JL | erie'Ssiebb Vrith Tr'Bak, Rochelle Ivanova (MU) - "Multiplicity"

Posted on 241707.13 @ 5:53am by Commodore Rochelle Ivanova

Mission: Hush [BQ Plot]

The Romulan Warbird was foreign territory. Comfortable enough, lavish even, but foreign nonetheless. Rochelle had flown plenty of birds in her time, Klingon, Terran, Andorian – but Romulan feathers had never been added to her plumage, and she could never claim to have wanted to handle one. As a whole, the species was known to be underhanded and sketchy at best, leaving a bitter taste in the mouths of those who had first hand dealings with them – a fact that offered little to no comfort to the slight little minx. Tr’Bak had seen to it that she was given every creature comfort she could ever have desired and then some – including free run of his quarters. He hadn’t touched her, not in any way that would have been considered problematic or lewd, it was the way he looked at her that sent cold shivers down her spine. It was as if he were picking her apart on a molecular level or observing some precious piece of art long since believed lost to time or ruin.

Only, she was hardly a work of art.

Rochelle’s left eye had long since lost the sparkle of ice and had clouded over after a terminal had blown up in her face, taking away the majority of her ability to see with it. A fight with a Klingon had left her upper lip split towards the cleft of her right nostril and that split had scarred horrendously as it healed with only her basic medical knowledge to patch it up. Her right ear and eyebrow matched in tattered ruin, left battered and scarred after a particularly feisty Orion girl had taken a shining to her jewelry and torn it out. She could have asked nicely, Rochelle was hardly a selfish sort of creature. She snorted at the thought, shaking her head and forgetting the rest of the scars and bruises that littered the rest of her body like patchwork. A hand ran almost nervously through the soft, dyed black crop job of her hair. It wasn’t even in the slightest, but it was manageable even if it did make the bright copper of her brows stand out in a fashion most bizarre. Appealing to any sense of vanity had never been priority number one, survival and money had. For better or for worse, piracy had been what had kept her alive – not the nature of her looks or lack thereof. As such Tr’Bak’s attention and seeming affections remained confusing and their origins just as alien as the ship he commanded.

Casting her good eye over her right shoulder, Rochelle studied the Romulan from the relative safety of her perch in front of his living room window. He was lost in thought, transfixed by whatever visions pranced merrily through his head. She had seen many of his kind before, holier than though and powered by a brand of arrogance that transcended the ages – and in that regard, Vrith Tr’Bak was no different than the rest. He walked with the air of a God, constantly looking down his nose at those lesser than him, but in the sanctity of his quarters, he was calm, quiet, and contained – hardly even a glimpse remained of the impatient blowhard that had killed his own Sub-Commander just over two weeks prior without even a passing thought or sniffle. He’d never spoken of the man again… Neither had any of the crew. Her nose twitched as she continued to watch him from beneath a slowly lifting eyebrow, trying her damnedest to figure out just what it was that he had in store for her now that it was becoming critically apparent that they’d jumped from one universe to another. His universe. One where Terrans were fabled to rule in a nearly Utopian society where each species had equal say, Cardassians had enslaved the Bajorans instead of become their partners in crime, and Romulans… Well they were Romulans. Some things would never, and could never, change. All she knew for certain was that Tr’Bak had purchased her, paid handsomely at that, yet had asked nothing more of her than that she find comfort in his presence. No task, no job, just that she live and breathe. His crew, however, regarded her as if she were a walking ghost, gazing upon her with widened worried eyes, or not at all. They whispered about her when they thought she was out of earshot, speaking of their concerns and questioning Tr’Bak’s sanity over the endeavor of his purchase. Whatever it was that he had hidden up his sleeve in wait of her, it was big… Huge, and the only way she was going to figure out the rest of the troubling puzzle was to test boundaries and limits. Stage one, step one; determine her place in this new environment of uncertainties.

