Subtext & Other Messages (Part 2)

Posted on Mon Jun 30th, 2025 @ 9:53pm by Captain Remy Johansen & Lieutenant JG Jean-Baptiste Dorsainvil & Commander Irene Seya

1,547 words; about a 8 minute read

Mission: How to See in the Dark
Location: Neutral Zone Bar, Barisa Prime
Timeline: Moments after "Sublevels and Subtexts"

Irene gave Jean-Baptiste a once over, and held out her hand. "Give me your jacket. Don't forget your commbadge. Make sure it's concealed. You'll want to keep enough of a distance to not draw suspicion. I'll find you once I pay our tab and change."

He cursed under his breath as he yanked the combadge free from his chest and palmed it discreetly. Starfleet, in all its infinite wisdom, still hadn't figured out how to issue jackets with inside pockets. He slipped the badge into his boot, patting it once to make sure it wouldn't shift. Then he shrugged out of his uniform jacket and handed it over to Irene, her fingers brushing his for a second--cool, efficient. No time for ceremony. He nodded once and disappeared through the back exit without another word.

The sun had slipped halfway down the horizon, staining the sky in shades of rust and violet. The thoroughfare was alive now, pulsing with that strange twilight energy--children trailing behind tired parents, street vendors barking offers, the sharp hissing of something deep-fried in open oil. The "family" was just ahead, moving at an even pace. They weren't hurried nor slow. It seemed practiced.

He followed from a safe distance, weaving through shadows and pedestrian noise. They cut through a service tunnel that stank of damp stone and urine, then emerged into a narrow back lane bordering the edge of a night market. Lanterns swung overhead, warm and low, their light reflecting off glass bottle stalls and some nearby trinkets hanging in a shop hut. Then--nothing. They were gone.

Jean-Baptiste scanned the alley, squinting toward a cluster of broken crates near a rusted service door. They were empty and stacked haphazardly. But something glinted faintly on the ground next to them. He crouched low and reached out--and the world exploded into beams of blinding light behind his eyes.

The rifle stock caught him clean across the bridge his nose with a sickening crunch. Blood came fast and thick, blinding him. He didn't think. He reacted. His body surged forward as if shifting into muscle memory alone, driving a shoulder into his attacker and sending them both crashing through the crates.

He landed hard but rolled with it, throwing punches--wide, half-blind shots that connected with something solid. He could hear breath being blown out of someone's lungs--his fists were finding their target. Then a second presence grabbed him from behind, an arm thick as a power conduit locking around his throat. His boots scraped uselessly against the ground as the pressure built, pulling him backwards.

"Don't kill him," a voice snapped. It was male. And sharp. "He's Starfleet."

The grip on around his throat was released and JB felt himself dropping to the ground. He tried to get to his feet but was knocked over onto his side.

The boots came in hard and fast--ribs, back, thigh, then again in the same damn spot like they were testing his bones for weakness. Jean-Baptiste curled tighter, arms over his head, one leg crossed over the other to protect his gut. The crate wood dug into his spine. He couldn't see anything through the mess of blood clinging to his face, just caught flashes of motion between the impacts.

A heavily-accented voice sneered, "Thought you were clever, Starfleet." Another joined in: "Maybe next time bring a phaser."

I was a field analyst, he told himself between jabs of pain. Not a spy. Not black ops. I wrote reports. I flagged threats. His hands shook. The pressure in his chest told him something inside might've cracked, but he stayed down. You passed hand-to-hand. You trained for this. But they never explain what it feels like to lose and take a beating.

Then, suddenly, another voice cut through the chaos. A new one that sounded low and authoritative. "That's enough."

The kicks stopped. Finally, some respite. The sound of movement and feet scrambling came from the same direction. One of the attackers muttered something sharp that JB didn't quite catch, and then they were gone--bolting into the shadows like rats scattering.

He coughed once and rolled halfway onto his side, blood pooling warm behind his teeth. Someone knelt beside him. "Hey," the third voice said. It was male. Softer, he added, "You'll be alright, son."

