NINE: Disturbance

The study room was as drafty as it was empty, and that suited Dagmar just fine, given the circumstances. A night in the Andorian compound had made the muggy San Francisco day nearly unbearable, so the relatively cool room was a welcome reprieve. Still, it amused her how, even after over two hundred years of architectural advancements and technological innovations, some of these new fangled buildings still had good old drafts.

God, that thought made her feel old.

"I'll be honest with you Kov," Dagmar began, sitting on the desk behind her while Kov remained standing at stiff attention, eyes calculating and conflicted. "I'm not sure how much help I'll be. For all that I'm not as disconnected from this society as I was three years ago, I'm still not a part of it."

"I do not understand." The Vulcan tilted his head to one side, a shadow of a frown appearing. His hands, at his sides, twitched.

Abruptly, Dagmar recalled the conversation she'd had before heading out –first to her apartment to shower and change (no time for food, sadly)- from the Andorian compound.


Thelen's antennae writhed about in agitation, harsh lines of his face tense with an imitation of a Human frown –an attempt, Dagmar realized, to impress upon her his disapproval. "Young Vulcans are volatile, Dagmar, and unpredictable –particularly in the state your friend seems to be in. He could easily turn violent."

Dagmar frowned. She knew Kov would be moody, but the possibility of violence honestly hadn't occurred to her. "I... guess, so, yes... What should I do, then?"

"Take me with you."

"No. I'm sorry, but no." Dagmar refused immediately. "Kov wants advice, in confidence. He won't talk to me if you're there."

The Andorian shifted and wiggled hisantennae to express his disapproval and tension. Shral approached from the redheaded woman's left, adjusting some minute clasp in his dark leather uniform, and proffered, "I may have a solution."

Deliberately, she ignored the set of antennae pointed at her. Whatever the hell the gesture meant, it wasn't her problem at the moment.

Thelen nodded to the aide, antennae straightening in surprise as Shral held out his hand, palm facing upwards, and revealed... a hair pin?

Confused, Dagmar examined the accessory more closely. It was silver, with a long, narrow shaft and a wide, thin head stylized into a symbol she had seen throughout the Andorian portion of the Embassy –the Andorian emblem, an artistic representation of their home planet, Andoria, and the gas giant it revolved around, Andor.

"This is what you might call a panic button." Shral explained. "The head of the pin contains touch-sensitive receptors as opposed to pressure sensitive receptors –there is no button or catch- as well as what Humans commonly called a 'bug.' If you feel threatened, touch the head of the pin and a security team will be alerted to your location."

Talk about microtechnology... The things that could be made nowadays –that could be invented!

Something niggled at the Canadian, who glanced up with blue eyes and observed Shral and Thelen's reactions. Their antennae were straight –too straight. It was a sign of careful self-control, that, and Dagmar didn't really like the connection her brain made.

"This is reconnaissance technology, isn't it?" She asked warily, eyeing the Ambassador's aide in particular. "Black-ops stuff? ...Shral, are you supposed to have this?"

Shral slowly curved his antennae together in a carefully controlled shrug and just as warily answered. "Perhaps."

Oh dear. Why, oh why, did Dagmar just know that no one else knew about these snazzy little hairpins? God only knew what else was a listening device or a panic button. Wisely, the redhead decided, "I'm not going to mention this. To anyone. Ever. Quite frankly, I didn't even want to know that these existed."

More importantly, just where did an aide get a hold of that sort of technology?


"I will never really be a part of this society, Kov." Dagmar continued calmly, fighting against the faint, nervous impulse to play with her hair (or her new hair pin) as the impulse grew in strength. "I work with people who say and do things that don't make sense to me, who use phrases and idioms that I don't recognize, who forbid and condone things in a context that I don't have. I don't understand these people" –strange, to refer to her brethren in such a disassociated way, but only on the surface- "any more than you do. I just pretend to."

Kov considered this for some time, silently, with his head bowed forward and his hands clasping behind his back. Dagmar waited, patiently, feeling that the longer the young man contemplated her words, the farther the possibilities of a sudden mood swing seemed. At length, the Vulcan inquired, "Then I have no chance of true integration?"

His eyes, round, dark, were large and solemn and... just a little bit sad, which concerned and terrified her in equal parts. This boy didn't need advice –he needed a Vulcan who knew how to fix him. What the hell was she doing there? She couldn't help him. She didn't even know where to start!

"That's not true." Dagmar insisted, frowning. "It just means that I have a lot of trouble with it."

"What would you advise, then?"

