Revak Dosthiran was half Romulan, half Relarian and all out of coffee.

And that made him grumpy.

He was a generally grumpy soul, or perhaps he merely looked grumpy with one side of his face drawn into a perpetual frown by a scar that split his right cheek.  A scar given to him by Sub-Commander Varel about ten seconds before he was dishonorably discharged from the Romulan military on bogus charges for crimes he didn’t commit.

The intention was to use him as a stooge, execute him and forget about him, covering up a tale of corruption and illicit connections to the Orion Syndicate, malcontents in the Klingon empire and a bunch of black networks across the galaxy.  But while they picked a good target – halfbreeds were common targets of malice in the Empire and could never rise above the tarnished reputations that were hung on them like albatrosses, Sub-Commander Varel severely underestimated Revak’s desire to survive.  They made the mistake of trying to drag him in front of a firing squad instead of putting a disruptor bolt in his head right then and there.  Public satisfaction of a job well done and all.

It was just enough leeway to give Revak the opportunity to dislocate his shoulder while pulling away from the guards, toss the flashbang device he carried in his personal kit and run.

In perfect hindsight the Romulan military should have hunted Revak down and killed him, but Sub-Commander Varel decided that having his fugitive run would ensure the public would easily believe that Revak was well and truly guilty. It was a shortcut, allowing for justice (or injustice) to be dispensed without having to labor through any sort of inquiry that might spark suspicion in the minds of their political enemies. Not that it would prevent Revak’s assassination – merely delay it. Varel thought this was a tidy solution. His mistake.  There was a reason Revak was a high ranked fighter pilot despite having every disadvantage in the book.

Varel spent the better part of three years hunting his fugitive down before he finally destroyed an entire settlement surrounding a traffic hub and called it good. Filing the official paperwork that Revak was deceased, hoping his political enemies would never look at the details. It didn’t matter. Less than two months later Varel was atomized when the Hobus Star exploded. Revak considered that a win.

That stupid shoulder still ached at times, though.

Currently Revak was cleaning up the Mireya VII cargo bay after the mess the Vaadwaur made of it. Around him pilots and maintenance workers were busy repairing the flight control systems and getting the damaged ships lined up for their turn in the repair bay. They stopped as he passed to offer a nod or greeting. Everyone knew him as the commander of the air group, the precise Romulan-looking guy with the distinctly not-Romulan attitude, deep soothing voice and obsession with coffee.

After the Hobus Star explosion Revak found he suddenly gained a lot more flexibility with where he could go in the galaxy without getting assassinated. He had met Darin Jaroo on a independent job for the Gorn Hegemony about a decade ago and the two found they worked together well. Six years ago, Jaroo contacted him, saying he had retired from hazard work and was working on making a home base in the independent sector. He offered Revak a good deal. To his surprise it was actually a good deal. Revak had been here ever since.

“We got incoming!” His deck officer Percival Rowe waved his hands in the air, puffing out his chest in an effort to look bigger. He was already big – big enough to tousle Revak’s hair when he was drunk – and Revak hated that. The hair tousle, not the being drunk.

Revak leaned over the balcony, shouting below. “Incoming what?”

“Freighter – La Boheme. They were delayed, Vaadwaur took a chunk out of ‘em”

Revak doublechecked the incoming manifest. Oh yeah, La Boheme, silks, whiskies, chocolates and weapons smugglers. Pretty normal. “We got room for them in bay seven.”

Rowe sighed. “Bay seven doesn’t have power.”

“Does it have atmosphere?”

The deck officer nodded slowly. “Yeah… it does.”

“Tell them to unload in the dark.” Revak smirked. It would give Rowe some extra time to scan for whatever they were smuggling this time. “Check their extra cargo while they’re waiting.”

It slowly sunk in and Rowe finally gave Revak a thumbs up. “Gotcha, boss.  Will do.”

~*~

Two hours later Revak Dosthiran had secured a decent cup of coffee, kissed Madame Tharnos for having a special stockpile just for emergencies like this and was ready to deal with whatever bullshit was coming his way.

He favored Zenosian Tarblack as his coffee of choice.  When made correctly it came out like thick oily black sludge and tasted like heaven.  Strong, powerful, just bitter enough, deeply nutty and a bit chcolately.  It would kick you in the face and it wasn’t for everyone, but it’s what got Revak up in the mornings.

Or in the afternoons as Mister Rowe flagged him down for the seventh time in two hours.

“You gotta come see this.” The older human stated emphatically.

Resisting the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose, Revak contended himself with a sip of coffee and wondered why, exactly, Rowe treated every little surprise in the offloaded cargo as a new crisis. The man had been working for Revak for two years now. Every single independent freighter was likely to have something they were hiding – and for the most part Revak simply didn’t care. He was still waiting for Rowe to learn that fact, and starting to think the day would never come.

