Squatters Rights

Posted on Tue Feb 25th, 2020 @ 3:27pm by Lieutenant Commander Mara Ricci & Bar'soon'fo'da'gree'nars

Mission: S2:1: Into The Drowning Deeps
Location: Security Investigation Office, Medina Level, Canopus Station
Timeline: MD 3 : 16:00

A small crowd had gathered around the entrance to the SIO office, though to call it such was something of a mistake. The bland office space held no markings, nor an indication of its intended use save for a Starfleet Engineering Corp tracking hologram sprayed onto the wall beside the door. 'Medina Level Municipal Office Unit 567a-d'.

But the crowd was not there to see the grand unveiling of the offices of law, order, and the Federation Way. Instead, they had come to see the show called Bar'soon, the never was king of a world few had heard of but now all knew of. Somewhere between security dragging him to medical after his adventures in freestyle drain pipe spelunking and getting him to a doctor, he had escaped.

And now he stood behind the locked doors of the vacant office, having gotten in someway somehow, and was hastily using a can of solvent spray to throw up graffiti onto the blank walls. One of the sprays was even in passable Federation Standard.

'Diplomatic Immunisation!'

Because the prosthetic arm was as yet untested, Mara still had herself assigned to what she called “menial engineering.” It consisted of important tasks that were boring, but needed to be done. Mostly repairing replicators and installing new gel packs, but also refitting an office for use, which is what she was on her way to do right now.

She slowed her steps as she rounded a corner and spotted the crowd gathered around the very door to which she was headed. “What’s going on?” she asked loudly enough to be heard by the whole crowd. She may have been an introvert, but she was also a Starfleet Senior Officer and she wanted to know what she had just walked into.

"'scuse me... coming through, terribly sorry, you're blocking the way to - oh." Finally a figure managed to shoulder his way through the crowd, crisp in a suit as befit an employee of UFP Colonial Administration, but all professional presence wilted as much as the man himself did at the sight before him. "That's an excellent question, Commander," said Nathaniel Wick as he went to stand beside her. He rocked briefly on his heels before straightening and calling out to Bar'soon, "Sir, I have to advise you that's station property you're vandalising; please do desist."

The badge at his breast denoting him as an agent of the SIO office gleamed impotently. Petty crime was an inauspicious arrival. Petty crime committed by an alien life he'd never seen before just made it weird.

"This? This is not station property! It is the sovereign state of my kingdom in exile!" Bar'soon shouted, his voice echoing through the locked doors as he added another layer of solvent spray to the word 'Diplomatic'. He then turned back to look through the doors at the crowd, now a mix of Starfleet engineers and the posse of SIO's that had followed Nathaniel from the pier. "Oh don't look so glum! There are plenty of vacant spaces along the Medina, I,m sure you can have one of those! But this one has such grand space, I saw it and had visions of my mothers coronation! The censors of burning oil! The crowds of peasants begging for their lives! The sweet cakes at the end of the day! Oh if only I could have such a thing here on this space station, a slice of home from which to plan the painfully delightful deaths of my four hundred traitorous siblings."

Bar'soon waited a beat before adding.

"Also I called dibs. I am told that is a sacred custom of your people. Dibs. I have called it so."

“Dibs on this space were called before it was even built,” Mara explained. “Also, what is ‘diplomatic immunization’?”

"Why it is the law of your people to grants me immunity from the laws of your stellar nation is it not? I will be honest, when my Sharona gave her heart to me I was a little overawed to listen to anything but the hammering of my hearts," Bar'soon said, flicking one of his long ears back over his shoulder with an elegant blue hand. "And I have called a counter Dib's on this place. If you wish you might enter within and we can settle the matter of ownership by the old customs. A fight to the painful death of one's servant!"

“That’s not how we do things,” Mara replies, stepping into the room. “Also, in order to have diplomatic immunity,” she added, stressing the correct word, “one must first be a diplomat. Officially, that is. In order to be considered a diplomat, one must be in contact with and representative of one’s home government.”