“V'rith,” Her voice lilted as her body followed the direction of her gaze, languidly coming about to traverse the distance between her and the thoughtful Romulan, “why so blue?” she asked, tilting her head, her mouth drooping in a sympathetic pout. The ottoman propping his feet up slid out from under his legs at the behest of her little boot clad foot before it swung over his thighs, allowing her to deposit the rest of her body in his lap. “Buyer’s remorse?”

The woman’s forward tenacity brought a smirk to the Romulan’s lips as he sat back, relaxing deeper into his seat. His hands rested on the leather arms of the chair, long fingers flexing over the supple roundness of the ends, “Remorse? Hardly, my dear,” he practically crooned, reaching to tap the tip of one index finger against the round of her chin, “I didn’t buy you, I bought your freedom.” The smirk only seemed to broaden as he replied to her, finding amusement at the way her eyes glittered with overt suspicion, “I’m simply waiting for you to settle in before we begin.”

Rochelle had never known, nor tasted, freedom. The word was one of those forbidden ‘f’ words, not worth speaking out of promise of pain and disappointment – a knowledge that had been ingrained in her from a tender young age. She’d been born the wrong species and in the wrong time period, but that misguided birth had allowed her to learn tricks of a caustic trade, figuring out ways to get into and out of situations and placements that would have seen a lesser mind long dead and buried. She’d learned how to survive, how to escape any chance of incarceration, how to make herself far too useful to have her blood spilled. She knew better than to question him on just how he defined the word, choosing to pick at the task he seemed to have in store for her. Freedom apparently came with a price. “Begin what?” She asked, her head quickly cocking to the opposite side in a dog-like fashion. Her hands lifted to run through the thick black of his hair while rubber and leather wrapped toes gently pushed against the carpet beneath them, sliding her further down his lap and closer to the bulk of him. She was suspicious, but she was also ridiculously curious.

The smirk broadened, twisting from arrogant amusement into something that could easily and only be properly defined as wicked. Tr’Bak’s weight shifted beneath her, but his hands moved to capture hers, holding them between their bodies and stalling her forward movement, “Why a war, darling. We’re starting a war.” He breathed, the grin beginning to infect his eyes with a shine made purely of rapture, mirth, and glee, “It’s a very prestigious occupation, you know. I just need for you to trust me.” A hand left hers to gather a chilled snifter of Romulan ale, his snifter of Romulan ale, and extend it to her for the taking.

She couldn’t help but scoff at the request, perfectly covering her surprise at the mention of his plans for war, “Ah, you see, trust is a four letter word.” She tutted, accepting the glass from him and bringing it to her lips. Her eyes watched him from around the rim as she drew from it, reveling in the numbing burn as it soothed her buzzing nerves and excitement. War had options, multiple meanings – but coming from a Romulan she knew the definition was simple and contrite. War meant war, that he was aiming to wage one against someone… Probably a lot of someones, judging by the way he lit up like a roman candle.

“Actually, it’s five… But I see your point.”

Silence won out, hanging heavy and pregnant between them as Rochelle struggled to find words tactful and appropriate enough to wield in such a situation. Both bright copper brows rose even higher, wrinkling her forehead and widening her eyes as she searched the Romulan's face. Downing the rest of her ale, she shook her against the burn, "It's a figure of speech," she nodded slowly, "You obviously don't get out much. You should, you know, brooding in dark rooms makes for a dull war lord." The glass found its way back to his side table, guided by the scrappy jackal of a woman draping herself across Tr'Bak's lanky frame, "we can fix that, you know... The dullness." She grinned as she straightened herself up.

He reached for her, his grin lessening back to the sardonic smirk of arrogance from before. His hand cupped the tender softness of her porcelain cheek, stroking the creamy skin beneath his fingertips as they ran along the fine contour of her jaw and ultimately paused to hold her chin, tilting her head this way and that. “I liked you better as a redhead. You look so…” Tr’Bak’s mouth found itself in a scowl as he studied her battered face with a hefty measure of scrutiny before stilling his hand and tracing the fullness of her chapped lower lip with his index finger, “drab. Tomorrow morning you have a date with ship’s medical to fix all of this.”

