Title: Fearful Symmetry
Part: Prologue
Disclaimer: The characters of Willow Rosenberg,Tara Maclay, Charles Gunn or the reasonable facsimiles that I employ in this story, are the property of Joss Whedon and Mutant Enemy productions. The setting for the story is within the universe of Star Trek, created by Gene Roddenberry and owned by Paramount Pictures, Inc. No infringement of copyright is intended. The other characters are the creation of either myself or several colleagues who don't care what I do with them.
Pairing: W/T (or rather, the W/T who inhabit this universe.)
Spoilers: None (as this does not take place in the Buffyverse at all, we're all safe as far as that goes. As to Trek, this takes place mid- Deep Space Nine (fourth season), approximately two months after the events of Equilibration
Rating: PG-13. Warnings for violence and some spicy talk
Summary: The crew of the starship Hannibal face a dangerous enemy...and find an unlikely ally -- a figure out of Willow's past, who may be even more dangerous...
Note: This story is a sequel of sorts to Equilibration -- you will need to read that one if you haven't already (and if you haven't, shame on you! :) ) to understand this one. It's also a sequel to a story I actually haven't written...but don't worry; I don't think I'll lose you on this. :)
I know this first part doesn't have Willow and Tara in it; don't worry, they won't be long. And besides, it does feature one character some of you have wanted to see more of...
Feedback: NEW EMAIL ADDRESS! Reply here or email me at captmurdock@gmail.com. Thanks

****
Prologue

Farius Prime
Nineteen light-years from UFP border
Stardate 50273
Earth Year 2372

None of the low-lifes in the bar knew that from the moment the old man came in, the Destroyer walked among them.

On first glance, a stranger to The Smiling Targ, not exactly the social hotspot of Farius Prime, would have surmised that the inhabitants of said bar customarily ignored the random stranger just sauntering in off the sweltering streets. Actually, that assessment would have be wrong; the bar’s inhabitants were well paid to scrutinize, albeit as surreptitiously as possible, everybody who walked in who didn’t belong…which was, of course, everybody but them. From pre-determined locations at the tables, the four humanoids, the Flaxian, and the Nausicaan all scanned any and all who wandered in.

Farius Prime itself was not quite a vacation spot, being among other things a virtual safe haven for the Orion Syndicate. The planet was outside the sovereign space of the United Federation of Planets; however, it was situated along several trade routes that made it fairly unfeasible to simply bypass.

So they all gave the old man the quick once-over, saw the white hair tied back in a tail, noted the white beard covering the lower half of the wrinkled face, and snickered at the walking stick the old man used as he made his way from the entrance to the bar stools on the other side of the dim room. None of them saw how the oldster scrutinized them in turn, a mere glance taking in their every detail; nor could they tell that he could feel every vibration in the air, smell the musky odors that emanated from each, tasted every drink from across the room. He walked straight and easy, the gait of a much younger man, the walking stick apparently no more than an affectation.

Actually, it was far more than merely that.

The bartender glanced up as the old man parked himself on the stool directly across from him, laying the walking stick across the bar with a loud clatter. The bartender hardly bothered to hide his annoyance. Given that most of his trade was transient, or lost, he never cultivated an air of hospitality. “What do you want?”

The old man smirked slightly, the wrinkles lifting slightly upward, cheerfully ignoring the bartender’s briskness. “Altair water, if you please.”

The bartender rolled his eyes, reached for a semi-clean glass and the appropriate bottle, and poured an amount that only the most miserly of souls would call generous. The old man slid a slip of gold-pressed latinum – the modicum of exchange for many non-aligned worlds – and gingerly sipped the effervescent liquid.

Seeing that he had accomplished the minimum expected of his job description, the bartender decided to see if he could take care of some business at the other end of the bar. The old man nonchalantly slid his walking stick forward, blocking the bartender’s way. The ancient face wore a sly smile that didn’t quite touch the slightly almond-shaped eyes.

The bartender was about to snarl something about being busy, when the old man asked in a deceptively conversational tone, “Where is Muldoon?”

Even though the bartender kept an admirable poker-face, he need not have bothered. Eyes that could discern the minutest change in body language registered the negative reaction the enquiry generated. His only slightly choked “I don’t know who you’re talkin’ ‘bout, gramps” did nothing for his credibility.

“Don’t lie to me, and don’t call me ‘gramps’,” the old man replied, the steel edge in his voice sharpening by the syllable. “I have it on very good authority that Kaiser Muldoon has at least a minority interest in this upscale cesspool. I have business with Mr. Muldoon, long-delayed business, and I dislike having my time taken up with…” he paused, searching for a somewhat polite pejorative. “…flunkies. Especially the ones gathering behind me.”

The bartender blinked in surprise, then looked past the old man to the four guys who had risen from their chairs and made their way quietly behind where the old man sat…so quietly, in fact, that the bartender had not noticed before now. Not so quietly, on the other hand, that the old man was unaware of their presence.

The nearest one, a wiry, medium-sized Tiburon with gold eyes and blue-black hair, the extra-large outer ears adorned with multiple jewels, took a half-step forward. “I think it’s time you left, old man,” the Tiburon snarled with a good deal of menace.

The addressee of this pronouncement drained the last of his Altair water and set the glass down on the bar. “Hmmm…actually, I think what’s on the menu now…is the four of you make a pathetic attempt to kill me.” Even those to whom the old man had his back turned to could tell the twinkle in his eye as he said this.

