91
Interregnum 02-03 S2 / Re: Day 01 [2100hrs] When All is Stretched Thin
Last post by Ellen Fitz -The moment Talia's hand drifted toward the knife at her thigh, Hirek caught her wrist — not hard, just enough — and gave the smallest shake of his head. He kept his hand over hers on her thigh while his other hand came up over her ribs, and he pressed them both back into the recess of the passage, a space cut for one body and now holding two.
Footsteps. Two sets, unhurried. Citizens, not a patrol. The voices reached the mouth of the alley before the speakers did.
"...khre'vash," the first muttered. "Mnei t'Rihannsu saei rrhalla, mnei t'Rehmnau saei rrhalla, label thae, label thae, dosh."
HIire knew the universal translater would have issues with this dialect as it had been trained on Romulan standard and had not been given access to all the myriad of dialects that existed even within the capital. Likely, the translator whispered fragments against Talia's ear — rushing... Romulans... Remans... — and then most likely lost the thread entirely into a string of untranslated syllables. Hirek did not struggle to understand, however The dialect was western Dartha, near enough to his mother's dialect that the man's shorthand cost him nothing. Folding the sheet before the ink is dry, the fellow had said, or as close as the phrase carried — an old islander's grumble about work done too fast to hold. They stamp Romulan on one, Reman on the other, and call it settled.
The second voice snorted. "Dosh trhai. S'Shaenor tr'eiha, chulae tr'eiha, trhellhae tr'eiha."
The colonies will remember. Not a translation of the words so much as their spine — S'Shaenor was the deep frontier, and a Romulan who invoked it this way meant the old bloodlines out past the Neutral Zone who had never once done what Dartha told them. The colonies will remember they have pride. Every line will remember it remembers.
"Nnvei mnhei t'Rehmnau. Hru'hfirh Rihannsu, hru'hfirh Rehmnau, label thae — dosh."
The translator would've managed only ..respect..before giving up for good. Hirek, again, understood the meaning. No dignity in it — not for the Remans, not for us. Neither people were asked how the thing should begin. We were told we are one, and expected to applaud.
The first man clicked his tongue against his teeth, the sound every Romulan child learned meant *this ends badly*. "Aefvadh mnhei S'Shaenor sae'khora. Aefvadh mnhei t'Rehmnau eir'hinterr'hw' esta."
Wait until the colonies answer. Wait until every Reman who never bowed decides he still won't. And then, plainly, no idiom left to bury it in: "We have traded one civil war for another."
That last, the translator caught whole. It hung in the passage after the footsteps had gone.
Neither man had lowered his voice. Neither had imagined anyone listening — why would they, when they were only saying aloud what half the city had already thought and not yet dared to speak.
Hirek stayed still. One heartbeat, then another. He had spent decades teaching himself not to move on impulse, and the training held him now past the point of necessity — the voices had faded into the evening traffic, and still he waited, because nearly gone was not gone, and a man survived the difference. That his hands remained on her thigh, her ribs, that her back was still pressed against the wall, his own body shielding her from the world— he was aware of it. He was not in a particular hurry to correct it. He allowed himself the honesty of noticing that, and no more.
Only when the last echo had truly emptied did his hands leave her body. There was nowhere obvious to retreat to except a marginal space back considering the scant space in the alley, and for an instant neither of them moved. Then he shifted back that single pace and let what space there was to return.
"They were discussing the new government," he said quietly, once they were walking again. A faint, rueful thing crossed his face. "They voiced several concerns I happen to share. That reunification is being demanded rather than grown — that neither people was given the courtesy of learning to stand the sight of the other before being told they are now one." Another corner, another careful glance down it. "They expect the frontier colonies to refuse. And they suspect the loudest refusal won't come from the center of either society." He glanced at her. "It will come from the ones who have always lived at the edges of both."
A few more steps carried them out into broader streets, civilian traffic thickening beneath a violet sky, the landing beacons of the docking yards shimmering ahead.
Hirek slowed and nodded toward a row of public lavatories along the terminal wall. "There. You can change." His hand went into his jacket and came out with a flat data chit. "I still need the launch authentication codes." He looked toward the administrative office, figures moving behind lit windows. "A few minutes, no more."
Then he looked back at her, the dry humor returning to the corner of his mouth as his eyes drifted to the bundled dress. "And if you can manage it — try not to leave every Romulan in the terminal wondering why a Starfleet pilot is wearing one of the island provinces' finer cloths."