A struggle, a long moment groping for words to put shapes and sounds to a concept. "Observe. Watch people –watch how they walk and talk and interact with each other. Learn the things done between strangers and friends and when to tell the difference. Listen to the phrases and the idioms and how they're used. Look at how people dress for different occasion, how close or how far away they stand from one another... Just observe."

Agitation; the faintest downwards twitch of full lips. Almost a sneer. "That is all?"

She shrugged, trying not to react to the hostility. "It's the best advice that I have."

Without another word, Kov turned on his heel and left, shoulders tense and angry. As soon as the door slid shut with a pressurized hiss, the Terran sighed in relief –and then made a beeline for a console.

"Once again, it is agreeable to see you, Miss Gunnarssen." Varek answered her call, dressed in stark, stiff robes and holding a PADD in one hand.

Dagmar skipped formalities in favour of getting right to business. "Varek, a young man –a Vulcan- is in emotional distress. Are you in the area?"

Varek immediately set the PADD down and gave his former student his full attention. "Yes. What is the identity of the young man in question?"

"His name is Kov. He's a xenolingusitics student at Starfleet." One of the first; Starfleet Academy would become a pariah amongst schools should its first Vulcan student suffer a breakdown. More importantly, Kov could be permanently damaged by a chemical imbalance in his brain –likely the source of his lack of emotional control. That much, Dagmar knew for certain.

"I'm worried, Varek. He's expressing agitation, distress... anger, even." Dagmar gave further details with a furrowed brow and an unhappy grimace. "He asked me for advice earlier today –he's having trouble coping with living amongst Humans- but none of what I said seemed to help; he just stormed out without a word."

Varek blinked slowly, taking a moment to consider the information. "Has he touched you –your hand or your face, perhaps?"

Dagmar blinked, rearing her head back a little in surprise. She didn't understand the connection. "No... He's a touch telepath; I never touch touch-telepaths."

"But has Kov attempted to make contact with you?" Varek pressed, leaning towards the console. His tone was... flat, but she heard the faintest traces of urgency there. "This is very important, Miss Gunnarssen."

Dagmar shook her head. "Never. He's always been very professional."

"Have you ever offered him food or drink or served him at a meal?"

"No. I took Kov and a Denobulan student, Zepht, out for dinner, though –as a goodwill gesture for helping me with some translations, but we were served by a waitress."

Varek frowned impressively, and that alone gave Dagmar an idea of how serious the situation –whatever the situation actually was- might be. "Have you eaten... I believe you refer to it as 'finger food' in front of this man?"

"Not that I can recall, no."

Her confusion and worry was growing exponentially as the questioned delved further into her interactions with Kov. Had she ever paid him a high compliment? Not really, but she'd told him his translations were extremely accurate on a few occasions. Had she ever given the impression of favouritism? No –she was equally fond of the Denobulan and hadn't treated them very differently when they'd all gotten together that one time. Had she ever worn something that Vulcans could construe as provocative while in Kov's presence? ...Most of her wardrobe could be called that, by Vulcan standards, but nothing especially interesting, no.

Quite quickly, her patience ran out. "Varek, please just tell me what's going on. I'm worried for Kov and I don't understand what's wrong with him! Why are you asking all of these things? Why are they important?"

Varek looked grave –or as grave as a Vulcan of his age and self-control can look. "I believe Kov is approaching a time of great volatility. It is not something we speak of to outsiders."

That did absolutely nothing to reassure her. "Well, is he going to be okay?"

"Perhaps." Varek offered after a long, telling moment. "I will contact the appropriate people. Please do not concern yourself any further with Kov's well-being, Miss Gunnarssen; once he is located, the cause of his emotional outbursts will be dealt with. In fact, I would advise that you have no further contact with him without a chaperone."

A chaperone? Why would she need a chaperone? And what did that mean –'a time of great volatility'? Frustrated, nostrils flaring as she sighed angrily, Dagmar nodded and agreed to follow the Vulcan professor's advice. She didn't understand it –didn't understand anything beyond the fact that Kov wasn't well and Varek wouldn't tell her why- but she would listen.

Despite her better judgement, and ever nerve and fibre that demanded that she find the professor and shake the answer out of him.

The connection terminated and Dagmar ran a hand over her hair –only for her fingers to find the shaft of the hair pin she was wearing. With a jolt, she belatedly remembered that her hair pin was both a panic button and a listening device.

It would be too much to ask for Thelen and Shral to have resisted the temptation to listen in, she knew. Entirely too much to ask.

Out loud, she sighed again and mumbled, "It's okay, guys. The pin was completely unnecessary. I'll drop by and give it back."

Silence answered her, heavy with the weight of worries and dissatisfaction.

The hair pin wasn't a two-way communicator, after all.