brains and bloods and cryptic gang men/czars and warlords breaking bread
Timeline: February 3rd 2390
Being chief of security aboard a ship is interesting. Aboard a station? Doubly so. Aboard Prometheus? Imagine being chief of security of an entire city, and then you sort-of grasp what's going on, here.
The Promenade is sidewalks and freshly-manicured hedges and mowed grass, buildings hanging upside-down above and monorail tracks sending shuttles hurtling through the winding twists-and-turns of the starbase's arms. The weather here is automated like everything else, and today is another sunny day in a long line of sunny days that really do begin to feel artificial after a while. Still, after being cooped up in a tin can for years on end, many of Deep Space 12's newly assigned Starfleet personnel are just glad to put their feet on solid ground.
That being said, with most of Prometheus's arriving population being civilians, there are incidents from time to time. Nathan Braddock just happens upon one such event in-progress as a young Orion muni with bright purple skin and tell-tale spots along his temples and down his shoulders jumps over a small fence, a purse in his hands that while very fancy and lovely, most certainly does not belong to him.
The boy is headed straight for a tall, hulking specimen but amidst his darting turns and spins he neglects to see the inevitable obstacle in his path until the individual; a mountainous, hazel-eyed Vulcan with dark curly hair thrusts out his arm and slams the hard edge of bone formed by the simple slicing momentum into the Orion's chest with enough force to crack. The boy hits the ground with a winded thud, gasping for breath but otherwise unharmed. The Vulcan kneels and retrieves the bag, holding it out to the security officer running toward his direction.
He's silent and stony, save for the brief uptick of his left eyebrow and slight cant of his head to the left, an expression on anyone else might be called smug.
Rarely finding himself being the one doing the actual chasing these days, Nathan took a moment to nod his thanks as he caught his breath, holstering his drawn phaser with a resounding click. With all the civilians in the area, the likelihood of him discharging it at all were slim, though it never hurt to show that there was always the possibility.
The Orion boy's protests were ignored as he was hauled roughly to his feet by the security chief, soon finding restraints slapped around his wrists. "Much appreciated," Nathan offered, towards the Vulcan's stern countenance, a brief flash of recognition only crossing his face after reaching for the stolen bag held extended towards him. "Ambassador?"
The Vulcan deposits the purse into Nathan's outstretched hand and gives a very faint, very curt nod in return. "That is correct. Layil," he simply states, his voice sonorous and unusually accented. Most Vulcans speak impeccable, if stilted and formal Standard, but on Layil's tongue it sounds foreign and halting. "Commander Braddock," he grants recognition in return, having studied the station's manifest extensively during his shuttle trip here. He holds up his hand in the ta'al, commonly known as the Vulcan salute. "Peace and long life. Do you require assistance accompanying this individual to a holding cell."
He nods again, briefly concerned that an ambassador of Layil's ranking would be wandering the Promenade without at least a small security detail. Then again, the Vulcan could clearly look after himself, and Nathan did tend to have a habit of worrying a little too much about these kind of things. It came with the job, really. "If you wouldn't mind," he answered, reigning in the Orion as he tried to make a break for it. "Get off-" the boy grunted, to no avail. "It's not far."
The sanctity of the mind is the most important tenet of the Vulcan educational system, which is why Layil doesn't give an outward response to Nathan's internal monologue. Needless to say, despite his people's claim to pacifism, self-defense was prioritized in his upbringing. He can, as Nathan surmises, take care of himself. Given that his supposed opponent barely looks to be over the age of thirteen, however-Layil certainly isn't worried. (Not that he would ever admit to being worried at all.) It isn't the first time such concerns have been floated past him, but he's always been somewhat of a lone wolf, shirking the station's assigned security personnel since day one. He falls into step beside Nathan promptly, keeping a firm hand clapped over the Orion's shoulder, ensuring he stays in line. Above all else, Layil is a diplomat, so he uses this opportunity to attempt some... short talk. "What are the statistics of criminal activity aboard this station." It's a question, but it sounds like a statement, because Layil doesn't understand how tone works. Oops.
Nathan almost raises an eyebrow at the odd tone the ambassador takes with him, but puts it down to his Vulcan nature. While he couldn't claim to be the most experienced at dealing with those of his species beyond security concerns, he knew enough to realise that odd social quirks were one of their more famous charms. "For it's size? Low. It's all new, and most people are too concerned with settling in to do anything stupid." A brief glance was given to the Orion they were escorting. "Well. With some exceptions."
As they head toward the security complex, located in the station's Cygni district, where all Starfleet operations are housed, a young Romulan runs up to them, winded and out of breath. He grabs the Orion by the arm and snaps something harsh in his guttural language, clearly displeased.
"Mr. Shaethan," Layil greets him with a tilt of his head to the side. "Aehar, dochai hrrau lloann'nadoaege." His Romulan is impeccable and without pause, slipping easily into Lesser Seas, the language of Tareil's homeland. "Explain how you know this individual."
"Reh-I'm looking after him." Tareil winces at them. The Universal Translator isn't fully implemented into the station's atmospheric mesh, and due to the artificial weather station it may never be completely integrated, which allows Nathan to hear Tareil's halting accent and mixed up word order. "He ran away from me, Rekkhai. Let me take him back home. Therae will kill me if he's arrested."
"That is not my decision." Layil cuts his eyes over at Nathan.
Nathan shakes his head, glancing sideways at the Romulan. "It isn't mine, either." He offers, with an apologetic smile. "But he's a kid, and he didn't do anything we haven't seen before." He pauses for a moment. "Chances are he'll be through holding in a few hours time, and you'll probably get him back not long after."
He's already given up trying to gauge their reactions by their faces. "I'm sorry, but that's the best I can do."
"To borrow a Terran phrase, I suggest you count your blessings, Mr. Za'ire," Layil addresses the Orion, who jerks under Nathan's hold and tries unsuccessfully to escape. Even with the additional strength of his species, with those ion cuffs slapped on his wrists, he's going nowhere fast. "I am somewhat familiar with the boy's mother-I can put in a comm to her if it will ease the interaction any. U'rhhae ih'hwi baorse iunnh lliu hel'riivha," he adds in Romulan to the boy.