Minority

Posted on Wed Feb 4th, 2026 @ 11:50pm by Civilian Federation NPC & Ensign Mirakylin Yumerieva

3,858 words; about a 19 minute read

Mission: 7. Guile
Location: The Denorios Shard, Deep Space Nine
Timeline: 2439-08-13, 00:00

The adrenaline from Sora Bernadotte’s departure hadn't quite faded, leaving Lezku Opra’s nerves frayed and humming like a live wire. The Denorios Shard was officially closed, the heavy security shutters pulled tight against the Promenade's midnight bustle, but the shop felt crowded with the ghosts of the conversation she’d just had. Sora was a variable Opra couldn't quite map, and the lingering chroniton residue made the air taste like copper and ozone.

Opra knelt behind the counter, her fingers tracing the edge of a lead-lined floor safe. She wasn't ready to go to her quarters yet; the "static" in her head was too loud. Ever since Commodore Loatha had taken command of the Bajoran Sector, the station had felt... different. Loatha’s "Grand Design" was a web of absolute control, a vision of Bajoran prosperity bought with a rigid, uncompromising order. Under Loatha’s watch, the shadows on the station felt heavier, as if the walls themselves were recording Opra's heartbeat to ensure it beat in time with the Commodore's directives.

Mira was at the shop where she was told that would fit with her aesthetic. She was wondering why the shutters were down, when supposedly, the promenade was always open, always busy. Well, she was an introvert, trying to be more than a refuge from the Alekian Theocratic state of all other races being heretics and abominations. She rapped at the shutter, hoping whoever was inside was still there.

A sudden, sharp metallic clack against the front security shutters made her jump. It wasn't the rhythmic chime of a service call, but the sound of someone physically knocking on the heavy gate.

Opra sighed, rubbing her temples. She stood slowly, her joints complaining after the long shift. She didn't reach for her disruptor because trouble rarely knocked on the front door in the middle of the Promenade, but she kept her guard up. In Loatha's sector, even a "normal" customer could be an informant or a complication she didn't need.

She touched the control panel, and the heavy shutters ground upward with a reluctant hum, stopping halfway to reveal a pair of boots on the deck plates.

"The lights are off for a reason," Opra said, her voice a weary, guarded rasp that she didn't bother to soften. "Whatever you’re looking to buy or sell, it can wait until the morning cycle. I’m out of tea, out of patience, and the Prophets themselves couldn't get me to open a ledger right now."

She leaned against the counter, squinting into the dim, amber-tinted light of the Promenade. Her dark earring gave a faint, dull throb - a lingering protest from the timeline - as she waited to see who was desperate enough to come calling at this hour.

"Well?" she prompted, crossing her arms. "Are you going to stand there and let the atmosphere out, or are you going to tell me what’s so important it couldn't wait for sunrise?"

The response from the person on the other side was a feminine voice stating, "Low light is preferred, thank you. I came calling as I was told this shop would be aesthetically pleasing to me, an Arlekian refugee. And.. on time.. why are you already closed for the evening? I.. am unsure. May I come in to ... the word is.. chat, that's it. May I come in to chat with you? I would like that, honest. And, from your tone, I think I might be someone you wouldn't mind chatting with." Mira waited, hoping to see if her entreaty was met with positive, or negative, like almost always.

Opra’s gaze drifted from the boots up to the figure standing in the half-light. An Arlekian. She knew the name from the intelligence filters that trickled through the station: refugees from a theocracy that made even the most devout Bajoran look casual. The woman’s voice was tentative, lacking the sharp, jagged edge of the typical station dweller, but it was the request to "chat" that made Opra’s brow furrow. Nobody on Deep Space 9 just chatted at midnight unless they were selling something or hiding something. She felt the shard in her ear give a soft, rhythmic pulse. It wasn't the violent spike Sora had triggered, but a gentle, steady thrum, a curiosity rather than a warning. Opra blew a stray lock of hair out of her face and sighed. The station's current administration didn't leave much room for refugees or introverts; you were either useful or you were in the way. There was something about this Mira that felt like she didn't quite fit into the rigid slots everyone else was trying to fill, much like Opra herself.

"Arlekian, huh?" Opra muttered, her voice losing a fraction of its gravelly bite. She stepped back from the counter and hit the control to raise the shutters the rest of the way, though she kept the shop’s main overheads dimmed to the low amber glow the stranger had requested. "The Promenade doesn't sleep, but people do," Opra said, gesturing vaguely into the cluttered, shadowy interior of the Shard. "I’m closed because I had a guest who took up more than her fair share of my peace of mind. And 'on time' is a relative concept in this shop."

