Personal Log - Trik’Nar “Trix” Ch’Rehllan

[TrikNarChRehllan]

[I wrote this before even doing the ATC, kind of as a proof of concept for Trix. So forgive any inconsistencies with whatever happened in-SIMM]

BLOOD WINE AND SPICE TEA

The bar on Sigma V Station in the Melar system wasn't just any watering hole. For Trik'Nar "Trix" Ch'Rehllan, it was the place. Tucked away from the station's more poopular venues, The Golden Acquisitor was a premiere source of Andorian spice tea, which Trix had declared the best in at least fifty light-years.

On this particular evening, Trix was seated in his usual spot—a cozy corner table under a flickering neon sign advertising "Honest Deals, Honest Drinks." His disheveled hair caught the light as he flipped through an annotated treatise on Romulan criminal prosecution ethics. The tea sat steaming at his elbow, perfect in temperature and aroma. Life, for the moment, was tolerable.
Until it wasn't.

A commotion broke out at the bar, punctuated by the unmistakable deep rumble of a Klingon's voice.
"You dare insult me, Ferengi?" the warrior – looming, even by Klingon standards – growled, grabbing the diminutive bartender, Kreg, by the collar. His d'k tahg gleamed menacingly as his other hand shoved a table aside, nearly toppling a nearby patron.

"Insult? No insult!" Kreg squealed, his hands raised in supplication. "Just a business proposition! Everyone loves latinum, right? I thought—"

"You thought to buy my blade? Buy my honor?" the Klingon barked, shaking Kreg as though he weighed nothing, before pushing him to the floor. The Ferengi collapsing into a meek heap.

To make matters worse, three more Klingons, wearing the same garb and insignia as the aggressor, at the far side of the bar turned their attention to the commotion. They laughed, jeering at the warrior, egging him on with boasts of how no true son of Qo'noS would let such an insult stand.

Trix's antennae twitched in annoyance. He sighed, set his datapad aside, and rose from his seat, the slightly oversized uniform - looking like he had borrowed it from a taller crewmate's locker - shifting awkwardly as he moved. He approached the bar with the air of someone compelled to intervene, not out of duty, but because the alternative was unbearably inconvenient.

"Gentlemen," Trix began, stepping between them with practiced ease, hands in his pockets "perhaps we could table this discussion—preferably before someone gets tabled."

The Klingon glared at him, nostrils flaring. "This does not concern you, Andorian."

"Oh, but it does," Trix replied, casually gesturing toward the teapot on his table. "You see, this establishment serves the best Andorian spice tea in the sector, and I'd hate to lose my favorite reading spot to a blood-induced health code violation while maintenance mops up Kreg's innards. Besides, I have something you might find... intriguing."

The Klingon hesitated at the brazenness of the interloper, his blade still poised but not advancing.
"Humor me," Trix said, his tone turning disconcertingly conversational. "Your name, warrior?"

"Torak, son of K'mar," the Klingon growled.

Trix nodded, antennae tilting forward in interest. "Well, Torak, son of K'mar, as a proud warrior you may not be aware of this administrative detail, but while the Melari Confluence are quite the advanced civilization, their ships and stations are still handled under a rather old fashioned code of, effectively, wartime admiralty law. A set of rules which is far less... enlightened. You see-"

"Get to the point!" Torak demanded, angrily slashing the air with the d'k tahg to underline his fading patience.

"Well, if I MUST skip the more fascinating parts, the short version is that this brawl – should anybody perish – will see the accused party – meaning you, Torak, and your entourage – put not only under arrest, but hard labor for the pendency of the trial. Which, in case of this aging remote station, means at least six months of plasma duct cleaning. And I don't have to tell you, that that's no simple chore. It's unglamorous, filthy, and the risks involved are considerable. I believe the average life expectancy currently is at 3 weeks before a fatal... accident occurs. Rumor has it that it has gotten to a point that the Melari actually have stopped sending legal teams out to resolve such charges, because there usually are no accused left by the time they arrive."

Having left just enough of a pause for the warrior to digest this deluge of information, he then added with a poignant shrug: "I am not an expert on the minutia of Sto-vo-kor, but I am not aware that it admits those who died of work place accidents."

Trix leaned on the bar counter with deliberate nonchalance, the guarantee of an ignoble demise hanging in the air. The gears were clearly turning in the lumbering Klingon's head. The dagger was now pointed at the floor more than Kreg, but unsheathed regardless. Jutting his antennae in the direction of the still quivering heap that was Kreg, Trix added in a lower tone "Just look at him. He will probably die from a heart attack before your blade even pierces his skin. You are lucky this latinum peddling petaQ is still breathing after you tossed him around the way you did."

As Kreg's enlarged ears picked up the low tone comment from Trix, he began to open his mouth, intending to voice a protest, but noticed the blue palm held out by the Andorian at the last second – a silent plea to just shut up for once.

