EIGHTEEN: Reactive

The trip to Andoria was a long one –about a week- and Dagmar spent most of it prepping herself and growing accustomed to Andorian customs. She slept and ate communally with the crew, conversed with them in Andorii and whatever other dialects she knew (without the use of a Universal Translator), and learned how to identify members of different keths as well as how to show the varying degrees of respect each clan member warranted.

That last part caused a bit of a complication –mostly because Dagmar wasn't Andorian and thus didn't have a specific Clan that she belonged to; different Clans had different relations to one another, she'd learned. At length and after much debate, it has been decided that she would represent her own keth.

All by herself.

The entire point of a Clan was to have allies, blood-relations and so on, to come to one's aid during a conflict. If an Andorian didn't have a keth, he or she went and joined the nearest friendly one, usually. Some clans numbered in the thousands, but not hers. She had a grand total of one member in the Gunnarseen keth: herself. Dagmar was apparently the only one who thought that might be a bad idea, but she didn't voice her opinion on the matter. Truthfully, she couldn't –not with impunity. She had to adhere to Andorian rules now, and since the decision had been made by those who outranked her (meaning Ambassador Thoris and his upper-level staff) she had to accept it gracefully and move on.

It was hard, suddenly not having as much say in her life as she was used to, but Dagmar had known that there would be some changes that came with the move to Andoria.

So, the Canadian spent her time learning from the other Andorians about the finer points etiquette. As her only clansmen –which has the surprising quirk of also making herself her own clan leader (a prestigious position in and of itself)- she wasn't required to acknowledge lesser clan members immediately or with anything more than a shallow bow from the shoulders. Not that she had any lesser clan members, but the information might come in handy, she supposed.

Imperial Guardsmen at the rank of commander or above, as well as councilmen and high-ranking politicians such as Thoris, however, were above her station and she would await their acknowledgement and commands as was proper. Those in between, such as other clan leaders and so on, were to be greeted as equals and according to a rigorous set of rules put in place to prevent any possibility of feuding between keths.

She was also told that, should she sufficiently offend someone or disgrace her Clan, it would be expected of her to fight under the code of ushaan to redeem herself, or she could opt to commit ritual suicide.

It was like jumping into a time machine and finding herself surrounded by blue, Feudal-era samurai when she'd expected to be somewhere else entirely.

That fact that she was Human and had different customs was now irrelevant, the twenty-first century woman had realized early one. If she messed up from this point onwards, she would have to deal with it as an Andorian would.

Needless to say, Dagmar planned on being painfully polite to everyone and maybe not setting foot outside of her quarters very often.

Speaking of... Dagmar had no idea where she'd be staying. Not with Shral or Thelen or any of the other Andorians she knew, at least. They were all from different keths and had their own Lodges to go to. It was entirely possible that Thelen's joke of her setting herself up on the outskirts of one of the major cities and never seeing any of them again might come true after all.

The thought made her feel... vulnerable. Sad, even.

The redheaded woman sighed as she adjusted the high-collared white outer coat of the clothing Thelen had procured. He'd been thorough, the Chief of Security –had probably read up on Humans and their reaction to prolonged exposure to extreme temperatures- and had ensured that neither her hands nor her face were neglected in the ensemble; gloves and a detachable fur-lined hood were included. The temperature regulators that Shral had spoken of were impossible to find, as well, and that suited Dagmar just fine.

Though quite why she had to be the only one wearing completely white when everyone else was wearing black or dark, murky colours was beyond her. It wasn't as if she wouldn't stand out on her own, after all.

The twenty-first century woman would probably be the first "pink-skin" to every live on Andoria, even for a short time, after all.

The outfit fit her well enough, and it was considerably warmer than her Terran clothing. The texture was... odd, though. Andorian leather wasn't like Terran leather; it had a funny texture that she couldn't quite place. Not an unpleasant one, but something that was decidedly different.

"Everything fits, then?" A soft baritone asked from behind her. Dagmar jumped and whirled around to find Shral standing in the doorway. Damn Andorians and their lack of doors.

Not that she'd stripped and changed in the doorway, exactly –she'd moved off the side so that she wasn't easily seen from the corridor. Still, though. She needed doors, damn it.

With narrowed blue eyes, the Terran woman accused, "And just how long have you been standing there?"

Shral shrugged, antennae curved in a shallow arch towards each other, and said, "Ten minutes. I came to ask if you were hungry, but you were busy."

Yes –busy changing. Had he honestly just stood there the entire time? More importantly, how had she not noticed him?

Dagmar fought to suppress an angry snarl –and failed. "And it didn't occur to you to maybe come back later?"

"No." Shral answered simply, and he seemed puzzled by her reaction. "Is that the correct response for a Human?"

You'd have to be blind not to see where that conversation would go. Shral wasn't Human, after all –and Andorians did have a notorious sort of indifference to personal space and privacy- so how could he have known? And that was fair, she thought, sighing heavily and dropping her shoulders from their tense, angry position. When she'd stayed in the Andorian compound, it had been different –she had been issued quarters separate from everyone else and had had a more Human sense of privacy.

Now, though... everything was different.

Running a hand through her hair, the Canadian shook her head and sighed again. She could practically see the culture shock looming on the horizon, and it was fraying her nerves already.

"Amongst Humans, it's considered extremely rude to observe a person changing without their knowledge." She explained carefully, emphatically. "And I'm sorry, I know Andorian customs are a little different, but I'm probably going to have knee-jerk reactions like that for a while."

Shral inclined his head, antennae in that neutral, politely interested configuration that she was so used to seeing, but what he said next stung. "I thought as much –and you forgot to greet me properly."

The aide looked at her expectantly.

What Dagmar should have done at that point was move immediately to remedy her mistake. That would have satisfied the requirements of Andorian common courtesy and would have allayed any possibility of offence being given or taken.

What she did was burst into tears.