She leaned one hip against the display case of Bajoran artifacts, her arms still crossed, but her posture had shifted from defensive to a wary sort of hospitality. "Come in, then. If your people think you're a heretic, you'll find plenty of company on this station." Opra watched her enter, her keen eyes tracking Mira's movements to see how she reacted to the relics of the past. "You want to chat? Fine. But I wasn't lying about the tea; I'm down to the dregs of a bitter synth-blend. If you can handle that, pull up a stool. What did they tell you about this place that made you think midnight was the right time to visit?"

Mira listened to the proprietor's words intently as the shutters fully raised. After they did, she entered slowly, looking about at the shops contents. Various unusual items were collected in cases about the shop, piquing her curiosity as well as a 'could they might have?' within her mind. She approached the Proprietor while keeping track of the questions so she could try to answer intelligently. "Yes, I'm Arlekian; I'm sorry to hear about a guest taking up too much of your time; My people would love to finish what they started to kill the last of my family, me; Yes, I still would like to share tea with you; and, my apologies, I did not realize it was midnight. The other engineers who told me about your shop said if shutter is down, knock and wait. The shop owner is either busy and will let you know, or not there, which, in case, just leave after ten minutes. On the visit, I'm... looking for anything from my home world that might be from my family."

Mira thought a moment, then said, "I think I covered everything." She curtsied to Opra, her face having a hopeful expression on it as she continued, "Greetings, I am Mirakylin Yumerieva, please, call me Mira."

Opra watched the curtsy with a twitch of her lips that was almost, but not quite, a smile. It was a gesture of such antiquated, formal politeness that it felt jarring against the cold, industrial backdrop of the station. She pushed herself off the display case and moved behind the counter, reaching for two mismatched ceramic mugs.

"Mira," Opra repeated, testing the weight of the name as she poured the dark, steaming liquid. "Well, Mira, the engineers who sent you here are lucky I didn't have my phaser sweep set to the door. Knocking on a closed shutter in this sector is a good way to get a security team breathing down your neck, but I suppose they figured you looked harmless enough." She slid one of the mugs across the scarred countertop toward the girl. The shard in Opra’s ear was still humming that steady, curious rhythm. There was no residue on Mira, no jagged edges of a broken timeline, but there was a profound sense of displacement almost like the vibration of someone who had been cut out of one reality and pasted into another.

"Arlekian artifacts are a rarity," Opra said, her tone shifting into that of the professional scavenger. "Your Theocracy isn't big on exporting history; they’re usually too busy rewriting it or burning it. Most of what I get from that sector comes through three middle-men and a Ferengi blockade-runner." She leaned her elbows on the counter, cradling her own mug. "Looking for family heirlooms is a long shot, but I’ve seen stranger things wash up on my shores. Tell me, what exactly are you looking for? A signet? A prayer bead? Or something the Arlekians would call a 'heresy'? And while you're at it, tell me why an engineer is wandering the Promenade at midnight looking for the past. Most people in your line of work are too busy looking at schematics for the future to care about what’s buried in the past."

Mira burst out a small chortle, which for her, was like gurgles interspersed with high giggle notes. "Yeah, young engineers area always busy trying to learn, to know.. I have been called out many a time for being a 'stick in the mud', not really much to say." Her tone grew melancholy as she continued, "Yet, when other engineers start talking family, showing off items, showing off pics... I really have nothing of my birth family, other than a note saying my first and middle names, a bag that had supplies, my stuffed tarthanian... oh, umm, A Fox Squirrel is the colloquialism, I think? and the memories of my father caught and beheaded, my mom and siblings being riddled through with bullet holes, while I am falling into a cargo container whose hatch was shutting with self same bag mentioned earlier."

Mira shuddered a little. She had been working with the counselor to help her deal with her deeply buried trauma, so she didn't break down into tears, but those memories still hurt. She took a sip of tea, which was actually quite good despite being 'the dregs', took in a breath, let it out, then answered, "My mom had a Necklace made for her by Dad.. it was a three stranded affair, with a solar burst pendant connected to them. Top strand to the top of the large 'PLUS' of the burst, the middle strand going through the middle where the three segments overlapped, the Medium X and the smaller square with a corner up, and then the third strand connected to the bottom of the large 'PLUS'. Our names, my family names, are etched in the back. I am hoping it also fell with Mom's body into a cargo container. It would be nice to remember my siblings names, my father and mothers names, rather than the vague 'mom', 'dad', and sisses and brothers." A tear escaped this time from Mira's right eye. She was here, in another place, away from where she was supposed to be with her family, yet, thrust here by that very family trying to save anyone from them from the fate from the Valoran Warriors. She now added, "Then, well, Dad had a weird multigear watch that I think he made himself, I would recognize it, and it would have my last name. I don't know it, I only have my adopted families last name as my own. It would be nice, you know, to at least know my family name."

