Ordinary World

Posted on Wed Feb 4th, 2026 @ 11:49pm by Starfleet NPC & Commander Nathan Bishop

2,373 words; about a 12 minute read

Mission: 7a. Guile - Short Treks
Location: Quark's Bar, Deep Space Nine
Timeline: 2439-08-12, 21:30

Vice Admiral Astran Deix sat in the shadows of the upper mezzanine, his spine a rigid line against the chair’s backrest. Even in the dim, neon-soaked atmosphere of Quark’s, his uniform remained impeccable, every medal and rank pip aligned to the exact millimeter required by Starfleet protocol. He had arrived well after 20:30, intentionally choosing the window when the station’s evening shift change had fully settled and the civilian population reached its peak density. To Deix, the chaotic sprawl below was not a scene of leisure, but a series of data points that required careful analysis and sorting.

His eyes tracked a group of junior officers at the Dabo table. They were laughing too loudly, their postures slumped in a way that suggested a decline in departmental discipline aboard the station. He watched the way a Bolian Ensign gestured wildly with a drink, nearly splashing a passing Vulcan woman who barely escaped disaster. Deix noted the lapse in situational awareness; in a high-pressure environment like Deep Space 9, such carelessness was a precursor to catastrophe. He reached for his glass, which contained room-temperature Altair water, and took a sip while his gaze shifted to the proprietor.

Quark - or at least a holographic replica of the Ferengi barkeep - was haggling with a freighter captain near the bar. Deix watched the Ferengi’s micro-expressions, identifying the precise moment the merchant’s greed overrode his caution. It was a fascinating, if inefficient, display of commerce. The Admiral preferred the predictability of logistics and the reliability of a well-maintained supply chain. The bar, by contrast, was a friction point in the station's operations. He noticed a slight flicker in the overhead lighting and a subtle tremor in the deck plating beneath his boots, indicators of a power shunting issue in the Promenade’s primary grid that had clearly gone unaddressed for several hours. He'd have to speak with Loatha about it, especially with the disaster that occurred on DS47 earlier today.

A Klingon warrior sat three tables away, nursing a bloodwine in stony silence. Deix afforded the man a brief, respectful nod of recognition, knowing that they could be potential adversaries in no less than a day from now. They were the only two individuals in the room who seemed to understand that a public space was still a space requiring vigilance. The rest of the patrons were lost in the sensory static of the music and the synthesized smells of exotic cuisine. To Deix, this "fun" was merely a lack of focus. He processed the room's layout, identifying the primary and secondary exits and calculating the most efficient evacuation route should the station’s yellow alert sirens begin to wail.

When his internal tally of the room’s deficiencies reached its limit, Deix started to formulate a comprehensive memorandum on station morale and maintenance deficiencies. He smoothed the front of his tunic, ensuring not a single wrinkle remained, and debated leaving, despite having not yet met his guest. It would be bad manners for sure, but he had had enough of the depravity that was Quark's Bar. Standing up, he heard someone call his name.

Strolling toward him, a smile on his face was Nathan Bishop. "Admiral." He said as he drew closer, "Enjoying the nightlife aboard the station?"

Deix did not return the smile. He stood fully, his movements economical and precise, effectively turning the social greeting into a formal inspection. "If this is your definition of 'enjoyment,' I suggest we rethink priorities. I see a power grid operating at 84% efficiency, three distinct violations of the Starfleet Dress and Appearance Code at the Dabo table, and a security perimeter that is currently more sieve than shield. I understand that this is a holiday in the Federation, but it's a bit much for me, especially in the aftermath of Deep Space 47."

He gestured curtly toward the chair across from him, the overhead light flickering slightly and casting a shadow over the chair, "Please sit, Commander, we have a lot to discuss and little time to do it."

Bishop moved to the seat and sat down. He looked across at the admiral. "Well, I'm here admiral. What is so important that we need to discuss and have little time to do so?"

