Oh Love

Posted on Mon Feb 9th, 2026 @ 12:40am by Civilian Federation NPC & Lieutenant Commander Aidan Datari

2,751 words; about a 14 minute read

Mission: Guile
Location: Replimat, Deep Space Nine
Timeline: 2439-08-13, 08:30

The morning air in the Replimat was thick with the smell of scorched raktajino and a tension you could almost taste. The arrival of the lone Klingon Bird-of-Prey, the IKC Qel'Poh, had sent a ripple through the station's usual rhythm. While there was just a small delegation from the House of Korath their presence felt like a splash of cold water on a hot stone.

Lezku Opra sat at a corner table in the Replimat with her back to a structural pylon and her gaze upon the people passing nearby. Her barely touched groatcakes sat cold before her as the "static" from Sora’s vision vibrated in her teeth, a lingering temporal hum that made the bustling crowd look like a flickering holofilm. This was one of the most intense experiences she'd ever had with a vision and every time one of the few Klingon warriors in the room laughed, the shard in her ear gave a sharp, needle-like prick that felt like thousands of daggers piercing her flesh.

She took a slow, deliberate sip of her tepid tea as she scanned the room. The station was abuzz with whispers about why the Klingons had arrived so suddenly. To most, it was a diplomatic curiosity. To Opra, it felt like the first few drops of rain before a flood. She only hoped that this wasn't a sinking ship.

Her gaze drifted across the floor and settled on a Starfleet officer sitting nearby. He was a Trill, the distinctive spots tracing down his neck and disappearing into the high collar of his duty uniform. He wasn't participating in the hushed gossip or watching the Klingons with the wary eye of the other officers. He simply sat, his hands wrapped around a mug, staring into the middle distance with a PADD on the table.

Opra lowered her cup, her fingers tightening around the ceramic. The shard in her ear didn't just throb this time; it sang. It was a low, resonant frequency that felt like the tail end of the echo Sora had left in her shop. But it was different with him. It felt dense, layered, like a melody played in three different rooms at once. It was hard to escape, but there was something about the melody that drew her in. She didn't look away. She watched the Trill through the shifting steam of the food processors. Her brow furrowed. There was a weight to him that didn't match his rank or his age—a feeling of "multiple-ness" that her crystal was reacting to with a frantic, vibrating heat. He felt like a walking intersection of timelines.

Opra stared at the cold groatcakes for a second longer, the syrup of squill starting to congeal, before she shoved the plate aside. The persistent, rhythmic thrumming in her ear demanded she move. If she sat here any longer, she was going to vibrate right out of her skin. She stood up, her movements slightly stiff from the lack of sleep, and grabbed her mug of tea. She didn't head for the exit. Instead, she navigated the maze of tables with a scavenger’s grace, weaving through the morning crowd until she reached the Trill officer’s table.

She didn't ask for permission. She simply pulled out the chair opposite him and sat down, the metal legs scraping harshly against the deck plates. Being near was like standing too close to a warp core, a deep, subsonic hum came to her that vibrated in her chest. She set her tea down and leaned forward, her eyes locked onto his, searching the depth of his gaze for the source of the "multiple-ness" her crystal was screaming about.

"You're not just having coffee," she said, her voice a low, gravelly rasp that cut through the Replimat’s ambient noise. She didn't bother with a greeting or a pleasantry. "And you're not just staring at the wall. Most people on this station are looking at the Klingons, wondering if there's going to be a fight. But you... You feel like you're listening to three different conversations at once, and none of them are happening in this room. Or in this year."

She took a slow sip of her tea, her gaze never wavering. "My name is Opra and I run a shop here on the Promenade. I don't have to tell you that I have a very expensive habit of noticing things that shouldn't be here. So, Commander... are you going to tell me why you feel like a ghost walking through your own life, or am I going to have to guess?"

Aidan had been nursing his coffee for quite some time now, the beverage had long since gone cold. Not that it mattered since he preferred cold beverages to begin with. The PADD in front of him had been forgotten too, its display having gone dark to hide the contents from any passerby. His gaze shifted to the woman as she drew him from his thoughts. "Ghost walk?" He asked, confusion furrowing his brow. "I noticed the Klingons, and their conversation is very entertaining but I wasn't really listening." The woman seemed very perceptive, but so was the linguistically talented Trill. "You didn't approach me just to talk about my observations, or my thoughts. Why do you say I'm a ghost?"

