The Looking Glass

Posted on Sun Nov 30th, 2025 @ 7:18pm by Rook & Lieutenant JG Constance 'Connie' Montoya

2,865 words; about a 14 minute read

Mission: Prologue
Location: The Green Kiss, USS Guinevere
Timeline: Early 2389

Connie Montoya, Counsellor, had traded her uniform for civilian clothes. It was not that she was bound to putting a firm barrier between her on duty and off duty appearance, yet it helped her relax. She had chosen a pencil skirt for this occasion and a silk blouse, soft grey with a faint sheen that caught the light of the lounge, the top button undone to soften the look. A slim belt marked her waist, dark stockings gave a clean line to her legs, and her heeled ankle boots added a quiet edge of confidence while still being able to navigate a ship during red alert without breaking her foot. Her dark hair was loFose tonight, clipped back on one side, softening her face.

The Green Kiss was alive with colour and sound. Music from the dance floor pulsed steady beneath her feet, synthol and sugar mixing in the air. Laughter rose and fell, hands brushed together in corners, bodies leaned too close and too far. Connie walked through it unhurried, and even when she tried not to, her eyes pulled details into focus. A man in the red uniform gesturing far too broadly at his date. A pair of junior officers on the floor dancing as if nothing else in the galaxy existed. Someone alone at a corner table, staring into their glass as if it might tell them something. She let her eyes pass over them and then ahead, to her target.

She reached the bar and settled onto a stool, one leg crossing over the other as she set her hands lightly on the counter. For now she let the atmosphere press around her, music and movement rolling on without her. No dance floor tonight. No work to be done. Just a drink, and the rare chance to exist without role or duty. She lifted her eyes, a small smile coming to her at seeing the bartender. "Hello," she said, her eyes taking in the man. "A martini, please. Gin, make it dirty."

Rook glanced up from the bar, casting his eye over her in a casual graze...but his mind was running like a warp core at lightspeed. The woman in front of him exuded sophistication and class, but it was worn like battle armour. He could tell she had already read the room and knew its secrets. And he would wager latinum that she was a therapist...the most efficient kind of liar. He recognised the type...intelligent, patient, reserved, polite...and she'd wield it like a knife. "Classic..." he replied lightly, as if the drink order had confirmed everything.

Connie's eyes lifted to him properly then, taking him in. Lean, deliberate, features sharp enough to have been carved, his long black hair brushing shoulders in a way that spoke more of choice than neglect. The scar near the tip of his ear tugged at her attention, an old mark that spoke of a story she suspected he left to people's imagination. Midnight blue eyes watched her with the kind of watchfulness that was almost louder than movement. "Classic," she repeated softly, a smile curving the corner of her lips. "I'll take it as a compliment. Predictable, reliable, maybe even refined depending on how charitable you are feeling..." she let it trail off, watching him.

"You don't make it dirty if you want it refined," he pointed out with a small smile of amusement, setting a cocktail shaker down to drop ice into. "I would offer to make something tailored, but you seem to be a woman who knows what she wants."

She let out a soft chuckle, studying him closely. "Maybe for the second one. This is one of my signatures. The bite of the gin, the brine from the olive...it's a symphony familiar to me. And perhaps you are right...but I have never really enjoyed the taste of champagne."

Rook wrinkled his nose at the mention of champaign, shaking his head dismissively as he poured the gin and vermouth into the shaker. "I don't trust any alcohol that's abandoned to gather dust for years..."

"Champagne, it tastes like abandonment..." Connie said with a small, almost playful smile.

"If anyone would know, I'm sure it's you, Counsellor," he voiced his suspicion, plucking the shaker up and throwing it lightly, catching it to shake with a delicate touch.

She studied the movement, a small smile coming to her. "You seem to know everyone here...Rook."

"As I should...I'm sure you know everyone that enters your office too," he chuckled softly, unhooking a classic martini glass to pour the chilled concoction into.

"Hm..." she raised an eyebrow before she nodded. "Yes. This has historically been another place to go over thoughts, emotions and trauma..." there was a dry note in her voice, as if there was a joke in there somewhere.

"Yes...there's good business to be made from broken hearts and bruised egos," he smirked as he pierced an olive with a stick, letting it drop into the glass. He added a dash of the brine, giving a single swirl before sliding it over to her.

She took the glass, her fingers stroking the stem for a moment before she picked it up to sip. She held his eyes before she nodded, putting the glass down. It was an excellent martini. "And the ever-changing emotions of a crew in space. I've heard this has become a bit of a nerve centre on the quiet."