Deix didn't lean in. Instead, he adjusted the PADD on the table so it was perfectly parallel to the edge. He didn't waste time with small talk. "I am transferring you to the Enterprise effective 08:00 tomorrow. You will be assuming the role of Strategic Operations Officer. Lieutenant Herbert Barr is also coming aboard as a second Security Chief."

"Commodore Targaryen has a... unique philosophy regarding his crew," he fixed Bishop with a gaze that was as cold and level as a phaser calibration beam, "Currently, his Tactical and Security departments are headed by a Vorta named Kuzos. I don’t care how many 'gut feelings' the Commodore has or how much the Commodore defends him; a Vorta is a product of Dominion engineering. Their loyalty is a matter of genetics, not conviction. To have a Vorta holding both the shield frequencies and the phaser arrays of the Federation flagship is a structural absurdity I will not tolerate. You and Barr are being sent in to provide the discipline that ship is currently lacking. While Kuzos retains his title, I am tasking you with theater-wide strategic oversight. You will be my eyes and ears on that Bridge. If that Vorta so much as glances at a sensor array in a way that suggests Dominion influence, I expect you and Barr to be ready to place him in a holding cell with Targaryen next to him."

He tapped a command code into the PADD and slid it across the table. The movement was sharp and final, "I need an officer who values protocol over 'hunches' and security over sentimentality because Enterprise is an asset we cannot afford to lose to an internal compromise. Do you understand your mandate, Commander?"

Bishop dodged the question at least for the moment. "Sir, I've managed to read some of the Enterprise's previous missions with this Kuzos as the tactical chief and by all reports he's done and excellent job in the position."

Deix’s expression did not soften; if anything, his features hardened into a mask of pure, bureaucratic iron. He took a measured breath, exhaling slowly as if purging the room’s ambient chaos from his system before addressing Bishop’s remark, "I have reviewed the same mission logs. Kuzos is efficient, yes. He is tactically sound. But efficiency in the pursuit of a flawed command structure is simply a well-oiled path to disaster."

"Targaryen speaks of 'bridge synergy' and 'unprecedented loyalty.' He treats Kuzos as a personal triumph of diplomacy rather than a glaring security vulnerability. The Commodore is blinded by his own narrative. He believes that because Odo hand-delivered this creature as a gesture of peace, the laws of genetic probability no longer apply. A Vorta’s loyalty is a hardwired biological imperative," Deix leaned forward just enough to underscore his next point, his gaze narrowing, "The rot isn't limited to Tactical. The Enterprise has a Terran serving as Operations Manager and having an individual from a culture defined by treachery and xenophobia managing the internal systems of our flagship is negligence, plain and simple. Targaryen calls it 'utilizing diverse perspectives.' I call it a failure of risk management. Between a Vorta at the phasers and a Terran at ops, our flagship is a bad day away from becoming a weapon against us! You and Barr are the countermeasure."

Bishop wasn't so sure however he wasn't calling the shots or dictating the investigation such as it was. After a moment he replied, "Yes sir, I see what you mean. I will maintain watchful eyes on both Kuzos and the Terran. You can be sure of that."

He reached out and tapped a specific file on the PADD, the screen glowing with a rigorous set of duty rotations and encrypted reporting channels, "You will submit a classified SITREP to my office every twenty-four hours at 04:00 - not 04:01, not 'when the shift ends,' at 04:00 hours. If the Terran so much as accesses a secondary power coupling without a dual-signed authorization, I want to know. If Kuzos adjusts the targeting sensors outside of standard combat drills, you are to override him. You are there to restore the Chain of Command, which has been softened by Targaryen’s 'collaborative' delusions."

Deix stood up, the movement so sudden and stiff it seemed to demand the air in the immediate vicinity come to attention. He checked his chronometer; the meeting had already exceeded its allotted time by forty-two seconds due to Bishop’s initial hesitation, "The Enterprise is a symbol of Federation excellence, Commander, and it's a liability right now managed by a man who prefers metaphors to manuals. You are the correction, Bishop. Do not become part of the 'synergy.' Become the standard."

He didn't wait for a salute or a parting word. He turned on his heel, his stride a perfect, measured cadence as he navigated the "chaos" of the bar, already mentally drafting the reprimand for the station's maintenance chief regarding the flickering lights.