Though it had some truth to it. Aidan didn't like being in the spotlight, and he had worked from the shadows most of his career, starting as a child interpreting for his deaf foster sister.

"I say it because you're haunting yourself," she whispered, her voice like grinding stones. She touched the dark shard in her ear, her fingers trembling from its heat as she leaned in closer, the proximity making the "warp core" hum in her chest intensify. She ignored his redirection about the Klingons; their singular bravado was a dull thud compared to the intricate, shifting symphony coming from him. She continued, "Most people are solid. One life, one path. But you? You’re crowded. I can feel a dozen echoes trying to speak through one throat."

"And you brought a familiar," she added, her voice dropping as her gaze flickered down to a movement near his shoulder. A small, winged creature, like a dragon, shimmered in the light, its scales shifting colors. The shard in her ear gave a frantic twist. The "static" radiated from the beast as well; they were a closed circuit of impossible energy. "A Starfleet Commander with a dragon, on a station where everyone is looking for omens. Between the 'multiple-ness' in your head and that creature, you're a walking catastrophe for my sensitivities." She tapped the table, her gaze sharpening. "I know you're not Joined - I've met Trill with Symbionts, and they don't hum like you. This isn't biology; it's something else. My crystal sings for things that have seen the end of the world and the beginning of it at the same time. So, does the dragon see the ghosts too, Aidan? Or is it one of them?"

The Trill blinked, not sure when Sherlock had chosen to appear. He was certain he'd told the blue to remain with Saeri. "I'm not joined no, nor will I ever be in the future. But I was in the past, very briefly when I was fifteen. The memory was blocked for a few years, and I remember it as though it was yesterday. The symbiont was too young to be joined too, it was traumatic for both of us." Why he was answering the woman he didn't know, but it felt safe to disclose. He wasn't a man of many secrets anyway.

"I don't understand what you mean with ghosts. I don't see any and Sherlock certainly isn't one. I've seen death though, many times, unnatural deaths. I've lost a great deal too. My parents, my adopted father, my boyfriend, my husband....do you mean their ghosts somehow?"

"No," she said, her voice dropping to a low, conspiratorial murmur. "I don’t mean the dead. Dead is just... gone. I’m talking about the weight of what remains when time doesn't move in a straight line for you." Opra’s expression softened, but the intensity in her eyes didn't dim. If anything the mention of a traumatic, premature joining made the resonance inside her chest feel more jagged, like a broken mirror trying to reflect a single image.

She moved her gaze away from the creature, focusing back on Aidan’s eyes. The dragon was a symptom, a strange biological anomaly, but the man was the source. She reached out, not to touch him, but to hover her hand over the table between them, as if feeling the heat of a fire. "You say it was traumatic. My shard doesn't care about the 'why,' only the 'is.' And what is right now, Commander, is that you're carrying a temporal footprint far too heavy for one man. You were joined to something that wasn't ready, and neither were you. That leaves a scar on time, not just the brain."

She finally looked away from him, scanning the Replimat to ensure no one was eavesdropping. The Klingons were still boisterous, and the Starfleet officers still weary, but this table felt like an island in a storm. "I don't see the people you've lost," she clarified, her gaze returning to his. "I see the weight of what's coming. There's an old saying back on Bajor, not from the official scriptures, but from the wanderers who followed the stars before the Cardassians came. They spoke of a 'Bridge of Breath,' a person who stands where the past and the future refuse to meet. Someone who isn't just a witness to change, but the anchor for it."

She leaned in, her voice barely a whisper. "You're trying very hard to be 'one' man, Aidan. But my ear is telling me you're a symphony. That trauma at fifteen... it didn't just break you. It opened a door that shouldn't be open. You're the one who walks between, and on a station like this, with a fleet at our doorstep and the winds of war changing, that makes you a very dangerous pivot point." She tapped the table once, her gaze sharpening. "So, are you going to keep pretending you're just a linguist with a cold coffee, or are we going to talk about what happens when the Bridge has to finally carry the weight of the crossing?"

