caught her by the arm, then gripped the fabric of her dress about her waist. As he grabbed the smaller woman, Barnes assumed the fight was over. He would pull her close, twist, and throw her face first into the bar, probably drive her nose into her brainpan and that would be the end of her. It would be uncomplicated, quick, and easy for the larger man. However, he didn’t do any of that. Instead he resituated his feet, hoisted her into the air and tossed her. Barnes noted that the hand at her waist pulled inward, causing her to spin.



The rotation allowed her to hit the bar in a homerun slide. It sent glass and liquor flying in several directions, but it also allowed her to control her slide, and she was back in command of her body before her feet touched the ground again. The larger man waited until she was balanced, a very considerate gesture considering the circumstances, and charged. Barnes couldn’t see exactly what her response was, but suddenly the larger combatant was airborne, if only for a moment. There was a crash, even louder than the one that had first grabbed the bar’s attention, and suddenly he had popped back into view wielding a table leg.



Barnes was only dimly aware of Fenk’s twitching as he watched. The redheaded woman planted her feet and pivoted her body just slightly. *An invitation?* Her adversary swung the table leg toward her midsection. Barnes eyebrow raised as he realized that not only had the man not swung the table at her breastbone or down at her spine, he had twisted the table leg so that the exposed nails that had secured it to the tabletop were twisted away from the point of impact. As such, though the impact was brutal, it didn’t land on any bones and wouldn’t draw blood.



Then she had the table leg in her hands, (*He didn’t fight too hard to hold onto that.*) and had angled her knee up into a high thrust that caught her opponent under his chin. It was a flashy, impressive move, and most impractical in the close quarters they were fighting in. He could see at least two ways she’d opened herself up to being headed off. The blow drover her attacker forward, onto one knee, instead of backwards – like physics would suggest – and she approached him with the table leg, eyes fixed on the back of his head.



*She’s going to swing up, from low to high, instead of swinging like a baseball bat and breaking either the leg or his skull.*



A fraction of an instant later, the short redhead did exactly that, bringing the table leg up in a decent approximation of a golf shot. From his angle, Barnes couldn’t see clearly, but it looked to him like she’d barely grazed him with what otherwise looked like it may have been a killing blow. The large attacker swooned, and the redhead promptly dropped her weapon, instead of scanning the room for any potential friends he may have had. The Andorian, who looked mystified, moved to her side and the both of them beat a hasty exit. The noise in the bar normalized, as half-forgotten conversations were rejoined in progress. The Klingon pointed at the defeated man on the floor (who Barnes noticed was breathing in the quick shallow breaths of the excited instead of the deep slow breaths of the unconscious), demanding that someone remove him.



*What the Hell was that?!* Barnes was reminded of an ancient form of Earth entertainment he’d seen in old archive tapes in his younger days. Athletes would seemingly engage in physical combat to entertain a paying audience. However, unlike the bloodsport that had dominated Earth history, as well as dozens of other civilizations, the combatants actually worked together to tell an entertaining and engaging story, usually one that centered around a morally upright competitor overcoming steep odds to exact revenge on a villainous combatant who had wronged him. Barnes wasn’t sure if maybe these two were trying to resurrect the sport, but he knew that what they absolutely were NOT doing was attempting to injure or defeat their opponent.



As he watched two other patrons ‘rouse’ the ‘defeated’ man, Barnes turned his attention back to Fenk. “What were you saying, Fenk? Was it, ‘Take what I can get?’ That may not be the dumbest thing you’ve ever said.” He began to reach again for the strap at Fenk’s neck.



“Wait… wait,” the Ferengi protested.



“Why should I?”



“Because it’s not mine, idiot!” Fenk’s eyes were wild and his voice was a frantic whisper. “This isn’t my latinum anymore that it was Elx Rodn’s! This belongs to Snek, and he’ll kill us both!”



Barnes hesitated with his hand hanging menacingly close to Fenk’s throat. He hated being lied to, he hated being screwed over, he hated being taken advantage of, but what he REALLY hated was that Fenk was making perfect sense. He and Fenk weren’t two small fish in a big pond; he was a small fish and Fenk was a claw of a really big, really mean, really well connected fish with big ears. With a disgusted sigh of resignation, he dropped the hand hanging in Fenk’s face and released the other from the runt’s shoulder. He leaned in close to Fenk, which he regretted due to the smaller creature’s breath, but he wanted to make sure he’d impressed his point. “You owe ME, now, Fenk. You got that? I don’t have connections, I don’t have money, I don’t have friends. I’ve got nothing but these,” He flexed his ham-sized fists under Fenk’s lobster-shell nose, “and time. Lots of time. Time to wait. You do right by me or one night I’ll find you. And what I give you will make what I did to Elx Rodn look like a massage. I will hurt you. I will ruin you. I will break you into so many pieces, there will be one for every Rule of Acquisition. All that…for one strip of latinum. Does that sound worth it to you?” It was the second time today he’d asked someone to weigh physical damage against their debts. It was a favorite tactic of his; he knew how devastating it was to lose your identity and agency over a paltry sum of money. He knew that very well.