Perhaps the most frustrating thing about Mister Rowe what that he was constantly in a state of believing he had something better to do at any given time no matter what he was doing (unless what he was doing included drinking heavily).  Recently Revak swas figuring out that Rowe’s overreactions were great ways to foist off his current job on someone else so he could do something more important. Or at least whatever Rowe thought was more important, which Revak surmised changed every ten minutes.

“Please tell me you found a crate with a chained up Vaadwaur in it so I can punch it in the face. Repeatedly.” Revak strolled over to the cargo containment area that Rowe was zealously guarding.

“I mean… sort of.  You told me this ship’s supposed to be smuggling weapons, not people.” Rowe gestured with his favorite disruptor towards the cargo boxes he had under lockdown.

Revak managed a look of mild surprise. Stowaways were not common, and almost always discovered mid-trip. “Did the Captain of the La Boheme have anything to say about this.”

“Nope. The Captain of the La Boheme just wants to file an official complaint about the Vaadwaur, for attacking his ship and detaining his cargo.” There was a barely contained undercurrent of humor in Rowe’s tone.

Stifling a snort of laughter, Revak barely managed to not roll his eyes out of his head. “He can have fun with that! If Captain Lir’Shan wants to file a complaint, let him file a complaint – we’ll pack it in the electronic disposal unit once he leaves port.”

Rowe snickered as well, focusing his gaze and his aim as he stalked around the chosen cargo crate. “Guess that means this one’s ours.”

“That it is. Let’s see who’s inside. Crack it.”

Revak took a back seat while Rowe punched in the codes and the crate opened with a hiss of escaping oxygen and the unpleasant scent of bodily fluids. Well, those silks were absolutely ruined.

The body on top… moved. So not dead. Impressive.

“Get out of that crate!” Rowe barked impatiently, taking a step back.

One head attached to the scrawniest Cardassian body Revak had ever seen in his entire life slowly rose from the rim of the crate. Half Cardassian. Half Bajoran. An unlucky combination of species by any measure, including Revak’s personal scale of ‘worse than my own combination.’ The unknown man winced away from the lights of the cargo containment area using his chapped and scabbed hands to cover his eyes.

“Must I?” the scrawny little wreck murmured woozily.

Rowe knitted his brows at that.  “Yes.  I just told you to.” He waved his disruptor about in irritation, hoping to get this over quickly.  “Get out!”

“Working on it…” the little hybrid mumbled, barely even registering the weapon being pointed at him.

“Work faster.” Rowe had better things to do than argue with this messy little stowaway. Talking to people was Revak’s job.

Slowly the man stood on a wobbly foundation, squinting as he tried to get his bearings.

Revak tried to be nice. “You got a name?”

“Rohan.” The man offered, with little clarity of either tone of name itself.

“Great.” One more piece of useless information as far as Rowe was concerned. He waved his disruptor in the man’s face, hoping this was the fastest way to done. “Get out of the crate Mr. Rohan and put your hands above your head.”

 Not wanting to undercut Rowe’s authority, Revak merely leaned back and sipped his coffee, watching this shitshow unfold.

Too many days without food, without decent sleep and without medical attention had taken their toll on Mr. Rohan’s thin frame.  The standing bit didn’t help, but it was trying to raise his hands above his head that hit the nail on the coffin.  As Rohan looked up the blood drained from his face, until it was a pitiful chalky white color. He offered Rowe an apologetic smile right before his eyes rolled back and he collapsed to the deck in a haphazard little puddle of limbs.

Revak looked from the crumpled stow-away to Rowe and back. “Never saw that coming.” He remarked as dry as the Vulcan deserts.

Rowe huffed and muttered something that sounded a lot like ‘smartass’ under his breath. Holstering his disruptor he merely shook his head at Revak. “Well, Boss, it’s out of the cargo, this is your problem now.”

“Thanks, Rowe. You owe me a drink for this.” Revak sauntered forward, checking for a pulse. Once he was satisfied that the man was alive, he grabbed an anti-grav sled to load the scraps of humanoid onto.

“Gonna toss it out an airlock?” Rowe asked, turning before he made his daring escape.

Shaking his head the Romulan hybrid offered a light smile. “Nah, I’ll be nice today and bring him to the medbay.” He paused, looking at the scrappy thing on the sled. “Besides, call me crazy – but I think I’ve heard his name before.”

“Really?” Rowe’s brow hiked and suddenly whatever important place he had to be seemed a little less important.

“Yes, really.” Revak gestured to the small craft stored in the bay. “I’m a pilot, you know that. Back in the day I used to earn my keep by taking dangerous flying jobs.  When you’re trying to get the best jobs from the highest bidder you start to learn your competition.”

Rowe scrunched his face and ogled the unconscious tangle of limbs on the sled. “You think that thing is a crack pilot that could rival you?” his tone clearly indicated that was absurd.

“I think… it’s enough of a possibility to warrant a conversation.” Revak offered a light smile and started pushing the sled towards the medbay.