Subtextual Secrets (Part 9)

Posted on Mon Aug 25th, 2025 @ 1:53am by Lieutenant JG Jean-Baptiste Dorsainvil & Commander Irene Seya

3,068 words; about a 15 minute read

Mission: How to See in the Dark
Location: Jerache District, City of Lorna, Barisa Prime
Timeline: MD 02, 1225 Hours

Ng's voice crackled in their ears, slightly above a whisper but taut with tension.

[Movement inside--three females. Two younger. Minors, maybe. One older, human--thirties or forties. They've just stepped out of my sightline.]

Jean-Baptiste exhaled quietly, watching a soft ripple of heat rise off the rusted fire escape above them. From where they were--kitty corner and twenty meters southeast of the rear door--they had no clean sightlines.

"No good angles on the south windows," he murmured to irene, voice low, as if the bricks might amplify sound. "We won't know they're coming until they're out of that damned door."

As if cued by fate, a voice--thick with Earth's southern hemisphere drawl and soaked in suspicion--rang-out from the west.

"Oi! What're you two doing?"

It was a man. Human. He had a weathered face and the kind of jaw that had never known peace. He was making a beeline toward them with purpose, eyes narrowed, one hand clenched tight as if it belong to a different day.

JB's pulse kicked. He didn't think. He just turned and pulled Irene into him, one hand cradling the back of the half-Vulcan's neck, the other braced against the brick behind her. His mouth found hers like they'd rehearsed it. It was all theater--but the heat of it could've fooled any audience. They remained in the embrace for what seemed like longer than necessary, JB pushing her gently into the wall, one of his hands finding its way to her thigh.

He drew back slowly, just enough to whisper against her lips, "Sorry, Commander."

Irene didn't respond right away, the heat of Jean-Baptiste's breath against her ear had sent a sensation down her spine that caught her even more off-guard than the kiss had. It had been a wise tactical decision, she thought as she collected herself.

Then he turned, calm as a man who'd been on vacation for months, and called out to the approaching figure.

"Yes?"

The man slowed to a halt, his boots crunching glass in the gutter. He squinted at them through the afternoon glare, expression teetering between suspicion and disinterest. Maybe he'd thought he was stumbling onto two lovers, tangled up in an alley at midday, not a care in the quadrant. Or perhaps a trick being turned--some bored drifter and a woman making ends meet. His lip curled, just a tad, then he huffed and scratched at his stubbly neck.

"Didn't mean to interrupt," he muttered, his tone edging every closer toward a leer.

JB held the man's gaze, not flinching, not blinking. He was just another fool in love, tucked into the shade of a building.

"Then how about you leave us alone," Irene slid her arm around the small of JB's back and held him close as she nudged him away from the man as if she were simply trying to get him somewhere more private.

The man sniffed once, disgustingly loud and wet, then squinted toward the street as if remembering he had someplace else to be.

"Bloody Federation types," he muttered, turning back. His boots crunched again, a slow retreat through broken glass and grit, until his shadow finally cleared the far corner.

JB waited and watched. Only when the man was a full half-block away did he let go of the breath he'd been holding in pieces.

He stepped back from Irene, hands falling to his sides, jaw tightening.

"I panicked, Commander," he said. "Didn't think. Just... did the first thing that came to mind." He wasn't speaking from any shame, but it was lined with something quieter. Possibly regret? Maybe. Or just the ache of having touched something he wasn't sure he was permitted to feel.

"Relax, Lieutenant, or you'll give away our cover," Irene replied as she shook off the unusual reaction she'd had moments prior. It certainly wasn't the first time she had used a similar cover to avoid scrutiny in the field, but she was not usually so easily disarmed. She explained away her own behavior as simply situational and pushed it quickly aside.

"You perform well under pressure. It was a good move. We should continue. Take my arm." She bent her elbow slightly and subtly away from her torso, while giving Dorsainvil an encouraging look.

He didn't take her arm. Not at first.

He gave a half-second nod, jaw still set, and stepped forward. His arm brushed hers in silence. Then he hooked his elbow through hers gently, like he'd suddenly remembered how to.

Ng's voice clicked on in their earpieces, at a whisper.

[Reyes and Krin are approaching the northeast side. Holding position by a utility shed.]

JB glanced toward the gutter where the man had vanished to the west.

Tayne's voice cut in a second later, cool and clipped.

[Target that approached Dorsainvil and Seya is now climbing the front steps to the building. Human caucasian male, fifties, heavyset. Wearing a faded jacket. He's at the chime.]

Jean-Baptiste felt his breath catch and for a moment, nothing moved but the sunlight across the building's soot-stained façade.

[Door has opened,] Tayne continued. [It's the older woman. She slipped him something--small, wrapped. Parcel-sized. He's turning around. Leaving.]

He could feel the tension in his shoulders and jaw--this could be the moment. JB could almost track the phantom figure of the man through the wall, the sound of the parcel landing in his palm. He didn't require a camera feed. His mind filled-in the rest.

Then came the scrape of metal.

The rear door opened.

"Look at me. Don't watch them." Irene unhooked her arm, and reached back around the small of his back and stepped back toward the wall, pulling him with her. "We'll go in a minute."