The Tiburon lunged forward and grabbed the old man by the shoulder, pulling to spin him around on the bar stool. However, he still had his left hand on his walking stick; as he was spun around, the wooden shaft was propelled neatly into the Tiburon’s crotch with incredible speed. The large-eared alien would have cried out or at least whoof!ed in surprise if the pain had not caused his throat to constrict to a fraction of its usual size. A feeble gurgle was all he could utter as he fell to the floor.

“Whoops! Terribly sorry about that, mi hijo,” the old man said, in the most unconvincingly tone possible.

Two of their other thugs, both virtually pass-for-human, charged forward to avenge this slight on their comrade’s honor (and his ability to reproduce). The one on the old man’s left, clad in a dirty green coverall, threw a punch towards the ancient face. With incredible ease and swiftness, he deflected the blow, causing his attacker to move himself off-balance. As to his partner, a straggly individual in an pseudo-leather jacket and breeches, the old man aimed a kick to the nearest knee with inhuman precision. The bartender winced at the audible crunch of cartilage. Leather Jacket crumpled to the floor, holding his knee and, given the whines he was uttering in an unfamiliar language, calling for his mother.

Before Green Coverall could recover his balance, the old man shot out his free hand at incredible speed, seeming to lightly touch his attacker just below the armpit with the tipped of his bunched fingers. With a guttural cry, Green Coverall dropped to the floor, his body wracked with spasms as his nervous system tried unsuccessfully to cope with a powerful, precise impact. At this point, Leather Jacket, trying to use his fractured knee and not succeeding too well, was propelled into the lower part of the bar by an incredibly forceful shove from the old man, who was clearly stronger than he looked.

The fourth humanoid, who seemed to be the cleanest inhabitant of the bar (not excepting the bartender), stood stunned at the incredible swiftness of the old man’s moves. Three of his men had been downed in a matter of seconds. Unbelievable. He clawed for the miniature disrupter at his hip…

“Catch!” The old man suddenly threw his walking stick sidewise at Boss Man. Reacting instinctively, he just managed to catch it…which naturally left him vulnerable to the palm-strike that caught him on the chin and knocked him into the table and chairs behind him. He barely had time to be disgusted with himself for falling for such an old trick before unconsciousness claimed him.

The old man had scarcely retrieved the stick when the Nausicaan, dressed in the metal-and-leather outfit that made him look like a low-rent Klingon, stood up and uttered a string of consonants and fricatives in his native language. The bartender did not understand a word of it, but the old man apparently did, for he chuckled and said, “My goodness…do you kiss your mother with that mouth?” Then he glanced meaningfully at the Nausicaan’s rather long and fearsome teeth and quipped, “Probably not…you might bite her face off.” Then he pulled a chagrined face and shrugged at the bartender. “Cheap joke. Sorry.”

The Nausicaan snarled, reached to his waist and pulled out a blade, a short sword or a long dagger, the bartender had trouble telling which, with a serrated edge. The old man hardly seemed threatened, although he prudently moved away from the bar and his downed opponents as he scoffed, “You call that a sword? That’s a bread knife with delusions of grandeur! Now this…”

He grasped the head of his walking stick and pulled, drawing out a long smooth blade at least a meter long. “…is some serious cutlery!” He let the other half of the walking stick drop to the floor and, with dancer-like grace, assumed a defensive posture, holding the handle of the zatuichi with both hands.

The Nausicaan charged, swinging his blade towards the old man’s neck. With deceptive casualness, he deflected the strike, then assumed his ready stance without making any sort of counterattack. Again the Nausicaan swung, and again the old man knocked aside the blade almost lazily.

This continued for nearly a minute, as the Nausicaan’s thrusts became more and more frenzied, before the old man grew weary of the exercise. After deflecting one particularly inept attack, he swung his sword around and sliced across the front of the Nausicaan’s torso. Spinning around faster than the bartender would have believed, he sliced again, this time making a long laceration from the Nausicaan’s left shoulder almost to his right hip.

The large brute staggered, looked down at the blood flowing out of the two cuts, and fell his knees, his sword dropping as he instinctively tried to staunch the flow. The old man walked slowly around him, keeping his sword in a ready position; from his vantage point several meters away, the bartender made a silent bet with himself that the Nausicaan’s head would imminently be forcibly separated from his shoulders. After a moment, the old man then shrugged, and with a lightning-fast movement tapped the Nausicaan just behind his ear with the wooden hilt of his zatuichi. The big alien went down on his face with satisfying swiftness.

Striding towards the bartender, the old man, barely slowing his pace, toed the wooden cane-sheath of his sword, which had been dropped to the floor, and flipped it up to catch it with his free hand. He twirled the hollow staff absently as he approached the shaken bartender, the whoo-iss whoo-iss as the ends of the staff cut threw the making the man extremely uncomfortable, even as it sank in that the old man had subdued his colleagues in less than two minutes, without even breaking a sweat.

“Now then,” the old man said in a conversational tone, as if he had not been rudely interrupted, “we were discussing your employer. Kaiser Muldoon.” The razor-sharp point of the sword stopped half a meter from the bartender’s throat, not wavering an iota. “Where is he?”

Across the room, half-hidden in the shadows generated by The Smiling Targ’s inadequate lighting, the Flaxian decided it was time to end matters. He decided, as he drew the small Rigelian phaser, to shoot the bartender first, to keep him from talking and to set an example to anyone else who might betray their employer. Then the old man would die.

His finger tightened on the trigger…as a flash of silver coming from his right made him blink involuntarily. When he recovered, he saw that the muzzle of his phaser had been sliced off, rendering it inoperable. He glanced down at the floor, looking for the end of his pistol.

He found it…along with about half of his index finger. It was right about then that his nervous system recovered sufficiently to tell him, yes, he was in excruciating pain. He dropped what was left of his weapon, partly from shock, partly from the tip of the sword now hovering about five centimeters from his neck. He clasped his free hand around his bleeding digit as he cried out.