"A lute string wound too tight will eventually snap," he pointed out as he tidied away, but kept his midnight blue eyes on Connie. "I keep the strings...tuned."

She nodded as she watched him, the smile still on her lips. Because she understood what he meant. "And facilitate situations where the instruments can be put down, briefly..." her finger traced the rim of her glass. "This is a most excellent martini."

"Something as classic as this? It all comes down to the quality," he gave a light shrug, but accepted the compliment all the same. "I suspect you would know the difference."

Connie considered that before she chuckled. "Perhaps, but I don't always care...it depends why I am drinking it," she said as she held his eyes. "I like coming here. A way to get the pulse of the people without having to schedule appointments or loiter in the mess."

"No, you can loiter at the bar instead, you'll get no complaints," Rook chuckled softly as he set the shaker in the recycler before settling back to the bar. "And I'm sure no one would guess, well, not many at least."

"Some, I suspect, will always think the worst," she said lightly before she sipped her drink. "You settled in here then? Being a civilian on a Starfleet ship can be disorientating for some."

"Hm...actually, I think there is something rather comforting about always being on the move," he gave a small, wry smile, reaching to get himself a drink.

Her eyes stayed on him, at the smile. His voice was...neutral. Light. She couldn't read any nuisance in it, nothing one way or another. A joke or a fact. "More difficult to pin down."

"You enjoy pinning people down, Counsellor?" he asked, his eyes glinting with dark humour as he poured a bitter tonic into a glass.

She held his eyes before she smiled, her head tilted a little do the side. "Do you use double-entendre to avoid giving a serious answer?" she countered, but her eyes were shining with humour as well. It felt like she was getting ready for a bout.

"Of course," Rook replied openly, laughing softly as he leant against the bar, sipping the tonic with a sigh. "It's a different world in here, Counsellor. People walk through those doors either to forget what's on the other side of them, or to celebrate it."

She chuckled softly at that before she nodded, taking a deeper breath. "Connie," she finally said. "Maybe I need to leave my profession outside of the doors too."

He nodded with a soft chuckle of approval, setting his glass down with a careful click. "So, Connie, why are you here?"

"I like the atmosphere," she said as she looked at him before she smiled. "I like the drinks too and being here means I don't open personnel file and do more than what my duty hours dictate. That and it isn't my holodeck day. Or else I would be there, doing something physical."

Rook nodded lightly, his eyes on her hand for a moment, his head tilting with recognition at the very specific callouses. "Fencing, perhaps?"

She looked at him before she showed him her palm. "Correct," she said, noting just how observant he was. She wondered if it was cultivated as a survivor mechanism, or workable skill.

He studied it with a soft chuckle, nodding at the confirmation. Her poise matched the sport well. "An Academy thing...?"

"Oh heavens no," she said and smiled, shaking her head. "I was taught at home. In fact my father suggested it...my mother's family have been fencers for...quite some time. I got an instructor when I was seven. If only to stop trying to climb up and take down the ornamental swords and play swashbuckler with them."

He leant on the bar with interest, trying to imagine a home where such pursuits were encouraged. "So you're out here living your best life as a pirate?"

"If I wanted to be a pirate...I would not have joined Starfleet," she said with a small smile. "Although that would have been quite the rebellion, don't you think? Become a space pirate..."

"It has its charms," he chuckled softly, his head tilting almost playfully as he quirked an eyebrow to her.

She smiled back at him, raising an eyebrow as well. "I see," she said and reached to sip her drink. "I suspect there is a lot of past in your past."

"Better than having no past in your past," he noted, setting a bowl of mixed nuts in front of her with a measured smile. "So how does one go from pirating to Starfleet?"

"I grew up," she said and looked at the nuts, considering them before picking one up. Her eyes met his and she smiled. "And I got interested in...other things. My family have a few paths. Politics...or diplomacy. Neither appealed."

"So you carved your own," he replied lightly with a thoughtful nod. Yes, she looked the type.

"I knew what I wanted to do," she said as if it made sense...as if it was fated. "Nothing was going to stop me."

"And are you finished?" he asked with a slight tilt of his head, meeting her eyes. "Or do you have further to go still?"

"Ah..." Connie smiled and took the olive, popping it into her mouth before she winked. She swallowed before she tilted her head a little. "Isn't that always the question. Do we reach our goals...or do they shift?"

"Well...it's not unknown in Starfleet. Someone has to give up the day job to move up into the Captain's chair," he pointed out with an arched eyebrow, casually adjusting the cuff of the puffed sleeve shirt he wore under the waistcoat.

"Hm...you never considered Starfleet?" she asked, curious as she picked up her drink to sip.

