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Rangers - For Seven of Nine

The Fenris Rangers don't really have a headquarters, per se. They do have a city on a planet where they'll check in with each other if they're in the same area at the same time, just to get news and make sure everyone's still alive, usually at a particular bar. Often in a particular booth at that bar.

When Seven returns to that bar, she'll find someone unfamiliar in that booth, a human man with an entire left arm made up of metal. Not the dark metal of the Borg or the shiny chrome of the Federation, but segmented plates of something unfamiliar that, with a cursory scan, seems to wire right into the spine and anchor potentially painfully on the skeleton. Anything more than a cursory scan is jammed.

The barkeep will nod in that direction when Seven looks askance. That's a ranger, waiting to meet up. Just not one she knows.

Soldat has been in this universe for six years now. Rosinante and Weaver tried to give them a couple years of lead time, given the complex political structures in this universe and the amount of infiltrating they'd have to do in order to gain enough goodwill to be believed, but the calculations hadn't been quite right and the portal dropped them here far too early. There's eight more years to go before the people Soldat needs to speak to are even in power, and fifteen before the World Eaters make it to this patch of space. Sure is a good thing they don't really age, given the whole "technically dead and made of cloned spirit material" thing.

So, without any actual means of contacting Beacon in its own universe to pick them up and try again, they've been killing time. Mostly drifting, learning about this universe, hitching rides here and there, trying to build up enough knowledge and allies to draw on to convince people to listen when the time comes. Right now? They've gotten into a little group of vigilante peacekeepers, and it suits them fine. Their last contact dropped them here with the instruction to talk to Seven. They're waiting, fingers tapping idly on the case that currently houses their lantern, and listening to the ambient conversations with mild interest.

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A ranger she hasn't met isn't unprecedented - the Fenris Rangers may be remarkably organized for a loose confederation of largely-solitary vigilantes, but there isn't a formal recruitment process. Many of their recruits are in a bad place when they find them, victims of the very people they've organized to stop. Some few are former Starfleet, or former security agents belonging to smaller organizations. Others are like her, people who have no real place in the galaxy, but have the drive to fight anyway.

A ranger she hasn't met who's equipped with strange tech, though - that's interesting. Primitive tech is her first thought when she scans them - there's no attempt to reinforce the anchor points, to ensure stress on the prosthetic won't do unnecessary damage to the surrounding bone and tissue.

But primitive tech wouldn't block a deeper scan.

Intriguing.

She waits until she has a drink before striding over. There's nothing hostile about her body language, but even here, at the heart of the territory served by the rangers, where they have the most good will, there's a ripple around her, people edging away or watching her warily.

She drops into the booth across from Soldat, eyebrows lifting slightly. "Are you Rhan's latest?" she asks. The Bajoran is one of their more prolific recruiters. It's a reasonable guess.

"She said she had a reputation," Soldat says with half a smile, making it clear she's guessed right. "She rescued me from the remains of my ship. But she got sick of me crowding up hers and said to ask you for a ride until we find me a new one."

They consider, then offer her their hand, the right one, fully flesh and blood, like a human would. "I'm James." The old Russian word that is actually their name, they've found, comes through on everyone's universal translator as Soldier, and none of them like that. Not even the Asset. None of their other names translate well, either. So James it is.

"I'm Seven of Nine. But you already knew that." Even if they hadn't been told to ask for her, she's...distinctive. There are vanishingly few XBs at large in the galaxy, and she's the only one to have joined the Fenris Rangers.

She reaches over to shake the man's hand, her grip comfortably firm, and notes that they match, right side apparently all flesh and bone, the left less so.

"She knows I don't usually take on crew. What are you looking for, James?"

"I don't need much. A small ship, only as much cargo space as it will take to handle the occasional rescue. Anything that will make me mobile enough to help," they answer, settling back from the handshake. Theirs is cautious, more than firm, like they're friendly but at the same time trying to be careful. Absolutely no attempt at testing.