The bartender jumped, startled. The old man, however, merely rolled his eyes, as if yet another bothersome interruption had manifested itself, barely sparing a glance at what the bartender now gaped at.

The newcomer was a well-dressed human, his clothes elegant although, at least to the bartender’s untrained and decidedly unfashionable eye, somewhat retrograde in style, like something copied out of an old cinevid from the turn of the millennium. His straight black hair, tan skin and almond eyes marked him as having considerable Asian ancestry, far more so than the old man, in fact.

His sword, too, was a single-edged blade, obviously made to be concealed as a walking-stick, although the outside was a black onyx-like covering, with gold inlay marking a number of designs.

The old man sighed. “Kids,” he muttered, more to himself than the bartender. Then, squaring his shoulders, he addressed the bartender, motioning towards a nearby chair. “Sietese.” The bartender stared at him blankly. “Park it,” the old man growled irritably. The bartender scurried over and plunked himself down, grabbing onto the chair as if gravity might reverse itself unexpectedly.

The old man strode over to where his companion was keeping watch over the Flaxian, expertly sheathing his sword and turning it back into a (relatively) harmless walking stick. Smiling as if the alien had not tried to give him the Big Zap mere moments ago, the old man genially inquired, “Now then…would you happen to know where I can find Mr. Muldoon?”

****

“Master, he might have shot you!”

The old man strode through the alleyway, some blocks from The Smiling Targ, with his young companion in tow. The two were conversing in what most people familiar with Terran languages would have identified as Japanese…though the dialect was one of centuries past.

It was the language of the House of Onada.

“Oh, bull cookies!” This expletive caused the old man, the Master of Onada, to lapse into English. “He wasn’t even aiming at me. Hell, he probably couldn’t hit the broad side of the Moon from New Berlin."

Yoshikiro Onada, the Disciple of Onada, did not deign to repeat that what his Master had told him often enough: that it was not the most skilled assassins and warriors one has to watch out for, but the dumb-butt amateurs who could just as easily shoot their own heads off. Instead, he pressed on with his main concern… “Master, why does this man Muldoon trouble you so?”

“Because he’s very dangerous, Kiro. By himself, he’s dangerous. Unfortunately, he’s apparently beginning to ally himself with the forces that would destroy everything I once spent my life trying to defend.”

“Yes, once. But you are no longer in Starfleet. Please, Master, let them handle this matter.” Kiro’s pleas were tinged with affection for the old man, the one who had taught him his true potential, who had been his virtual father for decades. They were also tinged with concern; although the Master was wise, as befit his age of over a century and a quarter, he still carried in him the recklessness of his long-departed youth.

The Master should his head. “No, Kiro. It’s never been my way to shirk responsibility.” His pace slowed perceptibly as memory overcame him. “I had the opportunity, once, to put an end to Muldoon once and for all. But I was a different person then. In some ways, a better person.” He shrugged off his reminiscence and continued down the alleyway, never ceasing to sweep the area around him with every sense, perceiving the world around him on a level most beings could barely imagine. “Now, at least, I know where he is: Adigeon Prime.”

Even as he entreated his master, Kiro too maintained his constant vigil, as he was trained to do from his adolescence. “Then let me go with you, Master. Your struggles are mine. We are Onada. You need never walk alone.”

The old man stopped and turned, favoring his spiritual son with a smile. “Gracias, mi hijo,” he said, lapsing into another of his many languages. “But one of us is enough. If the worst should happen, then the House of Onada will need a Master.” He held up a hand to forestall the inevitable protest. “You are more than ready. Hell, you’re better than I was at your age. You will do the House proud.” He turned and walked away.

Kiro quickened his pace to catch up. “Then perhaps you should contact your friend from your former days, the one is now a Starfleet captain. The man you call Cassius.”

The old man stopped again; however, he did not turn. “He is not a part of this. I will not involve him.”

“Master…”

The Master of Onada turned, anger blazing from his eyes. “No. No more discussion.” The sharp tone of his voice and his patriarchal authority were more than enough to silence the younger man, who bowed in acquiescence. The ancient one stepped closer to his disciple, deep affection softening the harsh lines of his face. “Go home, Kiro.”

“Hei, Sensei,” Kiro answered, as he watched the Master of Onada walk away, towards the spaceport that would carry him to Adigeon Prime, until the shadows took him from sight.

****

Hours later, aboard the transport that would take him back to the Federation core worlds, and eventually to Earth, Kiro meditated in his private cabin. He was contemplating a course of action which, though his master had not specifically forbid, was still a breach of the code of honor they both shared.

And yet, do I do nothing? Right or wrong, that is not Our Way. He would deal with the consequences, if any, when his master would hopefully return intact to the House of Onada, to the ancestral home in Japan where it had stood for three thousand years.

Rising up from the deck where he had knelt in meditation – and prayer for his master’s safety – Kiro crossed over to the workdesk with its computer terminal. He keyed in a sequence, requesting access to the communications system for a private message. It took him a few seconds to recall the name that the Master’s old friend went by nowadays. The name of the starship he commanded, on the other hand, Kiro could not fail to recall…

MURDOCK, ULYSSES S., CAPT
USS HANNIBAL NCC-71669

MESSAGE BEGINS…

Oh, cool. I'm a big Trek fan. I read Equilibration a while back and really liked it. Can't wait to read more of this.

Captain, I see you have started another story involving our ccache of wonderful characters, as well as Mr. Whedon's creations as well. I am looking forward to this one as much as I got sucked into the first. I have no doubt about the quality, but no pressure.