Opra watched the tear track down Mira's cheek and resisted the urge to look away. In her line of work, she dealt with the wreckage of civilizations every day, but the raw, unpolished grief of a living survivor was a different kind of heavy. She took a long, slow drink from her mug, the bitter tea coating her tongue. "Solar burst on a three-strand chain," Opra repeated softly, her voice losing its edge and settling into a professional, rhythmic cadence. "And a custom gear-watch with a surname."

She set her mug down and turned to a small, sleek interface built into the counter. Her fingers danced across the holographic keys, not searching the public manifests, but her own private database. "I won't lie to you, Mira. The Arlekian state is efficient. When they 'cleanse' a household, they usually melt the metals and burn the records. But they are also greedy," Opra said, her eyes fixed on the scrolling text. "The soldiers who did the killing... they often pocket the shiny things before the inquisitors arrive. That’s how family names end up in the hands of Ferengi fences or Cardassian 'collectors' looking for exotic curios."

The shard in Opra’s ear gave a sudden, sharp prick. It was a cold, heavy sensation—the weight of something that had been lost for a very long time. "I don't have a solar burst in the current inventory," Opra said, turning back to Mira. Her expression was unreadable, but her eyes were focused. "But I recognize the description of that watch. About six months ago, a freighter captain out of the Valo system tried to move a 'mechanical curiosity' through my shop. It was a mess of brass and interlocking gears, handmade, with a spring-drive that didn't match any standard Arlekian tech. I didn't buy it at the time though. It was too niche, too much of a risk under the current security protocols."

She leaned forward, her gaze locking onto Mira’s. "I didn't see a name on it, but I didn't look under the housing. If it’s the same one, it’s likely still in the sector. These things don't travel fast; they’re too unique to be sold easily." Opra reached under the counter and pulled out a small, handheld PADD, sliding it toward Mira. "Draw it. The watch and the pendant. Every detail you remember. If I’m going to go digging through the trash heaps of the sector for your ghosts, I need to know exactly what the shadows look like." She paused, her hand hovering near the PADD. "But Mira? Knowing a name is a heavy thing. Sometimes the dead stay quiet for a reason. Are you sure you're ready to hear them talk?"

Mira thought for a moment, then reached out and took the PADD. As she positioned it before her for drawing upon, she answered, "Yes... because the name is my family. My mother threw me into that cargo container in the hopes I would survive, even as she was next preparing to throw in my older but youngest brother into the next one but was interrupted by machine gun fire. I need to know my family name to pay homage for their sacrifice, as well as to pass it onto my children when they are born." The Necklace was easy.. to 6 inch single strands with the clasp in the middle, then the tie points for the three strands and the easier style pulsar in the middle with the three strands behind it top, middle, and bottom.

The Watch was a little more tricky as it was Three circles overlaid and merged with each other, almost like a valentines heart but a circle at the bottom instead of a point. Another circle in the middle held the dial with time marks. however, outside of this circle showing through a transparent cover was the gearing of the watch. Spring to the upper right, orbital circular gears in the upper left, shift timekeeping gears of the balance wheel and specialty unusual lever to allow accurate timekeeping. However, Mira remembered staring at it for lengths of time during foraging... she had found it fascinating while her parents and siblings like the unusual babysitter to keep the youngest child entertained. The cover would click on tight with a push spring latch on the right to open it, almost like a pocket watch, but this as on a leather band for the wrist.

She passed the Padd back to Opra, smiling. "The necklace is easy, the watch harder. For the necklace, mom and dad's names are on the back of each of the upper left X and lower right X, while my siblings and I are along the Vertical part of the 'PLUS'. On the watch, I think I may have simplified the gearing in each of the three areas, but just the shape and what gearing is where should help out. My family name will be on the back of the watch, but as the leather band went underneath it, probably nobody noticed. Father used radium paint for the dial tips and marks, but I am not sure if those held up over the years. The watch, when I was younger, was my babysitter during foraging. I loved watching the balance wheel with its lever, then seeing the other gearings slowly moving while the second hand progressed quickly while the hour hand moved so slowly. Anyways, are those drawings good enough?"

