Sitting in a dark corner, leaning back on two legs of a rickety metal chair and nursing a neon purple drink she found gustatorially disturbing but unable to quit consuming for its eccentricity, Kaila 9 revelled at her identity, the private euphoria of a clone gone bad.
She did this every once in a while; it was like a ritual. Kaila 8 wasn't fascinated with avian lifeforms like she was. Kaila 7 didn't write poetry; Kaila 6 didn't collect antique and archaic weaponry. Those traits were purely Kaila 9.
Which was why the Dominion was out to get her.
Kaila observed the customers bustling about in the bar. Customers of a substantial variety of races; some sober, some not so much. She watched a kzinti and Caitian male get into a heated dispute which quickly led to some blows, bloody clawmarks and a particularly sober customer calling the authorities after he was knocked off his barstool by a barely conscious Caitian.
Kaila downed the remainder of the uniquely revolting liquid and began weaving her way towards the exit. Being petite did have its advantages - you were noticed less in large crowds. Kaila fingers automatically grazed the d'k tagh strapped to the inside of her trench coat, hoping she wouldn't have to put it or her self defense skills to use.
Authorities could report her to the Dominion. Who knew if she would even be noticed, or if she was, if they would care. But how often did you see a Vorta in a bar on a trade planet, anyways?
Kaila was anything if not prepared. And paranoid. As was evident by the TR-116 rifle laying so inconspicuously beneath her pillow in her flat. Every day she expected to hear of a Jem'Hadar ship land on Setlin, see another Vorta commander stroll into Port City Bistro asking for a similarly pale-skinned, violet-eyed individual.
Living on a planet, the Dominion could find her; they had their sources. Which was why she went by an alias: as far as Siridon Arms and everyone else she associated with were concerned, she was Kelli, not Kaila 9. But even with a faux identity, Kaila still didn't feel safe; living on a planet was practically waiting for the Dominion to sniff her out, she felt. Which was why she needed to find a ship. It wouldn't prove difficult to locate an independant freighter, not on Setlin, where a day didn't go by without at least one trade ship coming or going from the numerous landing facilities.
Kaila finally pushed and shoved her way out of the bar and into the evening air. She took a deep breath of fresh air, untainted with the scent of alcohol, bodily odor and fluids, and a kitchen that would provoke cardiac arrest in a health inspector. The weather on Setlin wasn't so bad once the sun was beneath the horizon, instead of high in the sky burning Kaila's un-trench-coat-covered skin.
Hearing the Setlin police cruiser before she saw it, Kaila quickly ducked around the corner of the building before it came into sight.
She needed to get out of there. She'd talk to Siridon Arms tomorrow; she'd rather not just disappear - that was suspicious. But for now she'd walk back to her flat and finish reading Philip K. Dick's thoughts on androidal dreams and electric sheep.