Just Textiles

Posted on Sat Dec 20th, 2025 @ 5:56am by Talnera Vesk

1,287 words; about a 6 minute read

Mission: Episode 1: A New Sheriff in Town
Location: Quiet Coil Bar
Timeline: Once Upon A Time

The illumination inside the quaint little establishment was set low, deliberately low, just warm enough to soften edges without hiding them. Talnera Vesk was fine with that. In fact, she preferred it that way. Darkness made people imagine danger whereas comfort made them speak it.

She stood behind the bar, sleeves rolled to the elbow, pouring a drink and tending bar. It was a job, a simple one, and she had held it down for several weeks now. The station’s artificial night cycle had recently activated, and space station was settling into its most honest hours. These were off duty Starfleet patrons with the occasional merchant between them. Then, there was also the travelers.

The man watching her from the far end of the bar was trying very hard not to stare. Oh how observant she thought to herself. Clearly, Vesk was not the first Cardassian this man had ever seen in his life, but he certainly gave her a cautious and curious gaze uncertain what to make of one serving drinks aboard a Federation space station.

He was human, late forties, Starfleet Intelligence by posture if not by uniform. He had chosen the seat that gave him a clear view of the exits and the bar’s reflection in the mirrored shelving. He thought that meant control. Talnera found that charming.

She carried his drink to him herself.

“Federation rye,” she said, setting the glass down without asking and sliding it down to him. “Single ice cube. You strike me as a man that doesn't trust unfamiliar spirits.”

The man blinked, then frowned. “Do I? We haven’t spoken.”

“True,” Talnera agreed scoffing. “However, you’ve been scanning the bottle selection for six minutes and forty-two seconds. Anyone with any sort of adventure in them would have chosen something exotic by now."

She rested her fingertips lightly on the bar, close enough to be intimate yet just far enough to be safe. Of course, the man hesitated, then took the drink.

“It’s good,” he admitted.

“I know," she replied simply. "I made it" she added.

Talnera Vesk observed him studying her face, the ridges along her brow catching the dim light, her expression composed and open in a way that suggested honesty without promising it. Finally, he said, “You’re her.”

“For the right price, I could be” she replied with a smirk. “You’re not here for a drink.”

A faint smile tugged at his mouth. “Talnera Vesk," he dared to speak her name. "People say you’re difficult to pin down.”

“People who want to pin me down are usually disappointed when roles get reversed. I am not easy to pin down for reasons” she said with a splash of sarcasm.

He exhaled and leaned back. “You’re not just some Cardassian bartender. You are from one of the old families.”

She considered her options. Had this been another establishment, a disruptor would have been under the bar, but aboard a Federation space station, no such luck. She opted to play his game. “Am I?”

“Your name appears in archived Cardassian Union records,” he continued. “Military. Logistics. Rank of Glinn.... Family connections that don’t just vanish.”

Talnera smiled, warm and unoffended. “You did your research. I am glad that Academy education is paying off for you. However, I advise you to proceed with caution. Digging through ruins often turns up things better left buried... curses, diseases, death.”

“Miss Vesk, I’m not threatening you" he said almost apologetically.

“No,” she said softly. “You’re testing me just as I am testing you. You think you know me?"

She moved away to wipe a glass that didn’t need it, giving him space to follow or retreat. He followed.

“You left the Cardassian military,” he said. “Quietly. Then you disappear for nearly years. Now you’re here, working in a bar, running some sort of consultancy on the side...What did you call it? Cultural exchange?”

“Textiles,” Talnera corrected mildly. “Primarily.”

That gave him pause.

“Textiles?” he echoed.

She nodded. “Yes, you know... Fabrics. Weaves. Trade patterns. Cultural threads.” She glanced at him sidelong. “You’d be surprised how much history survives in cloth.”

He gave a short laugh. “That’s your cover story? That you deal in fabrics?”

“I love a good textile,” she replied.

He studied her carefully now, suspicion sharpening his features. “Your grandfather was a Legate. Your father a Gul. They were hardly artisans and we both know it.”

Talnera set the glass down and met his gaze fully. Her eyes were calm, unreadable, inviting.

“The Academy didn't teach you History? Nearly every Cardassian family were artisans once upon a time,” she said. “We just learned to build other things" added Vesk.

The words landed heavier than they sounded. She watched his breathing change, the subtle tightening around his eyes. Good. He was listening now.

“You’re implying your past doesn’t matter?” he inquired.

“I’m implying,” Talnera prefaced, “that the past matters only to those who need it" she corrected.

She leaned closer, lowering her voice, but not too conspiratorial, simply intimate.

“Tell me,” she continued, “did you come here hoping to expose a former Cardassian officer? Or to understand how a woman survives the collapse of everything she was trained to believe in?”

He hesitated too long. Talnera straightened, her tone lightening again. “I do not care whichever it is. You should finish your drink.”

He did, almost without realizing it.

“You manipulate people,” he said quietly.

“Me?,” she replied. “Starfleet manipulates people. I tend bar and listen.”

That earned her a genuine smile. “You’re.... textiles can be dangerous" he said and looked down at the glass he had finished consuming. "Your bartending too. A bit strong."

Talnera shrugged. “Only to those who don't read carefully.”

He studied her for a long moment, then shook his head. “You know what people think you’re really selling and I am not talking about the liquor, Miss Vesk.”

“I sell safety,” she stated without hesitation. “Discretion. Comfort. Opportunity.” The she paused. “Occasionally truth... mostly.”

“And information?” he shot back with a curious gaze.

She smiled again, slow and knowingly. “Information is a textile. They are carefully woven. They can be warm or suffocating, depends what you do with them.”

He laughed under his breath. “You really expect people to believe you’ve just been trading fabrics all these years?”

“I expect people,” she replied, “to believe whatever lets them sleep at night.”

She reached beneath the bar and slid a small data chip toward him. He looked down at it, then back up.

“What’s this?” he asked taken aback by the data chip.

“A courtesy dear,” she said. “A list of three people on this station who are up to something far more nefarious than textiles, and evidence compiled from the past several weeks. You can use it to your advantage, but if you keep digging in the wrong places...”

His fingers hovered over the chip. “Why give this to me?”

“Because,” Talnera said gently, “you dared to come in here alone, and you asked questions instead of making accusations.”

He picked it up slowly. “You’re not exactly what I expected.”

Talnera inclined her head. “I rarely am.”

He stood, hesitated, then said, “If your past ever becomes a problem...”

“It won’t,” she interrupted softly.

Talnera watched him go, then returned to polishing glasses. The bar continued humming with quiet conversations, with secrets loosening under careful hands. She breathed. She knew that her time working at this particular bar on this specific station was going to be short-lived, but in the meantime, she would continue with textiles. Textiles, indeed.

 

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