"I won't take up much room in the meantime," they promise. Which sounds ridiculous, since they're kind of on the big side, but still true. Soldat's learned how to make themselves small.

Her eyebrows lift slightly, a small smile tugging at the corners of her lips. They're not the biggest person she's ever encountered, not even the biggest human, but they're not exactly diminutive, either.

"That isn't quite what I meant. What are you looking for from the Fenris Rangers?"

"To help," Soldat says firmly. "I have. A certain skillset. I don't like where it came from, but I have it, and I would rather use it to help other people not have to use those skills themselves. I can't stand by and let people be hurt when I could stop it. And I don't have the." They tilt their head, considering their words, and give a wry little smile before settling on, "The credentials for official work."

They don't seem to be lying. She might not be able to do a full scan, but her implants can read surface biometrics as easily as her eyes pick up the colour blue. Pupillary variance, vocal pitch, breathing rate, none of them show the kind of spike of stress that might indicate falsehood.

Then again, she'd never ready any of those cues from Bjayzl, either. Not until it was far too late.

"No credentials, unfamiliar tech, constant scanner block... I can see why you caught Rhan's interest." And why the other Ranger had decided to send them to her. One anomaly should be sympathetic to another.

And if this anomaly proves to have been sent to cripple the Rangers, she's more equipped than most to handle the fallout.

There's a part of her that's tempted to spin this out, see what this stranger might say if forced to make an argument for why she should bring them aboard. But her answer was a foregone conclusion the moment Rhan pointed them her way.

"Do you have your own equipment, or did that go down with your ship?"

"I have a case of materiel and a couple personal items, and this," they say, tapping the sealed box at their side. The box itself, if she looks more closely, is the source of that scanning block, it just radiates out to cover them, as well. Whatever is inside is probably either dangerous or valuable. It's also on a hefty strap that's still around Soldat's shoulder, even sitting down.

"My ship crashed rather than blew up," they explain, "so I had a little time to scavenge before the core melted down completely. It's not much, but it's better than nothing."

"And what is that?" she asks, tipping her head slightly toward the case. "I'd rather know what you're bringing on board my ship before it blows up in my face."

Whether 'it' means the ship, the case, or her decision to extend some trust is open to interpretation.

"I'll let you see inside everything I bring on board," Soldat promises, though they do bring the case onto the table. They tap a code into the electronic lock, then some system inside it takes a scan of them, and beeps as it clicks unlocked. They turn the case around to show her.

It's a lantern, nestled in a form-fitting interior. It's old and battered, the glass protected by inexpertly welded metal shutters. There are hints of a warm gold flame burning inside it behind the shutters, despite the probable lack of air that had been inside the case. There are some beaded charms handing from the round handle, somewhat worse for wear.

"It's from home. The only thing I really have left," Soldat explains. "And it's very old." Their affect is blandly pleasant, but she might get the sense that this is a lie, or the strong protections for such a mundane object might raise suspicions in and of itself. Either way, though, there's not much about an old Earth lantern that might be a danger, is there? Soldat looks at it with fondness rather than respect, so it's unlikely it's a secret weapon of some sort.

It doesn't add up - not with those protections, not with the golden glow that can't possibly be the sort of flame that would normally be in that sort of lantern. But he doesn't lie well enough to be a smuggler, and doesn't treat the item with the sort of caution she'd expect if it were a weapon.

She considers both man and lantern for a long moment, then shakes her head. "I'll bring you on on a provisional basis. How do you feel about artificial intelligences?"

Soldat shuts the case again, swipes the lock shut, and settles it back at their side with a protective metal hand over it. The research team has made some improvements to the lantern process, but not enough that they don't want to keep it as safe as possible.

"About the same as I feel about any biological intelligences," they shrug to her question. "I'm sure some are very nice and some tend more rude. I've met a handful in the past."

Edited 2022-11-12 06:50 (UTC)

"Oh, good," she says, and there's a hint of dry humour there, though not directed at him. "My ship has both. The former captain had some eclectic tastes in emergency holographic crew members."