"I am one man," Aidan answered, signaling Sherlock to stay close as the creature hissed at the woman. "I'm not joined, I never looked for the symbiont because it is forbidden. No doubt memory of me is blocked for her too, as they were supposed to be for me." He shrugged. "I doubt I could stop you from telling me, but I don't think you have the right person here. I'm no-one important, I'm just an orphan who's trying to do right by his child. And serve as best as I can, wherever I can. I don't doubt you see things I don't, I greatly value honesty, but I don't really believe in the future being set in stone."

Opra didn't pull back when the creature hissed; she merely watched the ripple of iridescent scales with a detached, clinical fascination. She let out a short, humorless breath that might have been a laugh in another life. "The best anchors never think they’re important. That’s why they work," she said, her voice dropping back into that gravelly rasp. "The moment you believe you're a hero, you start trying to steer the storm instead of just standing still while it blows past you. I never said the future was set in stone, Commander. I said you were a pivot point. The stone can fall a dozen different ways—I'm just telling you that you're the one it's going to land on."

She pulled her hand back from the table, the absence of his proximity causing the shard in her ear to settle from a scream into a low, mournful hum. The "static" from the Klingons and the bustling Replimat began to bleed back into her consciousness, but it felt thin and hollow compared to the man sitting across from her. "An orphan and a father," she repeated, nodding slowly. "Simple enough. But 'doing right' by a child in a job like this, at a time like this... that’s a heavier burden than a Starfleet commission. The Prophets know I’ve spent my life trying to be 'no-one important' too. It’s the safest way to live. But the universe has a nasty habit of looking for people who are trying to hide."

She stood up, the chair legs barking against the deck once more. She reached into the pocket of her vest and pulled out a small, translucent chip, a business card for the Denorios Shard, and slid it across the table toward his PADD. "If the echoes start getting too loud to ignore, or if Sherlock starts hissing at shadows that aren't there, come find me. I deal in things that people want to forget, but I keep a very quiet back room for things that refuse to be buried."

"I'll keep that in mind," the mystified Trill promised, "and I dearly hope nothing will literally fall on me. I'm not trying to hide, I'm only trying to do what's right."

Opra paused, her hand lingering on the back of the chair. She looked at him—really looked at him—with a weary sort of empathy that stripped away the cryptic scavenger persona for just a heartbeat. "The universe doesn't care if you're hiding or standing center stage, Aidan. It only cares that you're there when the clock strikes," she said softly. "Doing what’s right is usually what gets the bridge built in the first place. Just... try to stay upright when the wind starts howling."

She offered a final, sharp nod and turned away. The "static" from the Klingons and the bustling morning crowd rushed back in to fill the void of her departure, but as she wove through the tables toward the exit, she didn't look back.

Aidan watched her leave. "That was a strange woman," he muttered as Sherlock chirped at him, "maybe a little scary but I think she means well.. I'll heed her warning, it can't hurt can it?"

The walk back to the Denorios Shard was a blur of faces and noise. Opra moved through the Promenade like a ghost herself, her boots barely registering the deck plating. The encounter with the Trill had left her feeling hollowed out, the temporal resonance still buzzing in the marrow of her bones.

When she reached the shop, she didn't immediately raise the shutters. Instead, she leaned her forehead against the cool, corrugated metal and let out a long, shuddering breath. The shard in her ear was quiet now, but the silence felt heavy, like the air before a lightning strike. She hit the control, and the shutters ground upward. The interior was exactly as she’d left it: dim, cluttered, and smelling of ozone and old dust. She bypassed the counter and went straight for the small, lead-lined cabinet in the back where she kept the items too "loud" for the display cases. With steady fingers, she pulled out a small, jagged piece of obsidian-like glass—a fragment she’d recovered from the Denorios Belt years ago. It shouldn't have been doing anything, but as she held it near her ear, the hum returned, syncing perfectly with the phantom melody Aidan had projected.

"A Bridge of Breath," she whispered to the empty room.

She sat at her workbench, the low light catching the edges of the artifacts surrounding her. Sora Bernadotte had been a tremor; Aidan was the quake. Between the Klingon arrival and these two walking anomalies, the "quiet life" Opra had carved out on the station was disintegrating. She reached for her terminal and began a localized scan of the station’s recent arrivals, her eyes scanning for any mention of a Commander with a miniature dragon. Not because she wanted to report him (the Prophets knew she had enough secrets of her own) but because if the stone was going to fall on him, she needed to know which way to jump when the debris started flying.

"You're not no-one, Aidan," she muttered, "And I think you know it."

RSS Feed