Verex, Clandestinely

Posted on Tue Aug 4th, 2026 @ 3:30pm by Doctor Kim Standish & Lieutenant Commander Kirak & Lieutenant Eve West & Lieutenant Alexander Beckett & Ensign Kaaven Saenar

1,811 words; about a 9 minute read

Mission: Regula Gambit
Location: Verex III Slave Souk of the Walled City
Summary:
Timeline: Mission Day 1 at 00:00

[Verex III] [Slave Souk, Walled City of Verex]

The Vulcan was already in mid-stride, his hands clasped behind his back, "Our Quartermaster department has provided us with the identicards and background references for traders among the Interstellar Trade Alliance. Memorize your aliases." Kirak began as the group paced around a modified shuttle. It had been distressed and some of its panels replaced to make it look like an older, civilian model. "The transponder codes of this shuttle had been altered to show it was a Nyberrite purchase some ten years ago. The transponder and owner rights are included in your datapads, should Customs officials ask."

Kirak turned and stopped, "We have been given clothing that is correct for civilian traders. Please see to it you are correct outfitted by the time we arrive as it is likely the Orion traffic control will require visual contact with the cabin crew. Please." He gestured, a sweeping gesture at the gathering. "Introduce yourself as your aliases so we may begin to integrate ourselves with this current deception."

Beckett stepped forward.

He looked very little like a Starfleet officer now.

The uniform had been replaced with a sleeveless off-white shirt, the fabric worn and the arms roughly cut away at the shoulders. Over it sat a dark leather vest, scuffed in places like it had seen more than a few hard cargo docks. Heavy boots replaced regulation footwear, and a wide utility belt rode low on his hips.

A civilian phaser pistol rested in a worn holster on his right side.

He hadn’t shaved since Regula One. The faint stubble along his jaw dulled the usual clean-cut Starfleet look, and his dark hair had been left just untidy enough to pass for someone who spent more time in cargo bays than in front of a mirror.

But the biggest change was his posture.

The crisp, straight-backed stance of a security chief had softened into something looser. One thumb hooked casually through his belt as he leaned his weight onto one hip, the stance relaxed, almost lazy — the kind of posture a man might take when he’d spent too many years around docks and bars where standing too straight marked you as trouble.

“Name’s Dane Rourke,” he said.

The accent was subtle, roughened around the edges, the words a shade slower and flatter than his usual careful diction.

He paused, then glanced sideways at the group with the faintest hint of a grin.

“Independent security. Cargo escort. You’ve got somethin’ worth stealin’, I’m the bloke you pay to make sure nobody tries.”

The grin widened just slightly.

“Still workshopping the voice,” he admitted, the normal Beckett tone slipping back in for a moment. He tapped the holster lightly with two fingers.

“Figured I should sound like I’ve spent a few years getting thrown out of docking-bay bars.”

He rolled his shoulders once, settling back into the relaxed stance.

“Give it a few hours on Verex and I’ll probably have it down.”

Kaaven could barely contain his excitement. The thought of the stories he’d have for his fellow lower deckers later made a quiet thrill run through him. This was the sort of thing people talked about for weeks afterward, the kind of experience that earned a person a little extra attention in the mess hall.

He reached up and adjusted the drape of his very dark yellow tunic, tugging it into place with careful fingers. His hair had fallen into its usual tousled state during the last few minutes of preparation, but beyond that there wasn’t much he could do to alter his appearance. Haliian genetics were stubborn in certain ways, facial hair being chief among them. He’d tried once or twice to cultivate something resembling a beard. The results had been… unconvincing.

Beneath the wrap-style tunic he wore a pair of well-worn leather trousers and boots that climbed past his knees, the sort of rugged ensemble that looked far more at home on a frontier trader than a Starfleet junior officer. It wasn’t the sort of outfit Kaaven would normally choose for himself. His tastes usually leaned toward something a little more polished, a little less… adventurous.

Still, as he gave himself a quick once-over before they disembarked, he couldn’t help the small grin that crept across his face. ‘I look kind of sexy,’ he’d thought to himself, privately pleased with the effect. “Deyrvin Trote, collector and expert negotiator.” He smirked in a much smarmier way than usual.

Lieutenant Eve West was sporting a grey tank-top style tunic that was distressed, with black utility pants and boots. She also had a civilian looking phaser pistol on her hip, but concealed. Her hair was down to both sides rather than just one. "Beautiful morning, eh?" she greeted, using a full Canadian accent. It wasn't hard seeing as she was from there, but it never came out this much for the fact that she was born in an area where the accent wasn't as heavy.

