THIRTEEN: Prickly

It was business as usual when Dagmar finally returned to work. Despite her transfer to Thoris' personal staff, she was still stuck with translating long-winded legalese about wine tariffs and the restrictions on technological exchanges, as well as the ban on bringing chocolate, of all things, onto Andoria.

Interesting fact –chocolate was lethal to Andorians. Especially Argellian chocolate. God only knew what an Argellian was, though; Dagmar hadn't run into any that she could recall.

In addition to her usual translations, though, Dagmar found herself handling –much to her bewilderment- things equivalent to Andorian fairytales and folklore; stories about ghosts and legends of proud and valiant warriors from Andoria's long history of warfare and honourable combat. The stories themselves were quiet enjoyable, but what she was doing with them was beyond her. Maybe it was part of some cultural exchange?

Stretching stiff limbs as best she could from her seat, the twenty-first century Terran slouched and put her feet up on the seat of the chair opposite of her, comfortable in the relative seclusion of the small office she worked in. Being promoted had one perk –she had a tiny office as opposed to the communal area she had shared with the other translators. It was not particularly spacious, and when she had arrived it was almost as Spartan as her apartment; now, a few of her friends in the Embassy had dropped by with random knickknacks and other small decorations –including a colourful, cold-resistant vithi plant and a pot of honey, as a joke from Thelen.

His grasp on Human humour really was improving by leaps and bounds, the woman thought fondly.

Not long into her work day, the silence became... distracting. She was used to speaking to people throughout the day, and this new confinement made her restless and bored. After a few hours of tapping her fingers in various patterns and humming off-tune snippets old what people nowadays referred to as ancient music, Dagmar finally resorted to asking the computer to play some music on low volume. She was nearly done this part of her work, anyway, so she figured that it would be off soon enough before anyone grew too terribly annoyed.

Also, Thoris was off in a meeting, so he couldn't scold her.

And, for the record, being scolded by an Andorian like Thoris was terrifying.

Four hours, six amendments to the trade agreement, and no less than twelve folktales later, Dagmar set the last of the PADDs down with a sigh of relief, her muscles stiff from inactivity and the cold. The computer, despite being randomized, had fixated on Michael Buble's various works –most of which she knew and a few others she didn't- and it was to his smooth vocal jazz that Dagmar set about flexing her hands and rubbing the cricks out of her neck and shoulder. Her legs weren't particularly stiff, given that she'd been wiggling her feet to the various beats the computer came up with behind her desk, but just about everything else was.

Oh, the joys of working with people from an ice planet.

"May I join you?"

Dagmar jumped, startled, as Shral stepped into her cozy little office. Hesitantly, she nodded her permission and then gestured for the Andorian to have a seat, noting for the umpteenth time that his antennae were still pointing at her. At least they were, until the male focused on the music playing quietly in the background.

Andorians were very fond of music. In fact, their language –and its various dialects- was based on it. Their language, while having similar inner workings to English, also integrated an array of rhythms and lilts and tones which added further depth and meaning to the things they said. Even if she hadn't been able to understand the language, she would have honestly enjoyed just listening to the sound of it.

"How goes it, Shral?" Dagmar asked after a moment, determinedly resuming her (ineffectual) neck massage. That crick was particularly stubborn... "Did the meeting go well?"

Thoris rarely went anywhere without his aide, after all, so if Shral was back then so was Thoris, which meant the meeting was either called into recess or over for the day.

Shral made himself comfortable in a nearby chair, observing the random little knickknacks and letting his strange, verdant eyes linger longest on the vithi plant and accompanying honey pot. After a moment, he returned his attention –and antennae- to her. "It went... slowly. The Tellerite Ambassador is particularly reluctant to alter more of the trade agreement, but I believe Ambassador Thoris has won this round."

Dagmar nodded again, dropping her hands from her neck to lace them together on her lap as she considered this. Knowing relations between Tellerites and Andorians –never mind either of those with Vulcans, who were there to discuss... some random tariff; Dagmar didn't do much translating for that side of things- the talks could still go on for a while. At length, she offered lamely, "Well, it'll be interesting to see who wins what by the end of it."

Shral gave an antennae-shrug and then leaned forwards a bit, towards her in a manner that made her think of old spy movies and clandestine meetings in the night. Unconsciously, Dagmar leaned forwards a bit too, and waited for the Andorian to speak.

"I don't wish to alarm you," Shral began. Oh crap. What's happened now? "But the Vulcan you spoke with –Kov, was it? He did not arrive on Vulcan."