Rook's eyebrows lifted with the mere thought. Trapped forever within the confines of directives and procedures. "I think...that Starfleet would never consider me."

"You'd be surprised who they let in," she said softly, her eyes shining slightly with it. And then she let out a soft breath. "And who they keep in."

"Well, that is true, I see all sorts in here," he replied dryly, sipping his drink as if to stop him commenting further.

"I bet you do," she said before she nodded, not providing any more detail either as she nursed her drink. Her head turned to watch the people on the dance floor, a small smile coming to her. They seemed impossible young to her. But alive. So alive.

Rook followed her gaze, chuckling softly as he moved deftly to slice some dried tropical fruit. "Tempting?"

She looked at him, a small smile coming to her. "Not truly," she said and turned to face him fully. "I never found the dancefloor a good place for conversation."

"I think they're having a conversation of a very different kind," Rook chuckled softly, a low sound as he slid a plate across to her with some of the diced dried tropical fruit, having noted her lack luster reaction to the nuts.

She reached for a piece, smiling as she ate it. Her eyes closed for a moment. "Mango," she said softly. "Ataulfo mango is I am not mistaken? They're hard to dry right..." she opened her eyes and smiled. "Thank you."

He gave an elegant shrug in welcome, looking to the dancers with a small smile. "What does tempt you to the dancefloor? The Tango?"

"Hardly," she said before she reached for another piece of fruit. "I don't like dancing. It's a performance. Where to talk with all eyes on you, to conspire or deceive. No. I've been to enough balls in my life, dancefloors in bars are just...a step in the mating dance. A different performance. I don't do those either," she met his eyes before she chuckled.

"Mating practices?" he asked, but there was a touch of humour pulling at his lips, knowing the cheek of his question.

She chuckled softly, meeting his eyes before she shook her head, watching him. "I'm not interested in that. Never have been."

"Ah...well dance can be an artform in its own right," he pointed out before chuckling softly at the display before them. "Perhaps...not quite like that..."

She chuckled as she nodded, finishing her drink before she took more fruit. Her eyes were on him though, studying the man before her. "I think you, like me, like observing. Reading a lifetime in people's behaviour."

"Knowledge is power," Rook replied softly, as if it explained it all. He finally met her eyes again, his own glinting with...something. "Can I get you another?"

"Yes, please," she said with a small smile, her eyes on him. Taking in the glint, the truth of the words. Knowledge was power. Far more than anything else. That...and the will to yield it..

"Same again? Or do you trust me to paint you another palate?" he asked idly, his eyes on her despite the casual tone.

She watched his eyes at the words, carefully chosen. It was time to show her colours...whether she trusted him or not. "Show me what you think I'd like," she said softly.

Rook chuckled with satisfaction, nodding quickly as he took a shaker down, dropping ice in deftly. He searched through a set of bottles under the counter, coming up with a plain one that had a well used cork in the top. He opened the white tea and bergamot gin that he'd infused himself, pouring a generous measure over the ice. He added dry sherry along with a few precise drops of cardamon bitters. He took a few moments to shake it vigorously before pouring into a coupe. He reached for a strip of candied orange peel, laying it over the top of the rim before sliding it in front of her. "The Looking Glass...still waters run deep."

Her eyes met his, her own warm. "It's been awhile since I've seen a mixologist at their finest," she said and took it. She lifted the coupe carefully, holding the stem, letting herself smell the drink first. She could smell the bergamot and the cardamon, the orange peel subtle with its sugar. She took a sip, closing her eyes as she allowed herself to judge the complexity of it.

He raised an expectant eyebrow, holding her eyes boldly as he awaited judgement.

"Oddly warming, not too dry, the tea mellows it...but the sherry still bites," she said as she met his eyes. "It's a good sherry too, none of the stuff for tourists. Some purists would say it is too nice to waste on a cocktail. I disagree."

"I know you prefer assam, but it would have ruined the name of the drink," he chuckled, settling down now the verdict was in.

She raised an eyebrow at that before she took a slow breath. "You're good at gathering information," she said softly. It wasn't a criticism, or suspicion. Just admiration for his skill.

"I have my sources," he tapped the side of his nose with a finger, not making it clear whether it was the human gesture for 'my secret'...or indicating an advanced sense of smell.

She chuckled softly, giving a small nod. "This drink is remarkable the way it is," she said, lifting it in an elegant toast to him and his skill.

Rook bowed his head, his hand touching his chest as he gave a small but charming smile. "I live to serve..."

---

Lt. jg Connie Montoya
Counsellor
USS Guinevere

&

Rook
Proprietor of The Green Kiss
USS Guinevere

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