"And, ah, your diplomatic credentials must have been recognised by the Federation, or ranking official out here," said Wick, desperately trying to gain some semblance of control of the situation. "So perhaps we're getting off on the wrong foot." He advanced gingerly. For all he knew this species spat acid solely at discourteous service staff. "My name is Nathaniel Wick, Chief Investigator, and these are my new offices you're... marking. And you, sir, are...?" He didn't extend a hand. It wasn't the done thing in confrontations and he didn't know if the alien could rip his arm off.

Bar'soon took a stance that any amateur dramatics society would have called dashing, with a hint of overblown pretention. He placed one arm behind his back, and raised the other up, long fingers unfurled.

"Bar'soon'fo'da'gree'nars, Third of his Title, holder of the lightning throne, guardian of the sacred skulls of Antiok and ruler of the world of Shishimi and all its celestial companions, wrongfully deposed by my four hundred traitorous siblings from my rightful place, and cast out into the starry night. When I arrived here I was greeted by a fair angel of your administrative dungeon, who bestowed on me the doon of my diplomatic immunity against all beggars and charlatans! But to be such, I must have a place from which I might begin the restoration of my kingdom! And so my embassy shall be a thing defined by the very essence of my rule."

There would be a throne.
There would be tapestries.
And there would be go-go dancers in cages.
You know, the classics of Shishimi royal etiquete.

“There is only one person on this station who can grant diplomatic status and his name is most certainly not Sharona,” Mara pointed out. “And even if he did, we would assign you offices; you don’t get to just barge in and take some.”

"That is not how we do things on my planet," Bar'soon said, throwing his arms up. "What is the point of seeing something pretty and desirable without the wherewithal to have it! I declare imminent domain, pray I do not declare it loudly enough to encompass the entire station."

He then crossed his arms, stamped a foot, in a feat of stubborn pride that would have put a five-year-old to shame.

"That would be eminent -" Wick's automatic correction came to an abrupt halt as he considered his options. And the hills he would die on. He probably didn't need this fellow to be better educated on diplomatic protocol. Instead, he gave a nervous smile. "If you have not been assigned proper quarters, sir, I have to point out these offices will do you very ill indeed." He gestured past to the now-defaced doors. "These places will be cramped. Lots of small rooms and offices. Difficult to rearrange, hell to redecorate. Lots of low ceilings. For a person of your standing... a tad beneath you."

Even as he spoke, Wick felt recollection surge in the rear of his mind. Not the training of dealing with VIPs. The training and experience of dealing politely with the reluctantly itinerant and the vagrant before they had to be forcibly moved on.

"You...think so?" Bar'soon said, turning to look back at the vacant office space.

“Oh absolutely,” agreed Mara quickly, seeing an opening in the alien’s armor. “This is so... Spartan! Proper diplomat’s quarters would suit you much better, I’m sure.”

"But I was only given a cargo bay...so I had to take something. Its what my grandmother would have done, and she did so dote on me as a child," Bar'soon sighed. "But...I think you might be right. I have outgrown this small, plebian space."

"Quite, Mister Bar'soon." Wick pasted on his best smile for a ridiculously tall, hitherto-unknown alien species with, apparently, the ego, willfulness and territoriality of a household cat. "And may I assure you that once my investigation team are installed in these premises, you will all enjoy a higher level of stability and peace on this station." The last was addressed more at the crowd, though he had to wonder if this denial of future sideshows would come as a disappointment to the masses.

This time the stimuli came from outside of the offices, as the assembled Station staff and civilian onlookers all turned as one to look at Wicks. It was at that point that some of them, perhaps finally remembering the briefing materials given to them prior to making The Long Jump, that the Security Investigation Office was an actual thing. Which is when Bar'soon became a secondary consideration.

