A Time to K...Abort

Posted on Tue 3rd Aug, 2021 @ 6:45pm by Mozatholm Zaldekulmu & Voareth Darqaron
Edited on on Sat 14th May, 2022 @ 7:27am

1,710 words; about a 9 minute read

Mission: Waging Peace
Location: Promenade: Old Storage Room
Timeline: MD-2, 0900 hours

Poark ventured to the promenade. He was already late for a meeting with someone who could massage the FCA to unlock his accounts in addition to funneling his wealth spread out elsewhere to him aboard SB109. The more of his money he could keep from the big ears of the FCA the better.

Poark had had to wait until there was at least a sizeable group of civilians in the corridor before he could leave his quarters. He wanted to take no risks and wanted to be seen by as much of the public as possible. Making him late for his meeting was the only risk he wanted to take. His contact was away when he arrived with no word on his return. As long as civilians were about, Poark did not feel the need to look over his shoulder as much. Wherever he was on the Promenade, when the crowd died down a little, he ventured to another area just to stay in a large enough crowd. He kept checking in on his contact; still gone.

Keeping a count of the number of people around him, making little noises or doing something odd to draw attention to himself, and looking over his shoulder, Poark started growing anxious. What seemed to have been an eternity stretched into only about 5 minutes. He checked in on his contact once again to no avail.

Public attention was diverted when someone in the distance tripped and dropped what merchandise he was holding. Poarck looked on instinctively as he always did to see if any currency was rolling around. Grabbing money just laying around, no matter how long ago it had been dropped, was one of the Rules of Acquisition. At the moment though, Poark could not call to mind the number to apply to it. His brow moistened and even his lobes started to sweat. Something was not right.

There came a recognizable clink of gold-pressed latinum striking the floor. His eyes immediately turned and he saw a few strips falling in a different location. More eyes were turning away. And, it was at that moment that Poark realized something. No eyes were on him. He had not taken a step in, what seemed to be, ages. He had not looked over his shoulder in the same amount of time. As the realization came to him, there also came a rush, the first twitch of a muscle, and a gloved hand around his face, covering his mouth, pulling tight, pulling him away quickly. Trying to scream, that gloved hand muffled whatever came from his mouth.

Poark bit down and ground his teeth into a finger he managed to pull into his mouth. He gnawled but found the glove to be soft but tough and inpenetrable. He squirmed but the captive arm was too strong. Another arm joined in to hold him still as his soon-to-be-executioner was pulling him away.

There came a hiss of a door opening and the pair backed into a darkened storage room. It used to be a store long ago but was unclaimed for some time.

The strong gloved hand pressed hard against his face and lifted him off the floor, pulling his head and exposing his neck. After a quick flash of reflected light, Poark brought his hands up and grabbed hold of a hand holding a blade encroaching upon his neck. With all his might, Poark held on and pushed that hand away, but it was no use. The blade was inching closer. He felt the arm tense and knew his life was over.

With the point of her newly acquired mek’leth about to slice into the Ferengi’s throat, Voareth stilled herself and, with eyes only, investigated the slightest bit of movement she thought she saw in the darkness. She stood there, holding Poark against her chest, off the floor, dangling by his head, with a blade at his throat, about to pour forth a bloodbath, and she saw something that was not there fifteen minutes ago when she checked the place out. It was a youngling, perhaps in his teens, but most definitely humanoid.

She made no sound and made no move. Poark was straining for air and managed little puffs through the gloved hand covering his face and mouth.

“Ffffhelllpffff,” came a muffled voice from Poark. “Ffffhelllpffff fffmeeefff.”

Mozatholm's throat went dry as he realized what he was seeing. He'd only meant to hide so his mother wouldn't see him working in the Promenade and ask questions he didn't want to answer. The room was dark, and his eyes were still adjusting to it, but dim safety lighting allowed him to just make out the shape of someone holding a Ferengi tightly to his chest, with a knife blade pressed against the Ferengi's throat. He knew it had to be a Ferengi because the fellow was kicking and squirming, and his feet didn't touch the deck.