Bishop sat in silence as the Admiral laid out his directives and what was expected of him. He heard the admiral say he was the correction which was all fine and good but he first needed to see what needed to be corrected. He picked up the PaDD and stuffed it inside his tunic. The admiral wanted a report every twenty four hors which sounded good in theory but may not be so simple in real time practice. However one thought tugged at him and that was just what had he been roped into? He didn't believe the Enterprise command structure was as bad as the admiral stated so what was the admiral hoping/ looking for? He wouldn't know until he was onboard.

Quark watched the Vice Admiral’s departure with narrowed, yellowed eyes, waiting until the man’s stiff-backed silhouette merged into the Promenade's crowd before he dared to approach the table. He moved with a practiced, agitated shuffle, his ears twitching with the lingering resonance of the Admiral’s cold, humorless voice. When he reached the table he stared at the glass of water. It was still half-full, lukewarm, and - perhaps worst of all - the only thing the man had ordered. Quark picked it up with two fingers, holding it at arm's length as if it were contaminated with a virus that killed profit, a disgusted sneer on his face.

"Did you see that?" Quark muttered, his voice a low hiss directed at Bishop. "He sat there for nearly an hour, taking up prime real estate during the shift change, breathing my oxygen, and what do I get? A lecture on the efficiency of the power grid and no tip! Nothing! Not a slip, not a strip, not even a single lead-pressed credit!" Quark gestured wildly toward the door where Deix had vanished. "He talks about 'Federation excellence' and 'restoring standards,' but apparently, those standards don't include a basic gratuity for the service industry. Probably thinks it violates the Prime Directive or something."

Bishop nodded, "I saw it Quark. I did indeed see it." He chuckled as Quark raged on about the admiral. "And who is going to tell him Quark? You?" Bishop questioned, "I don't think so. However since you are so obviously hurting financially here it a slip of latinum for the use of your table. I do hope this helps to ease the pain you are currently enduring and remember who gave it to you next time I see you." Bishop answered evenly.

Quark’s ears perked up at the distinct clink of latinum hitting the table, his fingers twitching with a greed so reflexive it was practically biological. He snatched the slip out of the air before it could even settle, pressing it against his palm to verify the weight. "One slip?" Quark’s voice went up an octave, his sneer morphing into a look of wounded dignity. "You Federation types... you see a man struggling to keep the lights on and you think a single slip covers the emotional trauma of hosting a living, breathing block of ice!" He tucked the latinum into his pocket anyway, his movements quick and fluid. He leaned over the table, his oversized ears tilting toward Bishop as he lowered his voice to a conspiratorial rasp. "I’ll remember who gave it to me, Commander. I’ll also remember that you’re headed for the Enterprise."

Quark began wiping the table with a rag that looked like it hadn't seen soap since the Occupation. He cast a wary glance toward the Promenade, making sure the Admiral’s rigid shadow was well and truly gone, "You want my advice? And I’m giving this for free so listen closely: Protocol doesn't buy you friends, and it certainly doesn't help you when you're stuck in the Gamma Quadrant with a Terran, a Vorta, and a philosopher. Don't let that Admiral turn you into a computer core with legs but remember: Quark’s has a very generous policy for high-ranking refugees. For the right price, I can find you a cargo hold that even a Vorta’s sensors couldn't sniff out."

He straightened up, clutching the empty water glass like a trophy of his endurance.

"Don't worry Quark. The Admiral won't change me and thanks for the advice. I'll keep it in mind who and where I got it from. As well as where my birthday party will be." Bishop answered evenly.

Quark let out a short, bark-like laugh, the kind that usually preceded a heavy markup on a bottle of Kanar. "Your birthday party, eh? I’ll start drafting the invoice now. I hope you like synthale, because for you, Commander, I might even waive the 'breathing tax' for the first hour." He gave a mocking little bow, though his eyes remained sharp, lingering on the bulge of the PADD beneath Bishop's tunic before he shuffled off to harass a group of Andorians near the bar.

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