Cool! That was a great intro - the old Master had so much style. It was like watching David Carradine crossed with Sean Connery and Patrick MacNee - awesome! Definitely the beginning of a top-notch adventure. And from your little hints, I've got an inkling of who this adventure might involve... is there an ISS Hannibal out there?



Is it okay if I put this on Looking-glass along with Equilibration? I've got a graphic all ready



Edited to add: I knew I was forgetting to mention someone - I could absolutely hear Christopher Lambert's voice for all of the Master's lines. From the first Highlander, of course, the good one.

Chris Cook

Through the Looking-glass

A Willow and Tara for every world.

Edited by: Artemis at: 1/25/05 10:24 pm

Thank you all for the nice feedback. Nice to know I can start a story without jumping straight into the W/T-hot-n-heavy (we'll get that in a little bit.



Artemis: Please do. Can't wait to see the graphic. And it's so cool that you get the Sean Connery influence; I often picture the old man -- at this age at least -- as SC, looking much as he did from the movie Medicine Man (a good one of his, IMHO).



Patrick Macnee? Hmm... never thought about that. And of course David Carradine, long a favorite of mine (did you know he was once considered a replacement for Leonard Nimoy as Spock for Season 3 of TOS? Fascinating...) As for Chris Lambert, I used to borrow his voice and mannerism from Highlander for another character in the shared Trek universe...



No, no ISS Hannibal (or Willow's Evil-Skanky-and-ahem-Narcissistic counterpart here...that is another story.



Capt Serek: good to see you! Thanks for the vote of confidence. And no spilling the beans on the identity of the old man!



Pressure? What, me worry?



the hero factor: thank you. Glad to see you enjoyed the first story so much. I hope to make this one as enjoyable.



I hope to have the next part up soon, gang (yeah, like you have not heard that one before. Love ya!

_________________



"Many such journeys are possible. Let me be your gateway."

Hi-ya Capt. First, let me gush and say I really love your works. Equilibration was such a great mix of Trek and W/T. It honestly felt like an episode. And I really enjoy the variety of characters you craft, so having parts without W/T are no problem. I'm waiting patiently for more adventures with the crew.



~Cyd

---

All you need to start an asylum is an empty room and the right kind of people.

~Eugene Pallette in My Man Godfrey (1936)



Altered Shadows

Capt. Murdock: I have no intention of spoiling anything in regards to your story currently unfolding, that would be rude. Besides, I am sure the kittens want to know what happens next the same as I.

Artemis: Very cool graphic. I liked your graphics on the previous Hannibal story.

Hi Cap't great to see a return with thiswonderful story and I am with Chris I could just see Sean Connery playing the old master and funny it had a Highlander feel for me too. Very interesting, can't wait for more

Freddie is king

Title: Fearful Symmetry



Part: Chapter One



Disclaimer: The characters of Willow Rosenberg,Tara Maclay, Charles Gunn or the reasonable facsimiles that I employ in this story, are the property of Joss Whedon and Mutant Enemy productions. The setting for the story is within the universe of Star Trek, created by Gene Roddenberry and owned by Paramount Pictures, Inc. No infringement of copyright is intended. The other characters are the creation of either myself or several colleagues who don't care what I do with them.



Pairing: W/T (or rather, the W/T who inhabit this universe.)



Spoilers: None (as this does not take place in the Buffyverse at all, we're all safe as far as that goes. As to Trek, this takes place mid- Deep Space Nine (fourth season), approximately two months after the events of Equilibration.



Rating: PG-13. Warnings for violence and some spicy talk



Summary: The crew of the starship Hannibal face a dangerous enemy...and find an unlikely ally -- a figure out of Willow's past, who may be even more dangerous...



Note: This story is a sequel of sorts to Equilibration -- you will need to read that one if you haven't already (and if you haven't, shame on you! ) to understand this one. It's also a sequel to a story I actually haven't written...but don't worry; I don't think I'll lose you on this. This is a short update...I'll have more written soon. I just wanted to get some up here ASAP. Y'know, they say never start a story with the characters waking up in bed. Poop on that.



Feedback: NEW EMAIL ADDRESS! Reply here or email me at capt_murdock@ispwest.com. Thanks.



****



Chapter One



USS Hannibal

NCC-71669



From long habit, Tara Maclay was an early riser. Well before the computer chimed and raised the lights in her quarters, she awoke to find Willow Rosenberg next to her, still asleep, as she had awoken to find her lover next to her for most of the last two months.



Rolling over, Tara maneuvered her arms around Willow’s body, sliding over and under the soft skin and resting between gentle curves, gently pulling the two of them together. The redhead murmured softly, shifting slightly with the new warmth at her back as Tara’s breasts pressed against her shoulder blades.



Tara luxuriated in the feel of skin on skin, simultaneously chagrined that the two of them had slept au natural. Not that she was ashamed of that, or even that it was against regulations, per se. It was just expect that, as Starfleet officers, they were somewhat expected to remain “decent” at all hours, as much as possible.



“After all,” Willow had remarked on one occasion, “we might need to repel a Jem’Hadar attack in our jammies.”



Tara had smiled at that. “Frankly, I think the Jem’Hadar would be repelled most effectively by your use of the word ‘jammies’.” She’d gotten a pillow in the face for that one, which had led to full-scale hostilities, which thankfully was settled without loss of life, except for one of their pillows.



Besides, last night had been a special occasion…a reunion, of sorts. Really, it had been all her idea…



“Are you breaking up with me?” Willow had cried out a few nights ago in Tara’s quarters, when Tara had suggested they try sleeping apart once in a while. “Why? Tara, what did I do? What did I not do? I don’t understand, this is –“



“Willow, shush!” Tara’s expression had combined equal parts of bemusement and exasperation. Well, all right, maybe the bemusement was ahead somewhat.