* * *

After she ensured their drinks were covered, Irene left the restaurant walking in the direction opposite from the on JB had taken. The nearest transport took her back to her temporary quarters where she left behind Dorsainvil's jacket and quickly changed into faded gray pants and a navy tunic. The thought for a moment and replicated a plan blue cap style hat for Dorsainvil. She also grabbed a PADD that could track Dorsanvil's comm device and a small bag and quickly left her flat walking at a brisk pace just shy of a jog back to the transport.

She checked the PADD as she approached the transport, and opted for a spot on a marked street several meters from where his comm device was pinging. If she happened to be in their path by chance, she'd pretend to not notice them. Since her back was to the group, it was less likely she'd be recognized.

When she rematerialized the street was occupied, though not overly busy. She saw no sign of Dorsainvil, or of the girl they'd been trying to follow. After double checking his location, Irene began to walk casually in that direction, carefully taking in her surroundings, noticing not just what was there, but also paying attention to who noticed her.

As she walked, eventually Dorsainvil's ping was returning to her left. The storefront indicated it was a fabric store, possibly a silk shop, but when Irene tried the door, it was locked. She looked over her shoulder and up and down the street. She wanted to be conscientious to not blow his cover by calling his comm badge, so she walked to the corner and around the back alley to make sure he wasn't behind the building.

The alley was empty, save for an abandoned bicycle and the community recyclers. She tried the back door to the ship. It was locked as well, though this time she knocked on the door with the palm of her hand before tapping her comm badge.

"Seya to Dorsainvil, do you copy?"

* * *

The room smelled faintly of lavender and machine grease. Jean-Baptiste sat on the floor of the fabric shop's backroom, propped up against a dented sink cabinet, a wad of crushed ice bundled in floral silk pressed to his swollen nose. His shirt was gone--ripped off or tossed aside, he couldn't remember--and his chest rose and fell in uneven pulls, each breath drawing fire through his ribs. Lean and wiry, the kind of build that made you look stronger than you were, he felt every inch of his bruised frame now. It was the quiet afterward that hurt most. Not the kicks or the blood. The silence between them.

The shopkeeper returned with a rickety tray balanced in his short arms--Yridian, elderly, and entirely unimpressed by human dramatics. He set the bowl of water down with a clatter, then arranged the bone knitter and rags on the floor next to JB. "You are lucky they didn't break more," he muttered, eyeing hsi face like he was measuring a yard of fabric. "Three fractures in the ribs, bruising along the collar, nose like a Vulcan root vegetable." He clicked the knitter. "I assume this was some bad end to a romantic stroll?"

"I got turned around," JB muttered. "Wrong alley. Some locals didn't like the cut of my hair." He shifted, wincing as something sharp bloomed in his side. "Nothing a little sleep won't fix."

The Yridian gave a snort that seemed to do more to call-out Jean-Baptiste's bullshit explanation than any words every could. "Lying is not an effective analgesic." Then they both went still. A bang at the door. Muffled voices. The fabric bundle fell from JB's hand, and beside the sink, his combadge chirped.

"Seya to Dorsainvil, do you copy?"

Jean-Baptiste reached slowly for the combadge, every motion carved from Tholian crystal. His fingers trembled as they closed around it, the ice-pack tumbling to the floor beside him. He tapped the badge and winced as his ribs tightened again. "I copy," he rasped, voice thick with congestion and no doubt some blood. "I'm in a shop--some fabric place."

Irene's voice replied over the commbadge. "I think I'm outside. Are you okay? The doors are locked, I can break in."

Before he could respond, the Yridian merchant held both arms aloft and cried, "There's no need to break any doors! I'll let you in." He hobbled off to unlock the door, leaving JB grimacing and holding his side.

Irene was waiting impatiently for a response from Jean-Baptiste when the door opened revealing an older Yridian male. Irene was momentarily taken aback, but she didn't waste time stepping forward, inserting her body into the threshold of the door.

"I'm looking for my friend. I believe he is in here somewhere," she stated.

The Yridian gave a resigned flap of his hand and stepped aside, mumbling about 'stubborn humans' and 'dripping blood on the silk bolts'.

~tbc~

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