Opra took the PADD back, her eyes narrowing as she studied the sketches. She’d seen thousands of technical drawings, but these had the tactile, intimate precision of a memory preserved in amber. "Radium paint," Opra murmured, her thumb tracing the edge of the watch drawing. "That explains the faint ionization signature the captain’s scanner was throwing. He thought it was a faulty power cell. He didn't realize he was holding a piece of history that still had a heartbeat."

She looked at the complex overlay of the circles. The shard in her ear wasn't just pricking now; it was vibrating with a cold, metallic resonance. It was the "weight" of the object, a physical manifestation of the grief Mira had just poured out. "The drawings are better than good, Mira. They’re a map," Opra said, her voice dropping into a low, steady tone. She tapped a command on her console to upload the sketches into her long-range inquiry filter. "If that watch is still within three sectors of Deep Space 9, I’ll find the hands it’s passed through. Brass and radium don't just disappear, even in a black market as crowded as this one."

She looked up from the screen, her expression softening into something uncharacteristically earnest. "You talk about paying homage. About children. You’re looking for a foundation to build a life on, and that’s a rare thing in a place where most people are just trying to survive the next shift." Opra took a final sip of her tea and set the mug aside. "I’ll put the word out through my contacts in the Valo system. Discreetly. In Loatha’s sector, curiosity is a commodity, and I don't want the wrong people wondering why a Bajoran scavenger is looking for Arlekian 'heresy.'"

She leaned back, her arms crossing over her chest. "It might take time. The trails are old and covered in blood. But you've waited this long; I imagine you can wait a little longer while I shake the trees." Opra checked the chronometer on the wall. Midnight was long gone, and the station’s artificial "morning" was beginning to creep into the Promenade’s lighting cycles. "Go back to your quarters, Mira. Get some sleep. An engineer with shaky hands is a liability, and you’re going to need your strength if I actually find what you’re looking for. A name isn't just a label; it’s a ghost that demands to be fed."

Even though tired, there was a light and sparkle in Mira's eyes as well as a vibrancy to her whiskers. This was the closest she had been to anything tied to her family. She stood up, stretching, as she replied, "Thank you for this, and, you are right. I have been searching for twelve years since my adoptive father let me know about what guards would do with retrieved goods when Valoran Overwatch wasn't nearby. I can definitely wait longer, and I will face that ghost, gladly, for my future childrens family name to not be forgotten." She thought for a moment, then added, "And, you need to know my ship so you can get a message to me. I am on the Enterprise, Ensign, Engineering officer where I work on the support systems for the Power Plants. Again, thank you." She curtsied, then turned and headed out the doorway. She never did get the ladies name, but she had her sight and smell and knew where the shop was.

Opra watched the young woman disappear into the dim, quiet stretch of the Promenade. The station’s lighting was still set to the deep indigo of the "night" cycle; it was barely 0100 hours, and the air held that peculiar, filtered stillness that only came when the bulk of the population was in stasis. The word Enterprise lingered in the shop like a draft of cold air, a reminder that despite the heavy hand of Commodore Loatha Targaryen in this sector, the Federation’s reach was long.

"Ensign Mirakylin," Opra murmured, the name finally slotting into a mental file.

She turned back to the console, the blue light of the display casting long, skeletal shadows across the shop's relics. She didn't close the program. Instead, she deepened the search parameters. Radium-based luminescence was an antique curiosity, a beacon for anyone with the right sensors and the specialized knowledge to look for it. The shard in her ear settled into a low, rhythmic thrum. It was no longer the sharp prick of Sora’s temporal wake, but a heavy, grounding resonance. She felt like a weaver holding two frayed threads that shouldn't have crossed: a universe-traveling fugitive and a refugee looking for a name written in brass.

"Feeding ghosts," Opra sighed, rubbing the back of her neck.

She reached out and tapped the control to lower the security shutters back down to the floor. The metal ground shut with a final, echoing thud that seemed to vibrate through the entire pylon. She wasn't going to her quarters yet. In the dark, with the Promenade silent outside, she had the best chance of bypassing the standard Bajoran comm-filters. She began punching in a series of encrypted handshakes destined for a scrap-trader in the Valo system. If that watch was still in the sector, she wanted to find it before the "Grand Design" decided that Arlekian history was a threat to Bajoran order.

Opra sat back in the shadows of the Shard, her eyes fixed on the sketches Mira had left behind. The station felt like a drum being tightened, and she was sitting right on the skin of it. She had hours of "night" left before the morning crowd at the Replimat would demand her presence, and she intended to spend them digging through the trash heaps of the sector for a name that had been nearly erased.

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