The statement isn't without a touch of fondness. She hadn't captured her ship, or bought it from a salvager, and is still on good terms with the previous owner.

"I can't wait to meet them," Soldat says with a little smile. "I'll try to keep out of their way if they need me to. Should I expect any to materialize in whatever corner you put me on, or do they only show up if there's an emergency?"

"If there's an emergency," Seven replies. "Or if you call for them. Mostly - the EMH will want to look you over to get a baseline, and make sure you aren't masking any injuries from the crash."

She meets his gaze steadily, then asks, not without a hint of sympathy, "Is that going to be a problem?"

Soldat sighs a bit. They're still not fond of medical anything, and the scanner jamming has multiple purposes, both to disguise their connection to the lantern and to keep details of the serum from getting out. But it's a pretty reasonable ask. So they say, "I'll manage. I might have to ask that any specific records get... deleted after I find my own ship? I've got some augmentations that I really don't want to get out to the general public."

"I'll scrub your records as soon as you're off my ship," she assures.

She's silent for a moment, taking a sip of the drink she'd brought with her from the bar. Her expression hardens slightly, though there's a slightly distant quality to it - the anger there isn't directed at him. "Is there someone on your trail?"

Their head shakes briefly. "No. Not anymore, not here. But it's possible people here discovering my augmentations means I would get people on my trail." That's been the biggest problem in this universe: dealing with their higher level of tech and more powerful ability to scan things. "If you want to talk details, I will, but not here." They'll have to get on her ship before they'll get specific about anything.

"You need to update your blocking protocols," she says bluntly. "They're too obvious."

Not that most people would scan them as a matter of course. It's a bad habit, a cautionary measure turned almost instinctive, and possible in large part due to her own augmentations. Easier by far to be nosy when you don't need a tricorder or a security console.

"Collect the rest of your things. I'll meet you at docking slip C347 in ninety minutes."

"If you have ideas for how to tweak it, I'm all ears. It was the best I could rig on my own," Soldat says with a wry little smile, which is only about half true since the original scanning block actually came from Weaver back in Beacon and they'd had to improvise ways to make it work here. Any improvements that can be made are improvements they can take with them back to Beacon to improve the safety of their other agents.

(In fifteen years or so. Jesus. There you are. I was wondering if you'd say anything. You were doing fine on your own. HATE THAT YOU HAVE TO USE MY NAME. You can always come up and handle it, if you want. NO THAT'S FINE.)

They pick themselves up, focusing up on Seven's face. "Thank you for taking me on. I promise I'll be useful."

"I have a few suggestions," she says, deadpan.

She watches them rise, charting their movements with a clearly habitual sort of attention, ingrained fighter's analysis. Her smile is slight, and a little thoughtful. "And I'll hold you to that."

She won't. Even if they're the biggest load of dead weight she's ever hauled, she'll look out for them until they're back on their feet, because sympathy for augmented people, understanding of just what risks they might face, is one of her more predictable weaknesses.

Soldat gives a little salute, not an American one-- those aren't really a thing anymore, they've learned-- but a fist tapping their chest, then scoops up the lantern and heads out to get the rest of their possessions. It doesn't take long, and they make it to her ship early, carrying the materiel case on one shoulder and the duffel of clothes and keepsakes on the other, with the lantern's box slung over their back.

The ship is, if he's gained enough grounding in such things to evaluate it, in relatively good repair, though it's clearly seen a little trouble. Not entirely surprising, given what the work of a typical Fenris Ranger entails.

It isn't long before Seven joins him, her appearance heralded by a soft hydraulic hiss and the lowering of the gangplank.

"You're early," she says as she draws up alongside him, a heavy bag of some slick black material that definitely isn't canvas, but seems to have the same function, slung over her shoulder. "Come on. I'll introduce you to La Sirena."

Soldat glances over their shoulder at her approach, and offers a little smile of greeting. "Didn't have anywhere else to be. And I don't have much." They give the materiel case on their shoulder a little pat.

