O'Brien awoke with his wrists bound this time. He couldn't see it but he could tell he wore a stretch of cloth tightly around his head, and into his mouth. He could grunt, at a medium volume, but nothing more.
His new surroundings seemed to be a simple brick basement. At least, he assumed it was a basement by the small, pill box esque, high situated windows, and the set of stairs leading up at the opposite corner of the room. He must be in a traditional dwelling as the walls were bare, with the brickwork exposed. It had been centuries since bricks had been used for construction. The floor was a dusty grey concrete and he was laid out in the middle of it, his clothes caked in the dust. He'd been unconscious here for a while. His boots made a scratchy, scraping noise against the small debris that shared the space with the dust.
What little light there was came from a couple of small outputs set into the exposed wooden floorboards above him. It was dark outside.
(Keiko and the kids?) was the first really coherent thought his mind managed to conjure. But it was soon replaced when he realised his head was absolutely ringing, and thinking only made the pain worse. He couldn't reach up and feel it but it felt as if he had a long bruise to his right temple, where maybe he'd been struck with something blunt in a rather rudimentary assault.
As his eyes adjusted to the light levels he quickly identified the stairway and began to wriggle as much as his shackles would let him toward them.
He came to an abrupt halt when he suddenly realised he wasn't alone. Sitting in the shadow cast by the staircase emerged a man. A Human. One O'Brien recognised, he'd been the one who had apprehended Doyle, the one who was then a Medical Officer taking away that drunk.
"You…" O'Brien would've said had that piece of cloth not be in his mouth. Instead it came out as inaudible grunts.
"Me?" the man said, as if hearing the 'you' in O'Brien's grunts. "Colonel Blackman." Assigning himself an alias didn't make him any more Humanable, if that had been the plan. He had a lot of questions to answer, and crimes to answer for. Firstly kidnapping!
Blackman reached toward O'Brien, who instinctively recoiled. Blackman paused, waiting for the penny to drop and O'Brien to realise he was merely going to remove the gag.
O'Brien gasped for free air, not sucked in over an old rag, the moment Blackman removed it.
"And… who…" he managed to ask between pants.
"I've already given you my designation, I think you're wanting to ask who I work for."
Blackman was standing now, he leant over O'Brien and set him up straight. O'Brien was kneeling now as if in prayer, but with his arms still bound behind his back.
"Tell me or don't, but release these binds!" O'Brien demanded, he was vulnerable and maybe a show of force was the right card to play.
Blackman said nothing but shook his head. "Sorry Chief," he said after a moment's beat. "Colonel outranks Chief Petty Officer, or don't you understand how Army ranks work? I suppose not, not many do unless you've had the honour of serving with Starfleet Marine Corps."
O'Brien decided he was going to take a stab in the dark. He was on the homeworld of the Federation, at least he assumed he was still on Earth, and he'd been kidnapped. He knew of only one outfit that was capable of such actions.
Yes he'd been working on the behest of Section 31 members, or at least those claiming to be, but there were two possibilities. Either what Andreas and Blair had told him was poppycock and make believe, and in fact they were working for a nefarious third party who'd decide to use O'Brien to their ends; OR, as O'Brien preferred to believe, there was some disagreement within Section 31 about what exactly what going on.
"Are you Section 31?" he thought he'd call it as he saw it.
"Section 31?" Blackman scoffed, as if you'd suggested the Cleveland Browns would play the Detroit Lions in the Super Bowl this year. "You mean the top secret agency, that is so secret it's referenced in the Federation Charter itself? You know the document we make small children, across two hundred worlds, read?"
When O'Brien thought about it, his argument did make sense. Section 31 operated in the shadows, working for the perceived survival of the Federation (That was the key… not for the health of the Federation, but the survival), but it had not always done so.
Extensive research into the history of that particular covert organisation had become a hobby of his and his long serving BFF, Julian, since their brush with death in the decaying mind of Sloane last year. There had been a time, almost totally erased in the annuals of history, where Section 31 had operated almost in full view. But a century or more had passed since then and most citizens would hope the Federation had evolved passed the need for such work.
Unfortunately, as O'Brien knew all too well, it hadn't. And it seemed there was a larger, darker, underbelly to their Union of Planets than even he could have speculated.
"Who we are has no name. What we do has no designation," Blackman continued; it seemed a tried and tested speech. As the truth about this convert band had never come out; O'Brien was starting to think the worst.
"Why tell me your name?" O'Brien asked, acutely aware that normally meant your captor didn't intend for you live.
"I have nothing to fear from you Mister O'Brien. Is that alias my true name? Who's to say?" Blackman eyed the Chief for a moment. The pause made a change of subject slicker.
"Tell me Mister O'Brien, have you ever stopped to think," Blackman had stopped his pacing and was stood point blank in front of Miles, staring into his eyes. His eyes were a dark brown, so dark it was almost lost to the black of his iris's, it made the stare down particularly imposing.
"Have you ever stopped to think, why Humanity makes up such a large proportion of Starfleet?" He threw his arms up in the air: "Heck, in the early part of this century our species actually out numbered the non-humans in Starfleet. How can that be when we only reproduce in single numbers, when it takes twenty years for an adult to mature, and when there are a million avenues for our citizens to choose."
O'Brien, his wrists sore from being bound for so long, still tried in vain to wriggle free.