"Aria Woods" Eve added with her alias. "I'm a civilian pilot for hire. Bit of a showoff" she said.

Kirak observed each of his officers and comrades and the transformations that this mission would require of them. They had to cease to be Starfleet. His eyes settles finally on Doctor Standish. "Doctor," he greeted. "What have you conjured?"

Standish surveyed the assembled officers and frowned. Of all the things she might be called on to do, pretend to be... well... this wasn't one she thought she'd signed up for. Still, needs must. Her own out was, by her opinion, far too tight. Not that the clothing fit her improperly, so much as it clung in ways she was not particularly accustomed to. She'd even asked the Quartermaster for something different, but the look she'd gotten at the request had made it clear this was the persona she was meant to portray. A slimly cut black tube dress covered the doctor's figure, clothe tie straps wrapping to the back of her neck where they were tied in place in a way that showed off assets she rarely felt inclined for others to peruse without her express say so. The color of the dress had the, she felt, unfortunate effect of highlighting the paleness of her skin and setting her hair aflame against any kind of light.

"Gentlemen," she said with a tilt of her head and a curious drawl to her inflection. "And lady," she added with a nod to Eve. "Madame Europa. I'd say I was at yer service, but 'twouldn't be true. My clients hire me for discretion to acquire any number of particulars for them. So perhaps I should be saying that, if ya play yer cards right, you'll be at my service."

Her voice, as she spoke, had taken on a southern drawl--somewhere between the inflection you might expect to hear from someone's auntie and the harder edge of a business woman. It felt odd in her mouth, but she hoped sounded convincing enough. One hand propped on her hip, she surveyed the room, eyebrows raised as she peered down her nose as if expecting them all to jump to whatever it was she needed.

And then she sighed, dropped her hand and crossed it over her chest. "I sure as hell hope that was convincing enough," she muttered, returning to the dry sarcasm that usually accompanied her commentary.

Kirak blinked. "Please. Give me a moment." His fingers steepled. He turned his back to his fellow officers. When he turned back he was somehow... so different. But it was so much more evident when the Vulcan smirked. He smirked. "I'm Rakad." A Romulan name. "Pilot." He popped his neck with a tilt left then right.

Kaaven blinked, momentarily caught off guard by the Vulcan’s sudden shift in demeanor. He hadn’t expected it to be so seamless, so precise. One moment there had been that familiar, impenetrable composure, the next it was replaced by something almost personable.

Beckett watched the others for a moment, arms loose at his sides, one thumb hooked casually into his belt. A faint smirk tugged at his mouth as Kaaven finished, then again at West’s accent, but it lingered only briefly. His attention settled on Kirak a second longer than the rest.

That smirk.

“Rakad,” he said, trying the name out. The rough edge in his voice came easier now, less practiced, more natural. “Yeah… that works.”

Rakad bowed his head in a stoic Romulan agreement.

His gaze moved back across the group, slower this time, more deliberate, as if he were weighing not the people he knew, but the roles they were about to step into.

“Verex isn’t impressed by a good story,” he said evenly. “It’s impressed by who walks away from one.” He gave a small nod, almost to himself. “So don’t oversell it.”

He tapped the holster at his hip with two fingers, a casual, absent gesture that still carried meaning.

“And if anyone asks, I’m why none of you get robbed.”

There was a beat of quiet after that, the humor still there but thinner now, edged with something more practical.

“Stay close. Don’t draw attention unless you mean to. Let Rakad do the talking when it counts.” His eyes flicked briefly back to Kirak. “People like him don’t get questioned.”

"Fully agreed," the faux Romulan said. "So we will be mindful. Until it is required otherwise."

A faint, knowing edge returned to his expression.

“People like us do.”

Those last four words clung to Kaaven like a parasite, burrowing in and refusing to be ignored. The easy warmth of the moment faltered, then unraveled entirely, as if it had never quite been as solid as it seemed.

His smile faded. In its place, the reality of their mission settled over him, heavy, inescapable, and suddenly impossible to set aside.

Standish, unable to help herself, reached up to tug at the bodice of her dress as if doing so would somehow pull it into a higher, more comfortable, position. Doing so did not have that effect and she frowned down at herself for a moment before shaking her head. The feeling in the space had shifted and with it she couldn't help the exposed feeling that rolled through her. If they made it out of this in one piece she'd never complain about medical uniforms again.

"If we are finished. Stations." Rakad said. "I suggest we practice until we arrive at the dockside."

Deyrvin nodded. He was unnerved by the shift in the Vulcanoid, but for now he needed to suppress that and focus on the mission.

Once all had taken their places, the icy cold beckoned the "traders" of the Interstellar Trade Alliance.

 

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