Before she could respond, questioning his knowledge of what she looked like when her hair wasn’t dyed, there came a tapping at his chamber door. The chime chirped, driving her attention slowly from the Romulan she balanced on to the person that came sauntering on through once called for. The insult was allowed to pass over her, rolling from her psyche like water off a duck’s back. She’d called him dull, he’d fired back with a synonym designed to dig at whatever hurt she harbored over her looks. No such vanity remained; it had all been long lost to the myriad of injuries that had taken their toll on the little Terran.

“This better be good.” Tr’Bak sighed impatiently, patting Rochelle’s thigh in a gentle demand that she remove herself from his lap. Business was afoot, and an intelligent man never mixed business with pleasure, no matter how charming the pleasure may have been.

The Centurion stood fast, unwavering and appearing to be uncaring at the spectacle taking place before his eyes. He knew better than to question the Senator’s motives or undertakings, even if they did seem highly bizarre, and the woman in his lap certainly fell into that category without question or fail. Part of him did, however, question his leader’s sanity when it came to his trusting and cherishing his new toy in the manner apparent. “I believe it is more interesting than anything else, Sir, but something you’re going to want to hear.” He deadpanned.

Tr’Bak raised an eyebrow, gesturing with a roll of his wrist for the Centurion to continue, “Well? Spill it!” He demanded impatiently, irritated by the interruption.

“Yes, Sir. Word has returned from Cold Station Theta. Roch—“ He paused, shifting his gaze to the odd little Terran as she found her feet and strolled languidly off towards the replicator. He wasn’t sure if she was just that daft and disinterested in their conversation or if she were just feigning it for the sake of obtaining information. His eyes narrowed slightly before they darted back to the Senator, “The Commodore lives. She was brought in by Commander Archer near death, but has survived… And there’s been a particularly… Charming development to the story, it would seem.” He recited, watching the other Romulan’s reactions.

“Go on…” Tr’Bak beseeched the Centurion, leaning towards him with rapt interest in the news spilling from his mouth.

“She’s born the Trill a child. A son.”

“Well then,” The Senator’s lips pursed and he found himself sinking back into his seat, drumming his fingers along the arms of his chair. The Commodore would have had to have been pregnant during his last encounter. He’d held her tight during their little waltz, so close he could feel the way her skin quivered beneath his touch, and yet he’d managed to miss such a crucial detail – a fact that troubled him and left him replaying the entire event in his mind, searching for a clue that should have tipped him off to her condition, “the game is afoot.” He hummed. Though he couldn’t quite see Rochelle from where he sat and she stood, idly pretending to be interested in the replicator’s menu, he could feel the tension radiating, the mood shift – and not just from his own rising vexation. What he didn’t know was that she was well aware of the fact there was something there, a clue. A giant piece to the puzzle she was trying to solve had fallen into her lap, riding in with the news of the Commodore. Moreover, she could sense the anger it brought Tr’Bak to hear that the woman had reproduced – or was it the fact she reproduced with a Trill? Rochelle couldn’t be quite sure. More damning yet, the Centurion had started by calling the Commodore another name, a name that started off much in the same way hers did, before remembering that she was around. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to put two and two together. Rochelle was a thief, a pirate, a mercenary that ran dirty tricks for the foulest of lifeforms… Learning to listen to people and pick information apart came as second nature to her and in this particular case, all the information that had come pouring in quickly set off the proverbial lightbulb in her head. She couldn’t help but smile as she gathered up her piping cup of coffee and sauntered back over towards the window. The Centurion’s eyes followed, rife with suspicion as he studied the sway and swing of her hips.

He was going to be a problem, one she’d quickly need to remedy.

“Do we know how she gave birth?” Tr’Bak asked, following the Centurion’s line of sight to where Rochelle had reappeared, his brow furrowing as he noticed the depth of focus his underling had given to his latest acquisition.