“Alright, alright, alright,” Fenk placated. “Listen, tell you what. I don’t have any more money right now, but I heard about something coming up in the next few days and there may be space for some muscle. But you’ve got to SETTLE. DOWN.”



“I don’t need more work right now. I need the money for the work I did. That’s order of operations; I would have thought Ferengi understood simple arithmetic.”



“Listen! Be smart! Don’t get your britches twisted over one strip of latinum when there’s so much more to be made.”



Barnes sighed. Fenk didn’t have access to the kind of work he was trying to get Jacen to bite on, but he did have SOME work, and four strips of latinum wouldn’t last long. “What’s the job?”



“It’s dangerous. And secret. And that means it’s lucrative.”



“What’s the job?”



“I’m not even supposed to KNOW about this, but I overheard some folks talking and-“



“The JOB…Fenk.”



“You ever hear of the Shadow Market?”



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SCENE: The Dungheaps

TIME INDEX: After “Win If You Can”, Prior to “Shadows”



The man called Jacen Barnes walked quickly through the Dungheaps. He kept his hand thrust deep into his breeches pocket, clutching the four strips of latinum there. He was tempted to roll them around, to slide one against the other and feel their friction, but he fought the impulse. Even in his pocket, nothing *clinked* like gold-pressed latinum, and though he didn't fear the thieves and pickpockets he shared LIMBO with, he also saw no reason to ring their dinner bell either. Instead, he just clenched, then slightly relaxed his fist, feeling the rigid corners bite sweetly into the flesh of his palm.

He ran through a mental checklist of what he could do with his newfound wealth. Food was his first priority, he refresher was as empty as Tella Yavin's heart, even if it never got half as cold. Two of the four strips would need to go to old bread, replicated soy protein substitute, and a few wilted vegetables from Halen's stand. Halen's wares were guaranteed to put his digestive system into red alert, but his mother had always impressed on him when he was young the importance of greens in a healthy boy's diet. Even if the greens were brown, he still did his best to make his mama proud.

Unbidden, Elx Rodn's ruined face burst into his mind's eye like macabre jack-in-the-box. With a grumble, he conceded his subconscious' point: It had been a long, long time since he'd been someone she would be proud of. If she were still alive, she'd still love him, or course. She'd even do what he couldn't and forgive him, for Elx, for LIMBO, for the past decade, for...what came before. She would hold him, weep for him and with him, comfort him. All those things she would do, but she would not, could not, be proud of him.

Maybe it was better she was gone.

From there, the budgeting became a matter of prioritization. He could provide his landlord a strip, which would catch him up to only six weeks in arrears. That might improve the tone of her early morning visits, or at least reduce their frequency. She had an unerring knack of only showing up on mornings where he'd managed to sleep through the night before, pounding on his ramshackle door hard enough that the pathetic lock would rattle in its cylinder and screaming at him in some kind of personalized hybrid of Federation Standard and the hooting, buzzing cries of her own planet. If he was ever forced to encapsulate her visits, he would describe it as being on one side of a door, and on the other was a raging kazoo with a predilection for calling his parentage into question and threatening to sic the Black Stars on him. Yeah, he could give Ol' Kazoo-Head a strip...but he wasn't going to. She'd refused to improve the lock, wouldn't even take a look at the refresher, and he knew what it sounded like when someone was serious about bringing the hassle of the Black Stars into their lives. She was at least two weeks away from doing anything that crazy.

He considered, just briefly, about inquiring around some of the crew haulers. A couple of strips wasn't much of a bribe, but it might be just enough to incentivize some freighter captain to risk bringing another hand aboard. A good turn of luck and he could be Antares-bound with a load of subspace telescope replacement parts within a day. He could sneak away from the Dungheaps and Kazoo-Head in the middle of the night, put LIMBO on his six and disappear forever. It wouldn't take long for a captain to realize Barnes' strength, easily a rival for a Vulcan or an Andorian, and if he tried really hard, he could probably remember how to take orders. He could leave the bonebreaking and the thuggery and the desolate reputation of Jacen Barnes. Hell, he could even leave behind Jacen Barnes. Take up a new name, one without the stain of all his mistakes, point himself at the furthest star and just warp away. He could be free.