Dagmar blinked, uncomprehending. "What?"

"The transport departed with this Kov on board, heading for Vulcan, but when the ship arrived, he couldn't be found." Shral elaborated carefully. "I am not certain he ever set foot on the transport ship, myself. There are ways to fool even the most accurate of sensors."

Flashes of that moment, after leaving Phlox's office, flickered behind her eyes.

Shral was watching her expression too carefully to have missed the way it paled, ever-so-slightly, and her carefully added, "I do not think he will follow us to Andoria, however."

"Andoria?" A bit presumptuous on his part; she hadn't exactly accepted that invitation yet.

"As a member of Ambassador Thoris' personal staff, you're duty-bound to follow when he returns to Andoria." Shral reminded her, as if this were an irreversible truth. And it was, she realized. Being the man's personal translator was more than just a desk job, after all.

Suddenly, the prospect of leaving Earth felt uncomfortable. Odd, since it hadn't before. Dagmar chalked it up to nerves. She had a problem with nerves, truth be told –had thrown up on the morning she was supposed to start working in the Embassy for the first time from it, and had nearly done so again that morning- and she fervently hoped that wouldn't ever happen again.

Especially not in front of the Andorians...

Dear god, never in front of them! She'd never live it down!

In the real world, beyond her mind and its ten thousand tiny inner anxieties, she offered a wry half-smile and said, "Good thing I like Andorian food then, huh?"

Shral snorted, antennae curving towards each other in a shallow bow of vague amusement. Returning to the original topic of Kov, he continued, "Should you encounter this Kov again, what do you intend to do?"

An interesting question. For all that Dagmar was fond of Kov, in a distant sort of way, she was also disturbed by the instability he'd displayed. The idea of a violent Vulcan was nothing short of terrifying, actually. If the unpredictability wasn't a concern, that even a young adult like Kov was three times her own strength certainly was. A direct confrontation of any kind was to be avoided, in light of that. But, at the same time, she wasn't certain she would turn the male away if he asked for her help again. She'd feel obligated, as a friend (even if of a distant sort of nature,) to try to help.

Not, she reminded herself, that she really could help.

"I don't know." Dagmar confessed. And she didn't. Not really. All she could think up in terms of strategies involved avoidance. She could probably outrun Kov –at least, long enough to get to some form of safety- and she could stick to large crowds and public areas. Direct confrontation was out of the question; the probability of her winning a fight against any Vulcan, much less an angry, erratic one, was low even on a good day. Add in the fact that she'd been warned in no uncertain terms to avoid physical contact with Kov under any circumstances... "Aside from the obvious avoidance strategies –stick with large crowds, that sort of thing- I'm not sure that there's much I can do. I don't have the legal right to take out a threat pre-emptively, and I'm not completely convinced that Kov is a threat to me."

With a disinterested air, Shral reached over and plucked a purple vithi flower from amid the vicious tangles of sharp, curved thorns and the dark, razor-edged leaves. His hand came out unscathed –something Dagmar envied as she recalled her earlier attempt resulting in several cuts and scratches; she rubbed at the multitude of tiny lacerations absent-mindedly, but without any real embarrassment. He chewed the fleshy plant thoughtfully, and without making any use of the honey pot. Dagmar wondered if, along with finding salt spicy, Andorians tasted bitter flavours differently as well.

"You're much better at that than I am." She congratulated him wryly, lifting the offending hand of hers and displaying the cuts with a strange sort of pride. Any other person from this time and era would have run for a dermal regenerator; Dagmar, used to cuts and scrapes from her pervious life-style, saw no point in making such a fuss.

"Red blood is... most disconcerting. It never quite looks real." Shral commented, eyeing her hand. Dagmar refrained from expressing a similar sentiment about blue blood. Then, standing and gesturing for her to approach, the Andorian arrogantly commanded, "Observe -I will show you how it is done."

Snorting in amusement –oh, Andorians and their arrogance!- Dagmar stood and walked around her desk to stand beside the aide. She opted not to comment, despite being thoroughly annoyed, when the Andorian had her move to stand on his other side not by asking her but by lifting her by the waist without so much as a by-your-leave and moving her himself.

'Yes, yes, you can lift ten times your own body weight,' she thought caustically. The Canadian didn't bother to hide the irritation in her expression –just as the Andorian didn't bother to acknowledge it. Andorians and their arrogance! 'Like a bloody ant. Next time, ask!'