“Okay, shushing now…”



Tara had had to struggle not to laugh at Willow’s Contrite Face. She reached over and took her lover’s hands, drawing them to her chest in an expression of affection. “Sweetie, being with you has been the best thing that’s ever h-happened to me. I don’t think I’ve ever been this happy.”



“Well, me neither, baby. So why…?”



“Willow, I love going to bed with you, and I love waking up with you in the morning. It-it’s just, I-I don’t want it to, y’know, grow stale. D’you g-get it?”



Tara’s empathic senses had picked up Willow’s dawning comprehension (and incredible relief) even as she smiled. “Yeah, I do. You wanna keep that, sort of, glow, that God-it’s-wonderful-to-be-alive feeling, before we turn into the Old Folks at Home. Y’know, cheating at bingo together and forgetting to take our pills…”



Hearing Willow put her feelings into different words had given Tara’s anxieties a new slant. “Actually, th-th-this is kinda selfish of m-me, isn’t it?”



“No, it’s not,” Willow had countered firmly. Then she had reconsidered. “Okay, a little, but you know, that’s not necessarily a bad thing. I mean, I’m not sure I want to, uh, be with, an absolute saint. ‘Cause, you know, the sinners are much more fun.”



Tara had rolled her eyes. “That’s what I get with you listening to the captain’s ‘classical’ music selection at the Tart ‘n’ Drum.” She smiled then. “So, w-we’re okay? I-I mean, you’re okay with this, right?”



“Sure. I mean, I got lots of reports I can peruse, scientific journals to catch up on, all sorts of stuff to keep my busy little brain happy.” Willow stood up from the chair in the front room. “So, I guess I’ll mosey on to my quarters…”



Tara had stood then and grabbed Willow’s hand again. “No need to rush off.” She gave her sexist lopsided grin.



After she and Willow had had “one for the road,” she had used her free time that evening to catch up on some crew evaluations for her superior, the senior counselor Dr. Charles Devereux. Tara had dinner with Willow the next evening, which was very pleasant, and she had again returned to her quarters alone.



Several hours later, even after reading more psychology journals than she had ever read since Starfleet Academy, Tara still could not sleep. After a glass of warm milk (her mother’s balm for insomnia) failed to do anything, she was considering going down to Sickbay to see if they could prescribe anything, when the chime at her door startled her.



She padded out to the front room and called out, “Yes?” The door opened to reveal Willow, clad in her pajamas and robe. The sheepish expression on her face was so cute…



“Hi,” Tara had said. “Wh-what’s wrong?”



Willow half-shrugged. “I can’t sleep, Tara.”



Tara sagged, partly in defeat, but mostly in relief. “Oh, thank God! Neither can I!” She rushed over to Willow’s waiting arms, kissing her deeply even as eager hands started pulling the nightgown from her body.



Clothes flew like a warp-core explosion. The two of them had barely made it to the bedroom before succumbing to one another.



TBC

_________________



"Many such journeys are possible. Let me be your gateway."

Edited by: CaptMurdock at: 2/13/05 3:55 pm

A sequel to Equilibration? Yay! I loved it, so I'm assuming I'll love this too... no pressure though Captain...

I got bitten by a drunk lesbian! Does that mean I'll turn into one?



~my friend Mary

Heeeey .... very cool...I loved the first story...really looking forward to this one...



FC

So the first chapter instead of being "they woke up" would be "they went back to sleep"... if they slept at all. Iam just teasing. I, of course want to see how the old man and the USS Hannibal come to play and who else that we are familiar with might be involved.

A Klingon/Betzed Counselor: "I feel your pain, and like it."

Hello Kittens-



Thank goodness they realized the importance of sleep!



Oh happy day, another CaptMurdock story. I think I'll settle in with a bottle of Romulan ale and enjoy.





Jixer

Tempest Duer: Yeah, no pressure, right.







Captain Serek: Well, they did get to sleep eventually. . I think the old man is enough for now. After all, the Kittens have met him before.



Put it another way: Don't start with...Him.



jixer: You're only supposed to use that stuff for medicinal purposes ..like sterilizing scalpels.



Thank you all for the feeback. I'll try to post most of the story soon.

_________________



"Many such journeys are possible. Let me be your gateway."

Edited by: CaptMurdock at: 1/30/05 4:56 am

Aw, no Mirror Willow yet... Oh well, doesn't matter, I'm sure whatever you've got in store for us this time will be a great story nonetheless.



(Plus, I get to continue my private fantasy of Mirror Tara, Raptor-Empress of the Klingon-Cardassian Alliance... )



That was a really cute intro to Willow and Tara post-Equilibration - their little experiment in staying in their own beds was kind of cute, but Willow showing up in the middle of the night and Tara's "Oh thank god!" reaction was hilarious

Chris Cook

Through the Looking-glass

A Willow and Tara for every world.

{Continued from before)



****



Now, the next morning, Tara sighed as she pulled Willow closer to her. The redhead murmured again, as she often did in sleep. It had taken a few nights for Tara to get used to Willow suddenly spouting some nonsensical phrase at oh-something-hundred hours. Several times the blonde had shaken her lover awake, afraid that she was in the throes of some horrible nightmare, usually involving frogs, clowns or Gilbert & Sullivan, if not some ghastly combination of all the above.



"It's in the food synthesizer," Willow was muttering sleepily.



Tara grinned, nudging the stirring form beside her. "Willow, you're dreaming. Wake up."



A slight shift in the mental radiation that Tara received… "All DNA, assume standard orbit."