And then, maybe he could team up with Santa Claus and they could bring toys to the good little boys and girls of the galaxy. He knew that there were no happy endings at the end of a trip like that, just another starbase out there even worse than this one, waiting to crush and distort him into something even worse than what he already was. He could resolve to leave every bit of baggage here on LIMBO, but there would always be that one little carrying case that would show up anywhere he landed. The one with the worn stitching, and the desert dust in the bottom - The one that held his failure, and his weakness, and The Nightmare. That's how running away worked. A retreat always ends somewhere worse than you started, with fewer resources, fewer options, and fewer days to live.

So he wouldn't pay his rent and he wouldn't flee LIMBO in the dead of the night. He would do what he always did, what he'd really known he would do since before Fenk had paid him. He would give those two bars to Madrid, and Madrid would give him a bottle worth four, and he would be just a little bit deeper in debt. In a month, maybe two, Madrid would call that debt due, and someone would be hurt very badly, or worse. Then he would take that bottle, and keep it in his room, unopened, for as long as he could stomach it. It might be only an hour, one time he'd gone four days. He would stare at it while he stretched, contorted, and lifted himself throughout the day. He would think of all the succor it would offer him, and he would relish having that relief on hand for as long as he could muster. Then, all too soon, The Nightmare would come for him in the night more savagely than he expected and he would need it. He'd drink just enough to take the edge off, and sleep fitfully that night. The next day, he would drink heavily and consistently, draining the bottle measure by measure until stupor took him, and he would sleep quiet and dreamless.

Mentally, he was already haggling with Madrid and perusing the fat man's wares, when he turned the corner on to his street and his attention coalesced into a laser-fine point. A handful of Romulan military officers were canvassing the thoroughfare, approaching any and all passersby. In the orange glow of the station lighting, their square shouldered silver uniforms took on a sickly, jaundiced cast. They did not move with parade ground efficiency - their informants were too varied, widespread, and disinterested enough for that - but their manner was typically Romulan: cold, professional, and superior. They stepped directly in front of pedestrians, blocking their paths forward without a word of apology. The average Dungheap resident was malnourished and small, and the alien investigators openly took played on the imposing physical advantage their military training and diet provided them. The manner in which the Romulans scrutinized the face of every person they encountered told Barnes that they were looking for a someone, as opposed to a something.

A chilling tingle flared in Barnes' fingertips. Romulans on the street directly outside his apartment, searching the Dungheaps for some unfortunate enemy of the Empire. *Rodn!* It had to be! Obviously Fenk had decided to withhold some important information about an old service record of Rodn's, or a cousin in the Tal Shiar, or who-knows-what-the-hell. He'd collected his teeth after Barnes had left and put in a call. Or the Bajoran call girl had given his description and the Romulans had tracked him down...somehow. The details didn't matter, and they probably wouldn't bother to explain them before they blasted his lungs out with a disruptor.

Again.

*This is where it ends,* he thought. After everything Romulan machinations had cost him, a part of him that still recognized the poetic could appreciate that they would be the ones to finally put him down. He'd been standing here for just long enough for a single drop of panic sweat to roll behind his ear, but he wouldn't have much longer. They were being too careful. In only a moment, one of them would see him. That one would put sound out and they would pull their disruptors as a unit, like one hand moving five fingers at once. His neighbors, such as they were, would panic and bolt, climbing and jumping over one another to escape the massacre, not realizing the Romulans had but one target.

One of them turned to him and began to approach. Barnes, appraising his pace, began count down his final moments, silently.

*Three*

He clenched his fists and his knees, holding perfectly still, waiting for the Romulan to get close enough to lunge at. He was certain he could take at least this one with him. The olive-skinned centurion was nearing.

*Two*

The Romulan was close enough now that he could clearly see his unlined, youthful expression. It was hard, and stern, but it looked to Barnes more like a young child playing "soldier" than an actual veteran. He wasn't fooled. This was a killer, but so was Jacen Barnes. The Romulan reached to his belt as he looked Barnes square in the face.