The seconds seemed to pass more like minutes, as they stood there. Irene focused on a spot just below JB's shoulder, except she wasn't really looking at anything. JB was trapped there, kept in place by Irene's deceptively strong hold, her arm around his waist. They both were listening, waiting for the comms to tell when to move, where to go.

Her arm had slid around his back--not just for show now, but firm and very directive. She didn't look up at him. She didn't have to. Her hold wasn't based in theatrics anymore. It was tactical.

And yet.

Something in the precision of her movement--the calm control which she handled him, the way her body pressed his back gently toward her without any hesitation had set something silently ablaze in him. He hadn't been touched like that for years. Not since Jacqueline. Not since the Academy.

And now here he was, heat rising under his collar, Irene's arm around his waist, her face inches from his chest, and no idea what the hell to do with his hands.

This was just part of the job. A cover. A field maneuver.

So why did it feel like a live wire had been tucked beneath his skin? He stared out beyond her, jaw tight, eyes trying not to dart to the rear door even though every nerve ending was finely attuned to it.

The door had swung open but it took a few moments longer for someone to appear--two figures. Slim and fast.

They slipped out the rear door, holding each other's hand. Both were neck-checking the surroundings, scanning for threats... or possibly aid. Upon spotting Irene and JB, the taller girl leaned in and whispered something to the other. Neither reacted immediately but both sets of eyes were now on them.

Jean-Baptiste took them in without any effort. The taller one had long, wavy auburn hair and the sharp-cut features of a fashion sketch--thin frame, long legs, a certain purposeful elegance. The other was shorter, blonder, her hair tied in pleated twin-tails that bounced just above the shoulders. She looked sturdier, more kinetic. As if she were someone who ran for the joy of it and not the exercise.

He was suddenly pulled away from his short glance, Irene applying slightly more pressure to his back--no doubt in an effort to get him to not jeopardize the op. His eyes landed on hers, but she had not met his gaze.

[Two younger females have exited the rear door. Awaiting instructions.] JB's voice was barely a whisper over the comm, hoping the team would call their next move.

His hand, almost instinctively, found the edge of Irene's hip. He didn't squeeze, nor did he pull her closer. It was simply a point of contact. He hadn't meant to do it. But once it was there, he didn't see the need to move it.

[We have eyes on them, and you. No sudden movements.] Ng replied. [The nearest Taxi is several blocks away. You can try setting out a path parallel to the apartment building, if you get a chance you can try acting lost.]

"Work for you?" Irene whispered under her breath. She was facing the wrong direction to see what the girls were doing and she didn't want to turn too soon.

"That will do," JB replied, his voice sounding more certain in his ears than he felt while speaking. He glanced at Commander Seya, uncertain when they were meant to peel-off and shadow the targets. They were still touching--her hand firm against his back, guiding. Anchoring. There was comfort in it he hadn't expected. Surprising strength, hidden in plain sight. He caught himself wondering if she was married. He didn't even know how old she was. Fieldwork certainly had its moments, he thought.

He sneaked a glance across to the targets. The girls did not some overly hurried, but the way they moved suggested something conspiratorial. They crossed the alleyway, hand-in-hand, cutting toward a narrow byway leading east.

[Krin here,] the comm crackled with the Klingon's gravelly caterwaul. [Targets are continuing on an easterly line. Team three, you have point. We will cover your position.]

JB removed his hand from Irene's thigh and took a reluctant half-step back. "That's us--we're team three."

Irene took Jean-Baptiste's arm and set the pace, a casual stroll not meant to catch up with the girls, nor would it let them get too far ahead. It was now nearing the time of day where historically most people kept their business indoors, even shutting down to avoid the midday heat and sun in this part of the world, but in the last fifty years or so the Federation had brought in a weather control matrix making the climate here much more temperate, and opening up more potential for agriculture. Younger generations were quick to to adapt, while older generations clung to traditions. As such, the streets weren't particularly busy, but children were playing, the occasional adult milled about, but there wouldn't be much foot traffic again until much later in the day.

[They are taking a right on Naheera’tal Street,] a familiar voice came over their comms. [Go one street further, Zahra’Miq, take a right there, we'll keep you close.]

With that particular order, Irene felt comfortable speeding their pace up some, though nothing that would draw attention. She aimed to get them to their turn without letting their target get too far ahead.

[Male has been detained, quietly,] Ng's voice buzzed into their ears, as calm as a sigh. [Tayne and I are holding position. No alarms triggered. No sign whoever is still inside knows.]

JB let the tension roll of his shoulders a quarter of an inch at a time. It was a minor victory, but it bought them seconds. Sometimes that was all a thing needed to set change in motion.

Between gaps in the red-stones, they caught a glimpse of the girls. They were still walking--brisk now, but not panicked.

"Why are they unaccompanied?" he whispered, his voice carrying a slight note of incomprehension.

Irene kept their pace calm and steady, like two people enjoying one another's company while they were out for errands. "After a time people - especially children but anyone really - can be made to become dependent on their captors. Your people, Humans had a name for it centuries ago, Stockholm syndrome. Those in the business of trafficking people have turned it into a science: gifts, compliments, affection, drugs, a false sense of freedom. Whatever it takes to keep them complacent. Sometimes even happy."