"I cannot simply let this go," a suddenly much paler Torak pressed out between his teeth in an equally low tone, his voice sounding as if somebody had throw a sack of gravel into a blender. "The others would never..." Peeking around Torak's wide frame, Trix got a glimpse of the Klingon posse. Their jeering had subsided and they were now exchanging uncertain, but demanding, glances. The implication of Torak's unspoken words became clear. Having stepped forward, Torak now was in an untenable position. Attack and condemn himself and his fellows, or turn tail and be ridiculed by a tarnished reputation.

He tapped his antennae in contemplation for a few seconds which seemed to stretch into minutes. Suddenly, with a dramatic flourish, hampered only slightly by the ill fitting uniform, Trix pushed himself off the bar counter and into the center of the circle of onlookers that had by now formed around the commotion. With a tone akin to that of a fireside storyteller he opened:

"This situation reminds me of an Andorian tale of Shran'teth, the duelmaster, who once faced a challenger so arrogant and eager for glory that he was willing to draw blood and insult the honor of anyone and everyone to prove himself. But, when challenged in such a way, Shran'teth did not let the duel proceed against somebody clearly inferior in haste. Instead, he spoke of what true honor meant: not the act of killing, not the enactment of revenge, but the wisdom to protect one's standing to fight the important battles and when to let pride be tempered by reason. He spoke of duty to the clan and the shameful consequences of rash deeds, drawing a picture of how one's actions reflected on their legacy."

Trix's voice dropped to a more intimate pitch, almost conspiratorial. "The challenger, moved by Shran'teth's words and his insight, was so struck that he presented a valuable gift as a sign of remorse and respect. And in that moment, Shran'teth's choice to stand down transformed him in the eyes of all of Andor. From that day on, he was not just known as a master duelist but as a leader of unparalleled wisdom, one whose judgment elevated him beyond mere combat. He rose to become a respected and glorious leader, his decision that day remembered as the turning point that defined not only his legacy but the reputation of his clan for generations."

Turning to the three Klingons in the audience, the briefest of smiles crossing his face. "And I wonder, honorable warriors, what story your actions would write for you tonight. Will you be remembered for insisting on pride, or for choosing wisdom and accepting a fitting bounty?"

Noticing a subtle shift in the Klingons' postures, Trix decided to keep the momentum going "Which brings us to a suitable recompense." He turned to Kreg, whose ears perked nervously. "Kreg, you still have that vintage barrel of blood wine from Qo'noS, don't you? The seventy-year-old one."

Kreg's jaw dropped, his facade of weakness cracking under the weight of the impending financial loss. "That's my most expensive stock!"

"Precisely why it's the perfect offering," Trix said, his tone allowing no argument. "A gift worthy of a Klingon warrior's honor. And, Torak, imagine the envy of your shipmates when you present them with such a prize. A far better proof of your superiority and fierce reputation than a Ferengi bartender's entrails and a plasma scooper."

Torak's lips twisted into a predatory grin. "A barrel of seventy-year blood wine? Yes... that would be a fitting tribute."

Kreg grumbled but shuffled off to retrieve the prized barrel. When he returned, Torak inspected the label with a satisfied nod. "This will suffice. The matter is resolved." With a final glare at Kreg, he hoisted the barrel on his shoulder with frightening ease and strode out, his comrades clapping him on the back, cheering as they followed in his wake.

When the bar had quieted, Kreg slumped against the counter, glaring at Trix. "You just gave away the best barrel in Melar! Do you have any idea how much that was worth?"

Trix returned to his seat, lifting his teacup with an air of smug contentment. "Every drop, if it keeps this charming little den afloat and the spice tea brewing."

He took a slow sip, drawing out the silence like a cat toying with a mouse, his gaze casually flicking to Kreg's furrowed brow as the Ferengi calculated the loss. Then, almost as if it were an afterthought, Trix said, "Oh, by the way, Shran'teth did fight the upstart, after all. Gutted him like a targ in three seconds flat. Total mess. Took weeks to get the stench out of the dueling hall."

Kreg's jaw practically hit the counter, his expression a perfect mix of disbelief and grudging admiration. "What?! You made that whole story up?"

Trix tilted his head, his smirk growing, antennae curling with an air of indulgent superiority. "Obviously. Torak needed a narrative, so I provided. Unless, of course, you'd prefer I summon him back to discuss the unembellished truth of Andorian dueling traditions?"

Kreg blinked, his face shifting through shock, resignation, and reluctant amusement. "You are either the galaxy's boldest liar or its most insufferable storyteller."

Trix raised his cup in a mock toast. "But let's not split hairs. Now, I would think that under the 57th rule of acquisition my valiant intervention warrants a discount..."