*One*

One last showtime…

"You there, Human," the Romulan barked just as Barnes was prepared to leap for his throat. It didn't have the exultation and triumph Barnes was expecting. This wasn't how he expected the fight to start, and his confusion made him hesitate. The Romulan, unaware of how close the giant Human had been to assaulting him, continued in his smug tone. "The Romulan Star Empire is looking for this Terran. We are certain he is here on LIMBO. Have you seen him?" Instead of the disruptor Barnes had expected, the raven haired alien was holding out a tricorder, displaying a hologram picture of someone who clearly wasn't Jacen Barnes.

They weren't here for him. Barnes was mystified, and for half a heartbeat, even offended. The idiocy of that passed quickly. Relief and disappointment washed over him concurrently as he realized that he wouldn't die here. Not now anyway. Whatever had brought these demons to his front door had nothing to do with him, and that made Barnes' answer easy. "Nope. Haven't seen him."

The Romulan sighed, "Like your...neighbors," he spat the word out like it had spoiled, "you display a strange certainty that you do not know the man without even examining his appearance."

"I haven't seen anyone, so I haven't seen your man."

"It is important that we find this Terran," the Romulan intoned. His speech was flat now, as if he was repeating a memorized and rehearsed phrase by rote, and without conviction. "He is worth a sizeable amount of latinum to someone who can lead me to him."

It was Barnes' turn to roll his eyes. For as well trained as this soldier was (which was very well, Barnes could tell, judging by his poise, despite his boyish appearance) he clearly didn't understand the environment he was operating in. People in the Dungheap didn't inform. They didn't talk to the Black Stars, and they certainly weren't going to cooperate with agents of Romulus. No one trusted the governmental powers to make good on their promises, but those who provided retribution to snitches were as reliable as clockwork. In the Penthouses, this Romulan's approach would work wonders; someone like Elx Rodn would have handed over his own children for an opportunity to gain favor and latinum. Down here, everyone lived with a single certainty: there *was* no opportunity, no way life ever got better. This idiot would get just as far offering magic beans.

However, Barnes was already bored with the conversation. He figured the quickest way to get clear of this pointy-eared stormtrooper was to make a show of examining the hologram, at which time he could confirm, once again, that he hadn't seen the Romulan's quarry. He made a show of turning his eyes to the hologram, and was immediately captivated. The holo was obviously taken candidly, with the angle and composition suggesting that the dark haired man within it hadn't known it was being taken. There was a half-smirk on his face, and Barnes could see the barest hint of a sharpened incisor peeking under his bottom lip. His dark hair was pushed back, and beautifully styled. His silver eyes were captured in a sparkle that could have been mischievous or malicious. He was very handsome, and obviously in athletic shape. There was something...different about this man. Barnes couldn't have explained it if he'd tried, but there was something that radiated from this dark-haired mystery, even in a still holo, that raised the hairs on his neck. He was now certain he'd never seen him before, and very much relieved by that. When he spoke, he thought he heard of a gush of relief that the Romulan apparently had not. "No. No, sorry." For no reason he could identify, Barnes continued. "What's his name?"

"While we expect he may be attempting to operate under an alias, he is called Rawyvin Seth."

Barnes couldn't help it. For all the dumb things he did regularly, this was unlike him. He laughed in the commando's face.

"Ha ha! What?!" He'd heard of Rawyvin Seth. Most folks who operated below a certain level of society had, he guessed. They all had a story they'd heard from a friend, who had a business partner, whose cousin had worked with a bartender who knew this soldier who had *actually been there* when Rawyvin Seth defeated a squadron, sometimes a battalion of Breen – occasionally Klingons. Seth was the patron saint of murderers and liars. He was a ghost that could walk through walls at will. He could seduce with a word. He could kill with a glance. Seth Rawyvin could kick the Boogeyman's ass, even if one of his own arms turned traitor. Seth Rawyvin...did not exist.

"What is humorous?" Humans were ridiculous animals, constantly making inappropriate noises. He didn’t know if this one was caught in some kind of fit or if it was being insolent, but he was suspicious.

"Nothing. Nothing at all. I apologize." Barnes clamped down on his chuckle, but it spit through his pursed lips and he snickered again. This Romulan had gotten him going. He actually smiled at his interrogator. "Well, like I said… I haven't seen him. But if I do, I promise I'll call you guys immediately. First thing."

The Romulan had definitely picked up now on Barnes' mocking tone and his expression suggested that he was inclined to punish the Human, but his excellent training insinuated itself and he held his temper. Without a word, he spun on his heel and began marching towards his compatriots, who had moved further down the street. Barnes watched him thumb a communicator stud, disguised in his uniform. "Commander Merak."