"Now you're faking," the blonde rejoined.



"A little," Willow admitted, opening her eyes and turning over to face her bedmate. "Hi."



"Hi." Tara leaned over for the morning kiss, as well as the obligatory dour expression for the "morning breath" that not even twenty-fourth-century technology (and the Hannibal's virtually germ-free environment) could entirely eliminate. Tara, at least, was philosophical in accepting this as a minor drawback in an otherwise heavenly arrangement.



A cheery beep heralded the computer raising the lights to a muted glow as it announced "Oh-five-thirty-hours."



Sighing, Tara released Willow and rose from the bed. "C'mon, sweetie. Time to get up."



Groaning, Willow countered, "Don't wanna..." sounding like a recalcitrant toddler.



Tara rolled her eyes. Left to her own devices, Willow would, Tara had no doubt, be out of bed at exactly the requisite hour, do her necessary morning routine, and report for her shift unfailingly on time. However, since being with Tara these last two months, the science officer has seemingly dumped all the responsibility of getting her rear in gear in the morning onto Tara's shoulder. So I guess I'm 'Mom' in this little scenario.



Maybe I like that.



However, she was not going to let Willow get away with it unscathed. Bending down and grasping the bedclothes, Tara yanked them off the bed, leaving Willow exposed in her skin. "Gaaahhh!" The redhead shivered theatrically, apparently forgetting the precise temperature-controlled environment in their quarters.



"Sorry, sweetie, but the gymnasium awaits." Tara dropped the bedclothes on the deck -- they would make the bed later -- and padded towards the vanity dresser for her workout togs.



Willow grimaced. "What's on the schedule at the Torture Mill today?"



"Chekkah practice with Thelvran."



"Ohhh, great. Andorian chop-socky. That hurts worse than the regular chop-socky. Hey, why don't we do swimming today. You know, wet watery goodness, without all the stinky sweat..."



"We did swimming yesterday, Will." Tara had already gathered up her white gi, and tossed Willow hers.



“Slavedriver.” Sulking like a five-year-old child, Willow struggled into the gi.



Actually, once the two of them got to the gymnasium, and had done the preliminary stretching and practice-falling, Willow was the more aggressive of the two when Lt. Thelvran, their teacher and ship’s security chief, had them demonstrate the chekkah moves against himself. She often used martial-arts moves that her friend Buffy, her roommate at Starfleet Academy and on the original USS Hannibal, had showed her years before, which combined with her natural reflexes made the science officer somewhat more formidable than she looked. Not that it did Willow any good; while the Andorian was not nearly as intense in the training sessions with the regular crew as he was with his security staff, the exercises inevitably ended with Willow, with Tara usually beside her, ass-over-teakettle on the padded deck, out of breath and wishing she could have stayed in bed.



“I am sorry, Lieutenant,” Thelvran said, his blue face long with genuine regret. “However, I must say that you are not bad at all. Have you ever considered switching to Security?”



“Gee,” puffed Willow, casting a sidelong glance at Tara, who similarly was trying to figure out which way was up, “Have I ever.”



Frequently, they would see some of the other senior officers wandering through the gymnasium. Dr. Devereux had recently thrown himself back into his fitness regimen, in the process showing how much of the strength he had retained from his long youth. Olivia Faraday, the first officer, cut an impressive figure (and she had one, too, as both Willow and Tara remarked) as she exercised; on one memorable morning, the middle-aged Sikh had engaged Thelvran in a “friendly” sparring match that had Willow muttering privately to Tara that she wished she could have sold tickets to this match.



On more rare occasions, they saw the captain using a small, private alcove. It was just enclosed enough to separate it from the rest of the gym, without being complete inaccessible. Tara thought it odd that Captain Murdock, who was so open and accessible himself, would be so reticent in this way. Willow countered, when the two of them were alone and her partner has expressed this sentiment, that it might have had something to do with Murdock being a lot stronger than he looked…



“Did you happen to notice the setting on the gravimetrics machine he was using?” Willow had asked they had innocently walked on him using the machine, which involved lifting one’s weight while in an artificially-heightened gravity field (a small feat, considering all the gravity on a starship is artificially generated). Tara had shaken her head. “He had it on five gees.”



“Whoa-oa,” the counselor had replied. That was like carrying four people who weighted exactly what you did on your back at once. Most humans barely got much past two gees.



The other memorable incident was when they had heard two different voices coming from the alcove. Their curiosity getting the better of them, they had drifted over to find the captain wearing a t-shirt and (hilarious!) silk boxing shorts, facing a similarly-clad young man with dark skin and a confident expression. They both wore large padded gloves and circled one another in the confined area defined by the jury-rigged holoemitters and engaged in sparring, verbal and otherwise.



“I be takin’ you down, man,” the holographic man jeered, his fancy footwork never ceasing, shoulders dipping at random moments to dodge imaginary blows to the head. “’Cause I’m so fast, I’m so foxy and I’m so pretty!”



“If you wanted to dance, pal,” Murdock rejoined, “I’d put on some James Brown. Now, did I program you to bore me to death, or are we gonna box?”



“Hey, Brother James, he got some good dance moves,” the captain’s opponent conceded, finally putting his guard up, “but nothing on me…but, hey, speakin’ of pretty,” he added, apparently noticing Willow and Tara peaking into the alcove.



The captain made the mistake of turning his head towards the two, leaving himself open to a quick left jab. It didn’t knock him down, being little more than a love-tap, but it made his opponent grin. Shaking his head, Murdock intoned, “Computer, freeze program.” After the holographic boxer had obediently become a statue of light and force-fields, the captain turned again to Willow and Tara. “Can I help you?” he asked, a little nettled.