They follow readily up the gangplank. "It's a nice ship. Bigger than I thought it'd be." There's room on this bird for a whole crew, really.

"Hard to run rescue ops in a shuttle," she says by way of explanation. The gangplank rises again behind them, leaving them in the cool light of the cargo bay.

"Let's see what else you're bringing on board. Then I'll give you the grand tour."

Soldat swings the materiel case down to show her their modest collection of guns and knives. Two projectile handguns and ammo, two phaser-style weapons, one launcher with attachments for various things it can launch, and a sniper rifle. The duffel mostly has clothing, a tablet, a standard travel kit with bits for repairing clothing as well, several old-style books full of handwriting with loose colorful paper set between the pages, and a little plastic glow-in-the-dark ghost.

And the lantern in its protective casing, of course.

They allow her to inspect all of it without protest.

It isn't the weapons that give her pause - she'd expected they'd have those, given the way they carry themself, though the archaic nature of the projectile weapons is a little surprising.

The books, though - she's seen paper books before, in the hands of collectors, or of people like Rios who romanticize pieces of the past. These look well-used for something that's such a luxury item.

She shoots him a curious look. "What did you say you were doing before you crashed?"

"I didn't," Soldat says dryly. "I was exploring-- looking for an outfit like the Rangers, to be honest. There's not a lot I can do, with my history and lack of identity documentation." They already know what story they're going with: basically their own, a mix of Beacon and HYDRA, just tailored to this universe. Enough that they won't really be lying. "I'm a created thing. A sort of clone. The weapon of an organization who wanted to take over my planet. I don't do well at being idle, but I don't have a lot of. Of. Regular person skills."

Then, because they know she was curious, they add, "The lantern is part of that. It's complicated."

"And we operate outside of Federation space, so their laws governing genetic experimentation don't apply," she says, expression shading thoughtful.

The lantern and how it might play in more than piques her interest, but the more pressing question in her estimation is: "Is that organization still operational?"

"No. The planet isn't even habitable anymore." Soldat shakes their head a little, closing up the case of weaponry and zipping up the duffel. "That's why there's no one looking for me. There's no one left who knows what I am."

They glance sidelong at her. "Except you, now. And Rhan. But Rhan seemed pretty sympathetic about not wanting what I am spread around."

She makes a mental note to do some digging, reach out to her contacts - no, reach out to Raffi, experienced enough in intelligence to get into the dark corners, disillusioned enough not to even be tempted to talk to Starfleet brass - once she has her temporary crewmate settled. Something like planetary collapse - even a small, remote planet - makes waves.

"I'm not going to share your secret," she says. "And I already promised I'd scrub your records once you're off my ship. If you want to be a ghost, you've come to the right place."

With any luck, by the time they turn up absolutely nothing, Soldat will be gone. Or have built up enough trust to have told them the truth on their own. But for now, they're pretty sure "I'm from a portal in another universe and we foresaw a magic life-eating monster herd coming for your universe from the future, oh, and I'm actually dead" isn't going to fly.

And for now, their shoulders come down a little in clear relief. "Thank you. The fight over supersoldiers. Did not go well, where I come from. I will be useful for your rangers, though." The last sounds hopeful. They really do want to be of use while they wait for the apocalypse.

"That fight hasn't gone well anywhere," Seven says, tone a little dry. "It's why the laws surrounding genetic engineering are so strict in Federation space."

She straightens, turning away from the relief in his posture and the hope in his voice, and how much it reminds her of some of the people she's left behind her, not always of her own volition.

"I owe you a tour. This is the cargo bay. We don't have a shuttle, La Sirena is small enough that she can dock planetside. If we have a large evacuation, we can use the space as temporary quarters - there's bedding and some emergency supplies behind the panels in the port wall."