[Your report.]

"We are finishing a second sweep of the area known as," he paused in disgust, "the Dung...heaps. We have not located a trace yet, but I would recommend-" his voice was swallowed in the noise of the Dungheaps as he walked away.

Barnes watched him go, amusement still tugging at his lip. He'd nearly forced a confrontation that would have gotten him killed by a bunch of Romulan commandos that were only here to find ghost stories. He turned on his heel, remarking on the strange, strange day he'd had: Tellarite bourbon, a Federation warship in the Triangle, Snek's massive Gorn bodyguards being outclassed by a single human, Purple Hair, Elx Rodn's pleadings, the fight/not-fight he'd watched with Fenk, now Romulans chasing phantoms outside his apartment. And on top of it all, four strips of latinum in his pocket. Strange day, indeed.

He couldn't help but chuckle as he unlocked his door and stepped into the tiny darkened cell he lived in, letting the door click shut behind him. "Hee hee. Oh Christ on a crutch...Rawyvin Seth."

From the blackness behind him and to his right, a voice replied, "At your service."

SCENE: Barnes' Apartment

“Lights,” the strange voice called in a tone that told Barnes he was expecting a voice-controlled computer to respond. He wouldn’t get a response; Barnes’ apartment wasn’t that well equipped. Barnes took a step and thumbed the controls near his bed that controlled the illumination. The fixture was old, and fighting with the rest of the Dungheaps for limited power, so it woke slowly. The room went from pitch black to something close to starlight, and Barnes could see the shape in his apartment. It was in the opposite corner of the room, maybe five steps away. Then, for the span of a blink, the light disappeared again, before the lamp burst into full illumination. Somehow, in that iota of time, the shape had crossed the room and was only feet from him. Barnes tensed, bracing for the attack, without meaning to. Seth must have been moving at a tremendous speed to have crossed the steps that quickly, but when the light touched him, he was standing perfectly still. He was cocking his eyebrow at Barnes’ thumb, still on the light switch. “Nice place,” he offered drily, his tone clearly saying, *Everything about this room is disgusting.*



The room was very small, many political prisoners in brutal regimes had larger accommodations. Longer than it was wide, it was decorated only with a narrow bunk in the far back corner, and opposite that a sink/counter top combo with the refresher cabinet mounted underneath. Between them, a narrow doorway led to the room’s facilities. Apart from a footlocker in front of the bunk, the only furniture was a single stool, dusty with disuse. No pictures hung on the walls, there was no table where he could take meals with friends. Where the carpet wasn’t threadbare, it was stained. “Yeah,” Barnes replied in a cautious drawl that clearly said, *I know.*



They stared at each other, each taking the other’s measure. Barnes didn’t know if this was Rawyvin Seth, but it was clearly the man the Romulans *thought* was Rawyvin Seth. His hair was styled differently than in the holo, though not drastically, and still elegantly. Now that the silver eyes were trained onto him, Barnes could see clearly that they were both mischievous and malicious, though the latter moreso than the former. His stillness was perfect, it was a dance step. A fresh, clean smell, like soap, hung around him. The smirk was identical; Barnes could even see the slightest point of the sharpened incisor he’d noticed before. If he was impressed, or intimidated, by the size of the man who’s home he’d broken into, he didn’t give a sign. Barnes had seen expressions like his on others’ faces previously, but only when they were pointing phasers or disruptors at the unarmed. This man’s hands were empty.



“Tell you what, maybe no more moving without letting me know what you’re up to,” the stranger said. “I have a nervous disposition.”



“Fine by me,” Barnes said without moving. The hairs on his neck were standing at attention.



The smirk split, briefly, into a grin. “Well, you are stoic, aren’t you? Man of few words type?” Barnes nodded and Seth laughed. “Good answer. Clever. That’s an admirable character trait. I’ve always been a talker myself.” He glanced at the doorway. “Why don’t you just hold still, big fella? You just keep doing your best statue impression, right there.” He turned and moved towards the door. Watching him move was a marvel. He seemed to flow towards his destination, rather than doing anything so prosaic as walking. At the same time, at every instant he seemed ready to spring backwards and into Jacen Barnes. Something about the way he crossed space was like watching a frame by frame recording of a warp core breach; it was instantaneous death and destruction on a monumental scale moving at its own unhurried pace. As he neared the door, he cocked an ear at it, but looked back at Barnes. “Have they gone?”



“They were moving down the street when I came in. I’m sure they’ve gone by now.”