“Yes. An uneventful natural birth. Our sources said it was textbook.” The Centurion’s tone rung with boredom and he shifted his weight as he tried to figure out just where his liege was coming from with such an intimate question. He knew better than to question Tr’Bak, only that he needed to gather as much Intel as possible in the off event that such an inquiry arose – and where Commodore Rochelle Ivanova was concerned, they often did.

Tr’bak’s eyebrow inched ever higher, studying the very way the woman in front of him lifted her mug to her lips. There was hope, and it was budding. Some refinement still seemed to dwell within the rapscallion and it punctuated his plans, coupling with them perfectly. “And the name of the child?”

The Centurion’s weight shifted once again and he nodded contritely, “They gave him the name Javaan Irelle, my liege.”

Rochelle’s eyes flashed as she listened to the conversation as it transpired between the Senator and the Centurion. More information continued to pour through her syntaxes, quickly being stored away for later use. It was the name, Irelle, however, that nearly made her drop the façade of disinterest. She knew that name, or rather who just such a name belonged to – at least in her universe. A criminal. A heathen. Landon Neyes had once been Landon Irelle before he’d somehow managed to con his way into becoming a joined symbiont, using the creature in much the same way he used everything else. It was a tool fine spun and utilized for his brand of destruction. Rochelle liked to believe that she walked the straight and narrow, doing what she needed to in order to survive, where Landon did what he wanted for the sick pleasure of it all. It was hard to believe that in this new place he could be anything less than a fiend, and yet if she was correct, and they were speaking of her double, who was she to judge? It was equally as hard to believe that she could be anything more than what she was, let alone a Commodore of any kind.

“What about that arrogant shit, Archer? Where is he?” Tr’Bak’s lips pursed tightly into a thin, grim line of dissatisfaction as he spoke, he could feel his fingers beginning to tingle, working to coil under the heated flesh of his palms. The situation was, in a word, vexing. While he may have rejoiced in private that the little Phoenix rose again from the ashes, it was the manner in which she embraced new life that left a bitter taste in his mouth.

“Commander Archer is overseeing the security of the space dock the USS Vindicator-F is currently held at. He and Admiral Red have any place the ship or the Commodore happens to visit on lock down,” the Centurion replied to the question in a manner almost haughty and flippant, amused by the fact they hadn’t managed to catch their informant in spite of their frantic, and futile, attempts to keep their bounty well concealed, “The ship is set to launch on it's first mission in just under a week. Dahe’el is still playing second fiddle. The younger Neyes brother still playing counselor and Landon’s position goes without saying.” He smirked.

Rochelle nearly did a spit take. She was right, her assumptions had been one hundred percent correct and on the mark. The name Neyes said it all, and the war they were going to be bringing to pass had to have something to do with the report the Centurion had brought his now darkly irritated master. Now she knew the players, but the basis and rules of the game – as well as her role in it – still remained a flagrant mystery.

“Under a week, huh?” The Cimmerian one mulled the words and thoughts over his mind and tongue, no longer focusing on the odd Terran basking in front of his window, “We’d better get the ball rolling. If you have nothing more, you’re dismissed.” The smile was back as he waved the Centurion off, sardonic as ever as it molded itself across the sharp features of his face and eventually smoldered in the green fathoms of his eyes. In kind, the Centurion knew the time had come for him to make himself scarce and leave the Senator to his plans and thoughts. A final glance was given towards the scrappy human woman, and then he was gone as quickly as he came. Tr’Bak barely waited for the soft snick of the doors closing and locking behind him before he set his attention back to Rochelle’s nubile star-lit form. The tide was changing, and quickly. She would either sink or learn to swim and he would see to it that his precious acquisition did more than simply tread water.

---

Ssiebb V'rith Tr'Bak
Senator
Commanding Officer
RSE Ship Anima Venator
Commander, 3rd Tal Shiar Task Force
Romulan Star Empire

Rochelle Ivanova
Privateer
Mirror Universe