All he held was a pizza box.

Mozatholm glanced from the killer to the door. Should he make a run for it? If he were with Renato, Renato would tell him to run. But Renato wasn't here.

Could the killer slit the Ferengi's throat if he tried to rush the guy? Mozatholm swore silently. The killer absolutely could.

Time seemed to inch by.

When the only weapon you have is a pizza, use it while it's hot and greasy, Mozatholm told himself and hoped Mr. Rienzi would forgive him.

He pulled the lid open and shook a slice out one-handed, as if he were about to eat it.

And then he threw it as hard as he could, edge-on, aiming for the killer's throat. The box and remaining pepperoni pizza slices fell to the decking as Mozatholm dashed out into the Promenade, looking for help.

The piece of hot and greasy food hit Voareth in the side of her face. She flinched slightly expecting it to have been an actual weapon, but, alas, it was only a distractionary measure. Still, that slight flinch made the tip of her mek’leth knick ever so slightly into Poark’s throat.

And, as the youngling was out the door and gone, Voareth did not need to be an empath to feel all the hope draining from her prey. He sighed and his hands fell limp. He awaited death.

But death did not come to Poark. The blade was suddenly away and the gloved hand covering his face and mouth went away, allowing him to breathe freely and for his feet to rejoin with the floor. He coughed and rubbed at his throat as he stepped away, free and still alive. Now he only wanted to know why.

“You’re letting me live?” Poark asked as he turned to face her, realizing he had seen her multiple times before. He nodded, understanding what this was.

“No,” Voar replied. “I am just not killing you this day.” She stepped back and leaned against a tower of empty crates. The times were few and far between when her plans would become foiled. And she was well aware that there was no use running. She surrendered herself to face this minor setback before continuing her hunt.

“Oh, I get it,” he said. “What are they paying you? What’s the contract worth?”

“I don’t work contracts. I deliver your head. They pay me for it.”

“Oh,” he smiled. ’Business prospect.’ He stepped closer to her, feeling she was true to her word that he would not die this day. “Well, whatever they are offering, I can double it…no, triple it…to not kill me.”

“Triple it,” Voar said, surprised. “You? A destitute Ferengi?” And, again, she did not have to be an empath to feel the level of insult she levied upon him.

“Not destitute!” he said with a finger pointed at her. “My enemies are trying to swindle me out of my business. If a true Ferengi wanted me dead, he would do it himself. The fact that you are here means they are penniless cowards. Once I get my wealth back together in one place, you will see, and I will pay you triple. Think about it, 300% whatever they are offering.” He paused a moment as Voar remained silent. “That, and I could use a hired hand.”

“I said I don’t do…”

“Poor choice of words,” he said, showing his hands. “Business associate I meant to say. I find you some targets, you go do your thing.”

Hearing some commotion outside, Poark grew closer to her. “I am sure you will have some time in the brig to think things through. Help me, and you will be way better off than my enemies. They will only try to swindle you out of your wage anyway. I am an honest businessman. Trust me.”

Voar could only look him in the eye and finally understand all that she had heard of the Ferengi. Who else would turn their near death into a business deal? She spoke no words.

“Your blade please,” Poark held out his hand.

Voareth shrugged her brow. Her eyes grew big. “Excuse me.”

“You are not supposed to have any weapons here. Give it to me and I will keep it safe. I’ll give it back to you when you come see me. Or maybe you want to spend more time in the brig.”

Voareth knew, just as he did, that any move he would make against her, with or without her mek’leth, would be his last move. She held it up, spun it in her hand and held the hilt out for him to take.

Taking the mek’leth from her, “290% of whatever they are offering,” he said in true Ferengi fashion. “This,” he showed her her own blade, “this is a down payment.”

With that said, Poarck was off to the back of the room.

“The exit is this way,” Voareth pointed but only heard a little shuffling about, a few falling items, something removed, replaced, then silence.

With the Ferengi gone, her without a weapon, no bloodbath, no dead body, and only the details of a youngling, Voareth stood there and waited for whatever was coming her way.

 

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