“Hmm. I doubt it. Commando procedures usually call for a hidden rear guard on assignments like these. Did you see a rear guard?”



“No.”



“A-ha.” The intruder pointed a finger at Barnes, as if he’d just taken a pawn from the larger man. “So he *is* hidden. You see?”



“Makes sense.”



“Course it does. Here’s what I think we’re going to do, my gargantuan friend. I’ll wait here and kill…some time. You can be my host. You seem like a very hospitable type.” Barnes said nothing, which he apparently took for assent. “Splendid. Fantastic, even. Now, if you don’t mind, I’m gonna use your stool. Why don’t you grab a seat there on the bunk? We can chat. We’ll be buddies”



“I’m good. I can stand.”



For just a moment, annoyance crossed his visitor’s features, but it evaporated immediately and his affected good humor returned. “Indulge me.”



Part of Barnes’ mind was in revolt, screaming at him to take this smaller man apart. He outweighed the intruder by over a hundred pounds, and he knew his speed was shocking when compared with his size. Beyond that, the years of hardship had given him a mean streak. He’d gone toe to toe or claw or what-have you with Klingons, Breen, Vulcans, and the Gorn, and he’d won. A fortune had been paid to guarantee that Barnes was always equipped to have the advantage in any fight, and judging by the results over the years, it had been money well spent. It was ridiculous that he would take orders from anyone, especially in his own home, and especially when they came from someone without a firearm or a gang of friends to back them up. And yet… Something in the way he moved, something about the way his eyes seemed to be anticipating the impending violence… Barnes wasn’t absolutely sure, but he suspected that if he were to engage this man, he would die. The thought didn’t necessarily bother him, but it also didn’t inspire him. “Fine. No problem.” Holding his hands in view, he stepped to the bed and sat, leaning against the bulkhead behind the bunk and keeping his eyes fixed on his ‘visitor.’



“See? Much more comfortable.” With a dramatic grimace, the stranger slid his hand across the stool top, pushing layers of dust onto the floor. Then, turning his face away, he smacked his hands together to rid himself of the residue on his hands. Then he sat gingerly. “You got a name, Friend-o?”



“Barnes. Jacen Barnes.”



His guest’s grin faltered and his eyes narrowed. He reappraised his host closely, before grinning again. “Nah… What’s your real name?”



“That is my-“



The smaller dark haired man interrupted him, waving off the rest of his reply. “When a man gives you his name, he’s telling you the one thing in the universe he knows for sure. For everything he’s learned, everything he’s seen, it’s the one thing he can really be certain of. That certainty, when he speaks it, just *sounds* different than anything else. At least, if you know what you’re listening for it does. Watch,” he leaned forward on the stool, resting his elbows on the razor-sharp pleat on his trousers. He fixed his silver eyes on Barnes’ green/grey ones. The good humor drained from his face and his voice was a casual tidal wave as it rolled over the down-on-his-lucker. “My name is…Rawyvin Seth. I’m an extremely dangerous man.” His grin returned easily, “You see?”



He saw. Every criminal’s favorite urban legend was sitting in his apartment, staring him down. There was no doubt about it now.



“So, now it’s your turn. So I know your name isn’t Jacen Barnes. You going to tell me what it actually is?”



Barnes shrugged. “I reckon not.”



“What about that Starfleet self-defense stance you dropped into when you thought I was coming for you. Want to tell me about that?” Barnes was silent. “Well, that is just plain unfriendly.” If he was offended, Seth’s grin hid it perfectly. “But I get it. After all,” here he glanced around the tiny compartment again, his eyes seeming to hang momentarily from every aspect of shabbiness. “Maybe it’s easier if this is Jacen Barnes’ life, instead of yours, right?”



“Something like that.”



“Hmm. Well, ‘Mr. Barnes,’ would you care for something that may improve this life, if only for a moment?” Seth reached into his vest, and Barnes almost expected him to produce a weapon, but what he pulled out was a crystal flask with a brown liquid inside. Removing the stopper, he took a sip, and then held it out to Barnes. “Do you care for bourbon?”



Barnes tried to force down his reaction, but while his face remained impassive and his demeanor as he leaned forward was nonchalant, his nostrils flared when they found the sweet, charred smell of the alcohol. “I’ve been known to try it,” he said as he reached over the footlocker and accepted the offered flask. One sip, and he found himself back in Kentucky, on the shore leave where he’d discovered his affection for the whiskey variant. He let the memories coat his tongue, and felt their vapors filling his throat. Then he handed the bottle back. “Very nice.”