"That's useful. How many large evacuations do you have to do?" they ask once they've collected their things again, looking around. Soldat can clearly remember a whole lot of evacuations they'd had to take part in on other worlds. Universes. (Also, sleeping packed into the inn in Beacon during sieges by the spirits... PRETTY SURE WE CAN HANDLE A LITTLE TIME PRETENDING TO BE SARDINES.)

That was another thing they might have to tell Seven about. The others don't come out all that often, but it's probably best if Seven isn't surprised if they happen to do so. Maybe once they're settled...

"Not many," she says. "We're more likely to need to evacuate a damaged ship than anything else, and the more heavily crewed ships can usually take care of themselves. But I'd prefer to be prepared for the eventuality."

Now that she has the option - La Sirena is larger than her previous ship by a good margin.

"Not all the Rangers have ships this big," they observe. "Is she fast, to go with it?" Bigger ships mean bigger engines, but the ship isn't so big that she doesn't have maneuverability, they think, even compared to a smaller craft.

"She's no Bird-of-Prey, but she makes up for it in maneuverability," Seven says, a small smile playing at the corners of her mouth. "Her previous captain was a free pilot - passengers and cargo - and I gather the agility came in handy."

She heads forward, deeper into the ship, trusting him to follow. "The mess hall's up here. There are replicators in the crew quarters, but in case you feel like being social, the option's open."

They do, case back on their shoulder and duffel hanging off the other, apparently unbothered by the weight. "If it's welcome. I often feel like being social. Also. I don't know if you have the facilities, but I cook. There might not be much difference from what's replicated, but it's nice to do."

She gives them an amused look at that. "As long as you keep it manageable. There isn't room for anything too elaborate. And most ingredients will need to be replicated."

True to her word, while not cramped - not, at least, for two people - the mess hall isn't exactly spacious. There isn't much storage space for fresh ingredients, though should they come back later to do a thorough inspection, Soldat will find some shelf-stable staples, enough for a full crew to limp into safe harbour should something take the replicators offline.

"Replicating ingredients is fine. It's as much for the making as the eating," Soldat says, satisfied enough that there's at least a cooking surface and a little counterspace. That cabinet might be a very small oven, it's hard to tell. They'll give it a thorough once-over once they've put their things down. "Any allergies or things I should avoid making?"

"No allergies," she says - she doesn't recall having had any as a child, but if she had, they'd been eliminated when she was assimilated into the collective. A strange thing to miss, even in the abstract.

"And as long as you're not secretly fond of Talaxian food, I have no objections to anything you might be inclined to make."

They make an amused noise. "I don't even know what that is. We should be fine. Where will I be staying? Is there a bunk somewhere?" Mostly they'd like to put their shit down before being subjected to the medical AI's scans. They're not expecting anywhere big, a hole in the wall with a bed and some storage, at best.

"Good. I'm happy to leave that in the Delta quadrant. Crew quarters are on the upper level."

She leads them back out of the mess and up, pointing out the transporter pad and engine room as she goes. Finally, she stops before a set of doors that whispers open at a touch. The room beyond isn't large, but neither is it quite a hole in the wall - there's a bed, and storage, a small desk that can double as a table if they choose to eat alone, with a replicator recessed into the wall. There's also some room to move - it isn't impossible that someone could become claustrophobic in the space, but neither is it inevitable.

"You can bunk here. The computer will key the door to you. I can override it in case of an emergency, but otherwise, you'll have your privacy when you want it. There's a holographic terminal built into the desk, if you prefer a haptic interface to voice."

"Oh. This is bigger than what Rhan had," Soldat says, pleased, dropping the bag onto the bed and the case onto the floor beside it, even setting down the lantern case to prowl around briefly. It's possible they can get all the way to the kitchen without it, they think, but not the cargo bay or the bridge.

They turn back to Seven, watching her consideringly for a moment. "There's one more thing I should tell you," they say, figuring they'd better get it over with now before it's too late for her to turn them out. "I might not always be me. I won't be dangerous to you, but I might talk differently. Or act differently."

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Rangers - For Seven of Nine

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