Roun de roun, Tru de tru

Posted on Fri 24th Jul, 2020 @ 6:34am by Yuliette Marayan Dr.
Edited on on Fri 24th Jul, 2020 @ 5:08pm

1,189 words; about a 6 minute read

Mission: Resolution
Location: Brown Sector Deck 2245
Timeline: MD12

Brown Sector, Proper. The refugee center. Town. The Village. Little Bajor. For a couple of days since she’d arrived, Yuliette had heard various references to deck 2245.

Briefly she considered paying a tour guide. Very briefly. It would have come with the expertise and history about the place. It would have also come with a cart ride.

Her feet would save her some seed money. And she was fairly certain, based on her experience so far, that she probably couldn’t avoid learning something or another, guide or no guide.

Yuliette followed the long curve of the the Centaur Arm of the drift. It was such a degree of turn, nearly a semi-circle, that she was certain it was the least direct route to get upstairs. She watched some people who looked like comfortable natives duck into unmarked doors and alleyways once in a while and wondered— If those weren’t apartment stoops, were they shortcuts through the structure, more direct routes?

She kept to the common way, reaching the ramp structure at the end of the Drift and climbing the hill up four levels to deck 2245….

The ceilings here weren’t raised, at least not as high as in the Zodiac, but only through the mezzanine between decks in some places, making for a little less claustrophobic feeling in the thoroughfares. But it made her feel more like she was in a warren underground as opposed to the city block feeling of the Zodiac. People here were dressed on-the-whole far more drabbly and conservatively than in the Zodiac, which made Yuliette more self aware of her oversized red sweatshirt, and the way it hung completely over her too-short night shorts.

There were charming shopfronts and offices with little “shingles” hung outside, featuring lettering mostly in Bajoran or Standard. Sometimes both. Some of the streets seemed hand laid over the decking. Which struck Yuliette as strange. Why cover the decking? Maybe the carts so often used took better to the cobbles. Maybe each little knot of folks just wanted to make their corner look like the home they’d left behind. Yuliette saw more Bajorans on this deck than lived peppered among the populace along the Drift. Maybe half of the people she saw on this deck had nose ridges. She pulled her hood further over her head to cast a bigger shadow on her face.

After turning down a few more streets, yuliette found herself no where that she needed to be. Instead the wide streets had narrowed into halls of doors with address plates and family names. Some decorated their entrance ways. An elderly man played a banjo outside of his door.

“Can’nee hi’dn de riever, Can’nee low’dn de riever, can’nee riever lead’n dee. E’v’r riever tru’dee tru, nee can dri’dn de riever, eh dee riever dri’dn dee— Eye!” He struck a discordant chord and stopped, waving at Yuliette. “Ho dee!”

“Uh, hello.” Yuliette wasn't sure what to make of the emaciated man, his chin jutting out further than the rest of his face, his teeth too painfully crooked to look at.

“Wat say dee fo?”

“I’m looking for the Relief Office.”

“O! We see, we see, du go roun roun dee way.” The banjo player motioned with his twisted hand in a circle counter-clockwise.

“I turn back and take a left?” Yuliette translated.

“Du! Du! Roun de roun, gobnal so-rie.”

“Thank you.” That was as clear as mud, but sounded as if it were in the affirmative. She decided to pay him a compliment as a further graciousness. “I like your music.”

“Au be du kin!” He tipped his hat, laughed and picked up strumming again, like he was mock wooing her as she turned to go. “Tru de tru, e’v’r riever tru de tru!”

Sure enough the left the banjo-man had indicated was just the passage Yuliette needed to take. She emerged along something like a main street. It wasn’t straight, but seemed to duck and dive around different shop and display constructions in a winding street. A posting listed various places in Bajoran. Yuliette bit her lip and took out the flyer from the Gutzman Memorial Library and did her best to match up the address on the back with the directory.

“Ah! She graces my home with her presence!” Yuliette jolted upright at the voice she had hoped not to hear again. Bo. Irrationally, she thought if she held still enough she would become invisible and there was a chance he would continue along.

Instead, he leaned in closely from behind, his face over her shoulder and his breath in her ear. “Might I assist you in locating something?” His hand found her hip in spite of her oversized Hoodie and she spun around.

“No, I think I can manage fine.”

“Is this your first time in Town? What’s this?” Bo snatched her flyer directly out of her fingers and she tried to grab it back, but he held it comically over her head as he read it outloud.

“‘Brown Sector essential meal program?’”

“Stop, not so loud!”

“'Residents qualify with Gutzman library pass'—” He clicked his tongue. “Oh! My sweet desert flower, are you in need?”

Her eyes narrowed. What did Bo know of her in connection with any desert? She scowled and let him keep the flyer, marching away from him. “Not in need of this.”

He trailed after her. “You’re embarrassed! Why? Wounded pride? Afraid for anyone to know you’re in need of help? I told you before—”

“And I told *you* before—”

“—it’s plain for anyone to see—

—I don’t want your help.”

“— that you are unaccustomed to this way of life. Did you have meals delivered? Replicated? Served by staff?”

“Shut up!”

“Brown Sector rations are hardly going to suit the refined palate.”

“I’ll adjust.”

Bo snagged her by the elbow causing her to jerk so suddenly that her hood fell back from her face.

“That snarl hardly becomes your exquisite features.” He tried to stop her, and they turned in a circle.

“Let go, or so help me, I will scream.”

“I just want to speak with you.” He unclasped his hand from her arm and she pulled it back to herself.

“I don’t know how to be any clearer. I don’t want to speak with you.”

“Is this about the kanar?”

She looked at him, agog. “Yes, I mean, it’s the kanar, it’s the way you egged them on and—”

“Oh, *ja lat*!” Bo looked genuinely concerned. “If I hadn’t been there to draw their ire, you’ve no idea what may have unfolded as you left the establishment on your own. I diverted them, allowed them to express themselves. You don’t need to thank me.”

“Don’t worry. I won’t.” She pulled her hood back over her face and pressed on passed the Sheriff’s office toward an archway with a sign in Bajoran. In small standard lettering beneath it read: Office of Brown Sector Relief Programs.

 

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