“It should be, for what they charge for it.”



Barnes couldn’t help but be curious. “What’d you pay for that?”



“Oh, I didn’t pay for it. But the asking price is ridiculous, trust me.” Seth took another sip, and again offered the flask.



For a few moments, they passed the flask and drank in silence. Seth’s face suggested he was weighing options, and Barnes was just waiting, with an almost disinterested curiosity, to see if he would survive this encounter. He suspected that might be the very matter Seth was deciding.



Finally, Barnes spoke. “So, you’re really him, huh?”



Seth puffed for just a moment. “Heard of me, have you?”



“It’s LIMBO. Everyone has.”



“Point taken. Yes. I am really him.” He waved his hand and dipped his head in a mock bow. “In the flesh.”



“Mind if I ask a question?”



“You’ve just asked two.”



“This one’s different. I’d hate to be a bad host and make you angry.”



Seth’s silver eyes darkened slightly. “Yes, you would.” Then his face returned to its practiced disaffectedness. “Go ahead.”



“Why are you in my apartment, Mr. Seth?”



“I was heading back from an appointment and the Romulans crossed my path.”



“Three Romulans-“



“Four. Remember the rear guard.” Again the flask was passed.



“Four Romulans, then. Like I said, Mr. Seth, I’ve heard the stories. I’m just wondering… I’m curious…” It had been a long time since he’d tried to be diplomatic.



“You’re wondering why I didn’t just kill them and be on my way? Four Romulans vs. the Great Rawyvin Seth, is that it?”



Barnes took a sip and handed back the bottle. “Pretty much.”



“Well, that is an indelicate question, ‘Mr. Barnes.’ My reasons are my own, after all. But, even though the question is rude, I’ll answer it, and in a moment I’ll let you guess why. I didn’t kill the Romulans because it would be counterproductive to do so, not because I couldn’t. I am searching for someone, just as the Romulans are searching for me. I don’t know if she knows that I’m here. If I disappeared those four, then twelve more would be in the area within an hour of them being reported missing.” Here, he sipped the bourbon. “The more attention I draw, the more opportunity I give her to discover me, and rabbit. And, let’s just say, that I have grown weary of chasing this particular rabbit. So, as much as it is anathema to my very being, I am remaining quietly under the radar. Nobody here but us church mice.”



“Who are you looking for?”



Seth paused, an eyebrow cocked at Barnes. Then, having made some mental calculation, he answered. “A Betazoid/Vulcan half-breed named Selyara Chen. You know her?”



“No. But, if my luck holds, I’ll probably find her hiding in here tomorrow night.”



Seth barked in laughter. “That’s a good one. That’s very good.” He held up the bottle. “One last nip?”



“You going to be going?”



“Momentarily.”



“Sure.” Barnes took the bottle again, and he noticed that Seth was now watching him much more closely. He took a powerful draw, understanding it was likely to be his last. With a nod of thanks, he handed it back to his guest.



Rawyvin Seth replaced the flask in his vest, then stood, making a show of stretching out his arms. “I should probably get going, but before I do, I told you I was going to let you guess why I answered your question. The rude one.”



Barnes answer was flat. “Because you’re going to kill me anyway.”



Seth nodded with apparent sadness, though Barnes didn’t believe it. “Yeah. That’s it exactly. You see, I can’t leave loose ends lying around. Not how I do things. Now how I say ‘cricket.’ I hope you don’t take offense, you seem like a perfectly nice loser. I’ve enjoyed our little chat.” A knife was in his hand now, though Barnes had never seen it move. “If you don’t struggle, it will be quick.”



Barnes was on his feet now, and it was Seth’s turn to marvel at the other man’s quickness. He blinked away his surprise, spoke again. “What did we agree about sudden movements?” Barnes didn’t reply. Seth’s voice began to harden. “As I said,” he continued, “if you don’t struggle, it will be quick. If you do struggle, I’ll make it last. I’ll make it hurt. To be bluntly honest, I’ll get a lot of pleasure out of doing that. You’re not pretty, like I like, but you are an overgrown, arrogant, smartass bottom-feeding reject and it would satisfy me to teach you to respect your betters.” They stood, facing each other, staring eye to eye. An old-west showdown, reduced in scale and packed into one of the smallest compartments in the Dungheaps. Barnes was resigned to his fate, which he expected, and also terrified, which surprised him. “Ready to get started?”



“Before we do, would you mind,” Barnes asked fingering his tunic, “I’d prefer to die comfortable.”