“Sorry, sir,” came Tara’s diffident reply.



“We were, um, just wondering about your friend there,” Willow added, giving her best eager-young-space-cadet grin.



Murdock shrugged. “Just reviewing my footwork and stuff. Now, if you’ll excuse me…” As they left, they could hear him reactivating the hologram, who resumed taunting the captain with a singsong, “Float like the butterfly, sting like the bee…you’re goin’ down, ‘cause you ain’t as pretty as me…” The two barely made it out of the gym before coming down with a terminal case of The Giggles.



This day, however, was much less eventful, if not less bruiseworthy. After their workout session, they went back to Tara’s quarters for some breakfast and some quiet time together. Willow’s waffles with goobajack syrup went down as quickly as Tara’s mushroom omelette. Then the two headed for the sonic shower.



Doffing their workout clothes and tossing them in the general direction of the autovalet, they stepped into the shower together, only partly to save time, nor was it entirely for erotic reasons. Not that there was no intimate talk or touch to be had as the pair scrubbed one another, applying soap to those hard-to-reach places…or even those not-so-hard-to-reach-but-oh-so-fun-to-touch places. This was their time to shut out the rest of the universe, if only for a little while, to ensure that they each sent the other off to her day in the best of moods. Given the hazardous nature of duty and life in Starfleet, they both knew that on any day, this might be the time that would be saying good-bye.



“Do you know how much I love you?” Willow asked, her arms wrapped around Tara as the water and sonic waves gently lashed the two of them.



“I never get tired of you telling me how much,” Tara replied, one hand caressing the redhead’s face. “And it’s not nearly as much as I love you.” She frowned as the computer’s chime heralded the beginning of their allotted time in the sonic shower. She sighed. “Will…”



“I know. Time.”



TBC

_________________



"Many such journeys are possible. Let me be your gateway."

Hello Kittens-



Mornings on the Hannibal are at least nice, but even on a starship that off to work part of the morning still does suck. It's nice to see the sensualist Willow is brought out by Tara. Would not any sane being pout about being forced to get up if they were sleeping with Tara?



Now I can see Willow on Security as a detective, working out a puzzling case. Then I think about all that still time when it's just waiting or securing an area, how fast Willow gets bored, and how curious she is. Perhaps Security would be a very, very bad idea.





Jixer

Even in 400 years, some things never change: morning breath, and Willow/Tara sweetness Willow's so cute and pouty in the morning.



I agree with Jixer on no transferring to security. They've got the second-highest casualty rate in the fleet, just behind fighter pilots (and we all know fighter pilots are nuts) - Willow should definitely stay in the science department. All that intellectual stimulation, the thrill of encountering strange a new life-forms and pointing a tricorder at them (as opposed to being shot by them, like the security guys are). Plus I think Willow looks great in aqua blue. Red hair and a maroon-gold uniform just wouldn't work...



I really liked their moment in the shower, that really solidified the nature of their life together, as officers, not just average people who happen to be on a starship.

Chris Cook

Through the Looking-glass

A Willow and Tara for every world.

i really loved your fic Equilibration so i thought it was great that you are doing the sequel now. good stuff



shandem

Willow: I was trying to program in some new puns, and I kind of ended up with word salad.

Ah, me public...



jixer: Being an early riser by long habit who nonetheless hates to get out of bed, I could sympathize with either Willow or Tara in this sitch.

Being in Starfleet, they have to keep in good physical shape, and keep at least a modest regimen of self-defense protocols.



Willow gets enough investigating chops in the Science department; like you said, Security is just an extra chance to get your head handed to you. And again, Willow gets enough of that where she is, too. That girl could get into trouble being the Third-Class Spitoon Polisher. And, naturally, Tara would be right behind her, spouting caution and covering her back.



Artemis: Security (like Engineering and Operations) wear gold in the 24th century. By the 2370s, the fleet uniforms are mostly the black-with-grey-shoulder-paldrons, with only the undertunic delineating sections by color (red/gold/blue), as well as a stripe on the sleeves,down near the wrist.



They do have to shower in the mornings, in order to avoid the heartbreak of stinkiness.



shandem: Thank you! Always nice to have a new face show up. Hope you like this story as well as the last one.



That's it for now. L8r!

_________________



"Many such journeys are possible. Let me be your gateway."

(slaps self in head) Yep, I knew the uniform colours. For some reason my brain malfunctioned when I tried to describe the ship's services colour, and told me that 'maroon' was more brown that red, which is what I was going for... kind of dull gold, browny-gold... see, I'm getting confused again. Gimme command red or science blue any day



So, are Willow and Tara still in DS9-style colour tops (like DS9 originally), or did the Hannibal already switch to the new grey-top uniforms? Some ships must've switched before DS9 did, because they had them in First Contact... I liked the old ones, and Willow in particular would look so cute in the one-piece jumpsuits Brings back memories of all the cute-as-a-button Interchangeable Ensigns who'd take helm on the Enterprise-D whenever Ro or the Boy Wonder were absent.

Chris Cook

Through the Looking-glass

A Willow and Tara for every world.

Continued from before



****



After they had dried, changed into their uniforms and started applying makeup (Willow had admonished Tara, who had always been very minimalist, sticking mostly with a little lipstick: "You wanna hang around with a hot mama-yama like me, you’re gonna have to look your best."), Tara had picked up a low-grade anxiety radiating from Willow. It seemed to be more of an anticipatory nature than a world-shattering concern. Still, it nagged her. Willow had never kept secrets from her (not that she was any good at it, being the loveable blabbermouth that she was) and Tara was just insecure enough to let it get to her.