He let her words roll around in his head. He didn't respond right away--what was there to say? The idea turned his stomach in slow revolutions, like the morning after bad food. A part of him wanted to believe the girls were just lost. That they'd broken away on their own. That this wasn't what it almost certainly was.

As they turned onto Zahra'Miq, the street narrowed and pitched slightly downward, a long ribbon of cracked flagstones and litter. The air was still rich with overripe fruit and the smell of midday meals being prepared.

Up ahead, they caught a glimpse of the girls--they had slowed and then paused near a graffiti-covered storefront. One of them reached into a side pouch and JB saw the glint of foil.

"Snack", he murmured. "I think they're eating."

"Alright, I suppose it doesn't hurt to test the waters." Irene continued her walk forward, not making it obvious that she was going to approach the girls - not yet. She'd attempt to make it look more spontaneous on approach.

As they neared the store-front their pace slowed to a casual stroll and Irene reached into her a pocket and pulled out a communicator, it was a clearly recognizable Starfleet, branded from a couple of years back. She showed it to the girls quietly.

"I was looking for a place to eat. Is this restaurant good? Or do you like somewhere else?" She asked.

The taller girl's eyes flicked to the communicator in Irene's hand. Something soft stirred in her gaze--a thread of hope or curiosity, perhaps. Though, it was barely visible beneath a layer of wary calculation.

The shorter one, twin-tails bouncing with each step, tensed. Her hand slipped free from the taller's grip, fingers curling inward as if she were clutching at air. She took a cautious step back.

The taller girl caught the movement, spinning to whisper, "It's okay. They're like us." Her voice remained low, urgent and acted as an anchor being thrown across the widening space between them.

But the other was already pulling away. She was not looking back, nor was she waiting for permission.

Her boots pounded against the cracked stones, her uneven gait creating a tattoo that echoed off the nearby shuttered windows.

Jean-Baptiste immediately tapped his ear communicator. "One breaking-off--Zahra'Miq alley, east end, heading north."

Less than a second later, two figures seemed to step out of the backdoor to a florist's shop. A Bolian with pale blue skin, scarred but steadfast, and a Klingon, broad-shoulders, his very presence enough to turn the alley into a cage.

The girl skidded to a stop, breath coming quick. Her eyes darted left and right, searching for a way past, for an escape that was not there.

JB closed the distance with Irene and the taller girl, the free forming a slow wall behind her.

"Hey," JB's voice was firm but slow, low enough to not scare but steady enough to command. "We're Starfleet. We're here to help you."

She didn't flinch, didn't step forward or back. Her mouth pressed into a tight line, eyes narrowing, testing the the shrinking space.

"Zharia, where are you going?" The taller one asked. "Don't you want to see what they want. Why they are here?"

The girl who the taller one had called Zharia flinched at the sound of her name, her eyes shooting daggers at the one who had given her away. "I know what they want. They want us to help them. But we owe them nothing, and their promises are empty."

Jean-Baptiste kept his hands loose at his sides, as though he was trying not to spook a bird. His pulse wanted him to rush in, but he'd learned a long time ago that words often traveled faster than hands.

"Zharia," he said, pronouncing the name carefully. "That's a strong name. It sounds like someone who doesn't take lies easy. Someone who doesn't scare easy, either."

Her jaw worked, tight as a bolt. The alley smelled of bruised flowers, damp petals that had been unceremoniously crushed under boots.

"You're right," he went on, lowering his voice until it barely carried. "We do need your help. But not for us. For you. For your friend here. For every young woman that may have seen the inside of that building."

Zharia's eyes flicked back to her friend, who was holding herself small now, but listening.

JB tilted his head a fraction, softening his tone. "We're not here to drag your somewhere you don't want to go. We're here because we don't to see you get left behind. I can't promise you everything--but I can promise you this: no one in Starfleet profits from you. You're not a coin to us. You're not a favour to be traded. You're just Zharia."

Her breath came fast, then shallow. The Klingon behind her didn't mode, just stood there like he was waiting-out the situation.

"I know you don't trust me," JB added, stepping half a pace closer, slow enough that she could watch each of his movements. "You shouldn't. Not yet. Trust is expensive, isn't it? But maybe--" he let the silence in for a moment, "--you could let me buy the first piece. Just one. You keep the rest until I've earned it."

She looked to her friend once again. "Brionna..."

Brionna's lip trembled. "Zharia," she whispered. "I think... I think they mean it."

Zharia's glare darted back and forth between her, JB, and Irene, then down at the cracked stones under her feet. She swallowed hard, just once.

"Fine," she said, brittle. "One piece. That's all."

JB nodded, relief curling through his chest like someone had pumped hot water through his heart and lungs, but he kept his expression steady and gentle. "One piece," he echoed. "That's enough to start."

The girl's shoulders eased half an inch, as if she'd let go of some enormous--but invisible--weight, but she didn't look away. He didn't either.

The air in the alley felt different now--less like a cage, more like an old door that had finally cracked open.


~tbc~

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