Seth grinned again. “By all means.” Barnes began to strip the tunic off. “I swear, Mr. Barnes, you are the most fun I’ve…”



Rawyvin Seth was very seldom speechless, but the sight of this man’s torso was enough to do the job, if only for a moment. It was huge, built like a barrel, but that was obvious and Seth could care less about rippling muscles or chiseled physiques. Gym rats wept like children when you popped a joint or two; it was a rule of the universe. But even if the size didn’t impress him, he had to acknowledge that someone had made full use of the oversized canvas. The pink and white of the burn was the foundation of the artwork. It covered his entire chest, back, and the majority of his left arm. The skin was dimpled, stretched, frayed. Layered over that, like a map, were the scarred remainders of a roadwork of stitches. Those roads ran past landmarks of stab wounds, phaser puckers, disruptor bolt warpings, and even one or two legitimate bullet holes. Rawyvin Seth, master and devotee of pain, silently applauded the artists who had created this work, at least one or two certifiable geniuses could sign this masterpiece.



Barnes was used to people blanching when they saw his scars, but Rawyvin Seth looked downright appreciative. The overall effect was the same, however. The rogue agent had lost his rhythm of patter and the floor belonged again to Jacen Barnes.



“Mr. Seth, I expect that you will probably kill me here, but I’m not talking tough or putting on an act when I tell you, it won’t be easy. I’m stronger than you are, and I’m faster than I look. Not by a little. By a lot. If even half the stories I’ve heard are true, you’ll still win…but I will make you feel it. I’ll likely hurt you, maybe badly, and that will give your rabbit a better shot of evading you. You’ll end up having come to LIMBO for nothing. Now, on the one in a million chance I get lucky, the legend of Rawyvin Seth ends here, in this apartment, probably the worst one in a place called ‘Dungheaps.’ Ignominious end, that.” Seth was frowning now. “As far as making it last, or making it hurt, or making me learn respect, you say that most men know only their names with certainty. You say you can hear that when they speak. Well, let me tell you that I may not have a name that I’m certain of, but I am *certain* that I had all my fear of pain forced out of me long, long ago and it’s going take a *lot* more than an effete psychopath with an overdeveloped sense of grooming to bring it back. So you listen to my voice, and tell me if you hear certainty there.”



Rawyvin Seth blinked. Then again. The knife in his hand lowered. “You…you *want* me to kill you, don’t you?”



“Maybe.”



For the first time in this conversation, maybe for the first time in years, Rawyvin Seth’s voice was touched with something other than dramatic affectation. It was authentically quiet, and confused, and perhaps even touched with something like compassion. “You’re in that much pain?”



“Maybe.”



They stood there, two bad men who had done bad things. There were no words left, just the actions that would lead them to their next moments or their final moments. Animation returned to Rawyvin Seth’s face, and suddenly all traces of the human being that had been standing there moments ago, and there was nothing left but the monster he’d created of himself. “Well, that makes you just too interesting to kill.” His knife hand moved towards his belt, and was suddenly empty again. “If I turn around and walk out of here, can I trust you’re smart enough to stay out of my way?”



“I never got the Romulans comm codes, so I couldn’t call them if I wanted to.”



“And the woman I’m pursuing?”



“I don’t know who you’re talking about.”



“Good man,” Seth nodded. “Good man.”



He turned towards the door, then back. He looked into Barnes’ eyes, then reached into his vest and removed the flask again. He placed it on the stool. Then he turned and walked to the door. Before he opened it, he turned again. Barnes hadn’t moved the entire time. “You know…once my business here is done, I’m going to kill you for the way you spoke to me.”



“I’ll be waiting.”



Seth laughed again. “So stoic! Take care of yourself, Not Jacen Barnes. We’ll be seeing you soon enough.” Then he thumbed the bolt, and slipped outside, in less time than it took to register he’d done it.



Barnes stood alone in his apartment, staring at the half-empty crystal flask of good Kentucky bourbon.



Very, very strange day…





=[/\]=



NRPG: And so it ends! Thanks for your patience…I think I’ve got my technical issues worked out. Barnes will be at the Shadow Market in a Hired Muscle capacity, so I’m excited to see how this all ultimately shakes out.


Hope I did alright writing for Rawyvin. First time I've written for a different character in a looooooooong time.

Note: No, I don't plan on making a career of mopey novellas. Once we all get met up, things should become a lot more status quo.



Dale I. Rasmussen



~writing for~



Jacen Barnes
People Person