"It may or may not surprise you that I too have served in Starfleet. Twenty Five years along the Romulan Neutral Zone. Listening. You know what the actual Romulan word for the Federation translates as?" Blackman paused as if expecting his prisoner to ask. Captive audiences were rarely engaged enough so he continued regardless. "Human Hegemony."
He let this hang in the air for a second.
"So what? Starfleet can't recruit the numbers so you're out brainwashing people to sign up?" O'Brien almost spat it out, the very notion was unthinkable. Sure; active recruitment drives were always run, usually on newly minted Federation members to drum up support; but actually brainwashing? They were no better than the press gangs that ran amuck in all Western nations in the 19th Century. Get a poor man drunk, only for him to wake up at sea, and having to serve the Navy in order to one day return home.
"Partly," Blackman was nodding, he was finally getting that engagement from O'Brien he was after in the first place.
(Is he trying to recruit me?) O'Brien suddenly thought, it wouldn't be the the first time his services and skill set would've proven sought after.
"That is but a positive side effect," Blackman continued, he was reminiscent of a salesman now about to reach his pitch. (What was he actually selling?)
"A side effect of the true mission. The mission started by our forefathers. Our work maintains Humanity's place of importance at the centre of the Federation."
O'Brien suddenly saw it. He understood now. This guy was a racist, plain and simple. Terra Prime they'd called themselves.
"It was US who kept the Andorians and Vulcans from murdering each other. US who were the key to the Alliance of 5. US who defeated the Romulans. Our capital is here… on Earth. Yet, why hasn't a Human sat as President for nearly a century? Why is Starfleet still 70% Human, why did our species suffer some of the heaviest casualties during the war when our Homeworld remained largely unscathed?" (Omitting the Breen attack there conveniently helped his argument)
O'Brien was almost out of his makeshift shackles now, he was in desperation mode: just to get away from this lunatic.
"What do you want from me?" O'Brien demanded.
Blackman's tone changed. Gone was the Salesman, he hadn't wanted to recruit O'Brien at all; he was merely enjoying an audience. You often found those with the most secrets liked to talk; they usually spent far too much time in their own heads, safe with their secrets. "You flatter yourself Mister O'Brien."
"Come again?" he was free of his shackles, he just needed to chose the right moment now.
"Just because 31 wanted you, doesn't mean we do."
Blackman took a step forward O'Brien, it was the closest he'd made himself since the interrogation, or argument, or whatever the hell this tirade of crap was.
"Then why have you made me listen to all that? Your kind of torture?"
Blackman took the bait, he took another step forward. O'Brien moved, quicker than a man of his age should do. His newly freed hands were on Blackman's shoulders. Pushing him back, he'd wanted to push him to the floor and make good his escape.
But Blackman was stood strong, after the initial surprise he recovered having taken only a few steps back. He knocked O'Brien's outstretched arms aside and used a leg sweep to send the Irishman to the ground.
"Remember Mister O'Brien. Starfleet Marine Corps. It means, yes, I'm tougher than you are."
O'Brien scrambled away from his attacker, putting his back against the nearby wall and twisting around hastily so he was sat up and facing Blackman.
"What do you want from me?"
"Well that's the funny thing," Blackman said, smirking now. "Absolutely nothing."
"What is it then, torture? Do you intend to kill me? Here on Earth? You think you'll get away with that?"
"Oh no Mister O'Brien nothing like that at all." Blackman offered his hand out to Miles.
O'Brien looked at it, looked at Blackman, then decided (What the heck) and took the outstretched hand. They were both of a similar height, but Blackman was broader, bigger, stronger; he hoisted O'Brien to his feet without much effort.
"You've stumbled in, the way only you could, not really having an endgame, a goal, or direction."
"The way only I could? You don't know me."
"We might not be Section 31 Miles but be assured we share files," Blackman had turned away from O'Brien now and was taking a few leisurely timed steps towards the staircase.
"You have no proof, and we have a lot of leverage."
O'Brien went into panic mode. Leverage against him was always going to be his family. "You look here," he started, but Blackman had turned back around; his expression wasn't one of a man who was going to be worried by a threat from a middle aged teacher.
"You'll find clean clothes upstairs. There's a working replicator if you're hungry. You are on Earth. Ulaan Baatar. There's a public transporter not a block from here. You're free to go when you want," Blackman smiled, that salesman smile.
O'Brien didn't move.
Blackman let out a solitary chuckle. "Mister O'Brien you know the truth. Well bully for you. But you can't prove a damned thing. And to dig any deeper, to involve anyone else. Wouldn't be wise."
O'Brien seethed. You could taste the anger in the atmosphere around him, it tasted of ozone and sweat.
"Deep down all of us enjoys this hegemony Humanity has over the Federation. There's always got to be a few of us willing to operate this deep down to make sure it stays that way."
Blackman turned and started on up. O'Brien still hadn't moved when, no more than a few stairs up, Blackman paused and turned.
"Be seeing you," he smiled; broadly, and gave a small; curt wave. There was a creaking of an old door on hinges and then a slam as it was shut. Absent was a noise of any locking mechanism.
O'Brien took a moment to process. (Was this a trick?): his first thought. (I need to make sure Keiko and the kids are okay): his second.
It was the second thought that proved stronger and he made his way gingerly up the stairs.
He found Blackman true to his word. The doors were all unlocked, there was a clean set of civilian clothes hung in an empty front room. And in the kitchen (into which the basement stairs ascended) had a lit up replicator, ready to accept his commands.
He changed into the clean clothes. And left.