Under Shral's guidance –arrogant and vaguely condescending as it was- and despite her irritation, Dagmar did manage to liberate a few of the flowers without much damage to herself. The thorns were the biggest problem, being curved inwards as opposed to outwards –meaning it was easy enough to reach the flowers, but removing them was another thing entirely. They weren't unlike barbed arrows, she thought to herself as she reached into the dark, knotted plant, which punctured flesh easily enough but hooked into and further damaged surrounding tissue when one tried to pull it out.

"Ow!"

Point in case.

"Your advice sucks!" Dagmar whined –and, no, she did not see anything wrong with a twenty-something year old woman whining when she had a large, hook like thorn stuck in the fleshy part of her thumb and threatening to tear something.

Shral didn't dignify that with a comment, reaching forward and taking hold of her wrist. "Stay still."

"I'm try-ow!" It was pure reflex born of years of dealing with a petty younger sibling that drove her to whack Shral's arm, she swore! ...It did absolutely nothing to mitigate the absolutely scathing look she received for it, though. She grimaced and offered an awkward apology, eyeing the flicking antennae warily. "Sorry. Reflex."

"To beat the person trying to help you?" Andorian facial muscles may not have been as developed as a Human's, but that eyebrow quirk would put a Vulcan to shame. A long-fingered hand reached into a different gap in the snarls of barbs and jagged edges, deftly finding a soft, unprotected patch of the same twisted stem that she was caught on and gently pulling the stem –and, by association, the thorn out of and away from her hand.

Carefully extricating her hand from the mess of sharp edges, Dagmar examined the damage. The puncture was surprisingly deep, but that made sense, given the length and size of the thorns themselves. Each one was about half an inch long, four or five millimetres wide, and serrated on the inside edge. A thin rivulet of blood dribbled down her arm. "I used to wrestle with my friends a lot, back in my time."

"I would not advise engaging any members of the Imperial Guard –or any Andorian- thusly." The aide commented archly. It was difficult, to fight the impish impulse to whack his arm again –just to see what he would do- but she did.

If only out of a sense of self preservation.

"I don't plan to," Dagmar answered back, just as archly.

To hear her say it, it would seem like such a long time ago. Ages and eras gone in the blink of an eye.

Every memory was as sharp and fresh as the cut on her hand, as the sting of torn tissue contacting saliva. People have always wondered about the instinctive impulse to stick a lacerated digit in one's mouth. It wasn't that saliva had healing properties, as some thought, but rather that a few enzymes in Human saliva killed a select number of bacteria and the act of washing the wound with saliva helped to flush out any dirt from the cut so that it would heal cleanly.

The bitter metallic tang on her tongue was unpleasant.

Shral stared, and Dagmar belatedly realized that what she was doing might be considered offensive by Andorians. Withdrawing her hand, she offered an apologetic grimace and shrug.

"Sorry," she said. "Instinct."

"Andorians do the same." The aide revealed carefully, and his antennae had ceased their irked flicking to point at her again. She really needed to find out what that meant. It was getting a bit ridiculous. "But a dermal regenerator would be more effective."

Dagmar just shrugged and said she didn't feel like hunting one down.

Another droplet of blood escaped from the cut, but this time Dagmar just wiped it away with a finger. Her eyes fell on the honey pot beside the prickly plant. Ancient Egyptians used to coat wounds –particularly those made by surgery- with honey as it was antibacterial, antiseptic, and partially antiviral. Nearly as good as a regenerator, really. Besides, what were a few scars, really? It wasn't like the world would explode if she had one or two.

Shral was equal parts horrified and intrigued when she lifted the comb out of the glass pot and dribbled honey onto the cut. It stung –of course, it stung- but it saved her the trouble of wandering around in search of random medical equipment.

"Honey is antibacterial, antiseptic, and partially antiviral." Dagmar explained to the aide, with her own touch of arrogance for a change. "Ancient Egyptians used it to seal wounds and keep them free of infection. Besides, what do I care about scars? It's not like I'm a hand model; my work doesn't require me to have pretty hands."

Slowly, like the beginnings of an avalanche watched from some distant safety, Shral smiled the calf-eyed smile of an endeared Andorian. Clapping a hand to her shoulder and pulling her into a strange, one-armed side-hug and bowing his head towards hers, (to focus his vision and his antennae, she knew) the aide declared, "You will do well on Andoria, shevt'ak."

Before Dagmar could register the term, the aide had already swept out of her office.

Across the hall, a sharp-eyed man deactivated his recorder and slipped away.