"What are you going to do about the Rish squatters who have taken up residence in cargo bay's assigned to my business?"
"I heard on the FNS that we have terrorists on Carpathia? Does that mean you'll be screening anyone who travels to and from that world? Is my family safe?"
"Are recreational pharmaceuticals still a proscribed substance out here, cause, man, this ain't the Federation is it? I was told we were, like, a billion light-years from it?"
"We just had a battle here not a month ago! What could your mall cops do about that?!"

And then Bar'soon joined in, spraying the solvent can into the air like he was using an air horn, but only ended up spritzing himself with bright orange day-glow paint. Apparently his solution to not being the centre of attention was to make a spectacle, a time-honoured tradition of monarchs on the decline.

“First of all,” said Mara, “stop reading or listening to the news; they lie. Second, this station is Federation territory, so no drugs. And third, stop that!” she finished, Snatching the spray can away from Bar’soon.

The blue striped alien princeling now with orange highlights looked slightly offended at having his item of desire snatched from his royal personage. But without a phalanx of bodyguards to snatch her away for corrective beheading and remedial manners lessons, he was left to impotently fume. The crowd was silent for a time, and then turned on Mara because she had opened her mouth and spoken with 'Authority'.

She had just become the Supervisor all of these negatively impacted customers wanted to speak to.

"Are you in security?!"
"If you're in engineering, my business needs more power allocated to it! And your office has been denying my requests."
"I was totally, like, meaning medicinal herbs which are not proscribed by any sort of, like, ban or anything. Tot's organic my man."
"I thought we left the Milky Way to get away from all of these nanny state Federation Laws? Does that mean I have to register my collection of Bolian hamtulas?"

Mara was done.

Introverts tend to lose patience more readily than extroverts or Ambiverts, and Mara, being the most introverted person in all of starfleet, lost it more readily than anybody in existence. So now, the look she leveled at the crowd could have skinned a cat at fifty paces. She was not the person to which to bring these grievances, nor was this the proper place for them. “Out!” she shouted. “Now! Move along before I have you all charged with loitering. Go! And you!” she added, pointing directly at a newcomer. “We don’t need a crowd. I said GO!” she finished, taking two steps towards the crowd to scatter them.

She then turned back to Bar’soon. “You, too!” she ordered. “Get out of here and get that shit off your face! I will speak with Ingram about finding you a proper place, but that place is not here. Now go!” And she pointed emphatically to the door.

"But where should I go in the meantime!" Bar'soon pouted.

"Go back to the room assigned to you," Mara replied, more patiently now. "I promise I will see about finding you some extra space."

"Uh..." Wick was dimly aware that crowd dispersal was something he should be engaging with, but he'd been gently awed at watching an apparent master at work. He still took a look towards the masses, though gave ushering gestures to help scoot them off. It made him feel better at least. "Thank you for moving along; once the SI Offices are properly set up we'll be able to address your concerns more thoroughly." He was going to need a really big 'In' tray. Maybe two. One to read. One to ignore.

He turned back to his saviour and the tall walking migraine. "Thank you, Commander. And thank you, Mister Bar'soon, for your cooperation. However." He drew himself to his full height and tried to put on his most authoritarian voice. It wasn't a complete bust; he'd done this before, but it had been Some Time since he'd dealt with petty street misdemeanours and this was becoming a Day. "Our offices should be working together. I hope and expect to not see someone of your standing committing vandalism again."

"But it's not vandalism! Don't you see? It is art!" Bar'son enthused as he walked out of the SI Office. "A Bar'soon'fo'da'gree'nars original work! The first in my period of exile away from my people. It shall become a place of pilgrimage once they know of it."

Mara literally facepalmed at that. “Well, at least he’s out,” she muttered.

Wick stared after the disappearing alien life-form who was now, in his own way, more monstrous than any he'd previously met. "Who the devil even was that? I didn't - he was most certainly not in my briefing package!"

“I’ve only heard of him up until today,” admitted Mara. “Bar’soon is a dethroned monarch or something. Anyway, I’ll get maintenance down here to clean this up. In the meantime, maybe we can go over the refit?”