It was also somewhat frustrating that she could not pick up anything more concrete from Willow when, the first night the two of them had made love, they had formed a psychic link in the process. For some hours afterward, Tara could actually hear Willow’s thoughts and, astonishingly, vice versa. They had both remarked (without using their voices) that this was both cool and uncanny, as Tara’s Betazoid mental abilities were rather diluted by her human heritage (“Terrible, having bad blood like that,” Willow had quipped, vox solis) and Willow had no psychic abilities, at least according to any test she had had in her life.



However, the link had seemingly faded down to a bare minimum; Tara could frequently pick up Willow’s emotions at a much greater distance than she could from other individuals, but that was about the extent of it. At least, when they were not in the throes of passion, when the link tended to become stronger…



As she applied mascara to her eyelashes, Tara casually asked, "So, wh-what's up for tonight," barely stumbling on the "what."



Seemingly, Willow did not pick up on Tara's nervous stammer; however, the emotional radiation that Tara was picking up escalated a half-octave. "Oh, you know, dinner, I guess. I think I can get us into Calavicci's," she added as she brushed blush on her cheeks, referring to the full-service Italian restaurant that was the pride of the Hannibal.



Tara started, nearly poking herself in the eye with the mascara applicator. "Really? How'd you manage that" Calavicci's often required advance reservations, given that the chefs had to actually prepare the food using ovens and such.



"Magic."



Tara rolled her eyes, gave her face a final inspection and stepped back. Willow similarly did a once-over and smiled at their reflections in the mirror. "Better than mortal man deserves," she declared, putting her arm around Tara's hip.



In response, Tara turned to put her arms around Willow, drawing her in close. The redhead responded in kind, breathing in Tara's scent (both natural and applied, a combination of hyacinth and something uniquely Tara) and rubbing the wonderful shoulderblades. "Gotta get to the bridge," she murmured against Tara's shoulder, "do some stuff before the meeting."



A couple of weeks ago, Captain Murdock had instructed Willow to attend the weekly senior officers meeting; as science officer, Willow was the head of a department of the ship. On some ships, Science was handled entirely by Operations, placing it under Lt. Commander Kolrami's purview. Although Willow did report to Kolrami, she did enjoy a degree of autonomy (as much as any officer or crewman did on a starship) and directed the activities of the various science teams and laboratories, subject to the wishes and whims of the Command and Operations divisions.



Tara nodded. "I have to meet Charlie before he goes off to that. Then I have evaluations to process, patients to see, busy busy busy." She leaned forward and bussed Willow firmly. "Get outta here; I still have to do my hair."



"Booting me out to the cold, cruel starship; what kinda girlfriend are you?"



"Maybe I'll show you, if you manage to get us into Calavicci's." Tara had not had any real -- that is, unreplicated -- food since the captain's welcoming dinner (the night of the Bath Fluke, as Willow had labeled it). The replicator's best effort at manicotti did not come close to Celeste Calavicci's handmade masterpiece.



"Oooh," Willow purred. "Can't wait." A final peck, and Willow exited Tara's quarters, leaving Tara to wait until Willow had gotten away to a respectable distance Two months after the two had initiated their relationship, they still felt discretion was paramount.



Not that they were fooling anybody...



****



"Late night, huh?" Dr. Charles Devereux asked, after Tara stifled her third yawn since arriving at his office for their usual morning briefing.



“AARRrrrummm…um, yes, I-I mean, well, yes, it was,” Tara replied, after shaking her head to clear it .



“Uh huh,” the older man said; the expression on his face was not a leer, but it could have been a close cousin. “I did notice you caught up and then some on these crew evaluations. I mean, our work is important, but you have to have time for...”



“...for...what?” Tara prodded when Devereux trailed off, simultaneously wondering why she was opening the door like this. He had a way of getting under her skin that, while irritating, definitely enabled her to overcome a lot of her natural diffidence.



“For yourself. For other interests. For social activities.”



Social. Oh, yeah, social. Actually, Tara, in Willow’s company, was a lot more outgoing socially than she had ever been in her life. The two of them had gone out of eat (not at Calavicci’s, unfortunately, but at the Tart ‘n’ Drum and at the ship’s self-service replimat) and more than once had been joined by some of the other Hannibal crew.



One memorable evening, Willow and Jodell DaKar, the Trill chief engineer, traded hilarious stories about Francisco Cumberland, Willow’s former captain on the old U.S.S. Hannibal almost a century ago. DaKar’s previous host, Kiera, had been a helmsman some years before Willow had signed aboard ship. Tara had laughed harder than she had in quite a while on hearing DaKar’s account of how Cumberland had goaded some Klingon captains in order to lure them away from attacked a peaceful scientific outpost; all she later recall of the tale was Cumberland apparently asking one Klingon captain if he had nude pictures of his mate, and if not, would he be interested in purchasing some. “At that point,” DaKar had avered, “I decided it was time to update my will.”



Tara smiled briefly at the memory, then dragged herself back to the counselor’s office. She looked at Dr. Devereux, who seemed to be putting his professional face on, and decided to plunge in uncertain waters…although not headfirst. “Can I ask you a question?”



You just did, Devereux nearly quipped, mainly from habit, but he restrained himself as he noticed Tara’s demeanor changed. Although she was outwardly composed, he could tell that she was nervous about what she wanted to discuss. He knew how much it took for Tara to open up like this; given that she was rapidly becoming as close to him as the daughter he had never had – and that Tara was helping him deal with the guilt and regret of not having a family – he would not abuse her trust in him.



“Let’s say w-we have two people,” Tara offered, when Devereux had assented, “they’ve just started a…relationship. And, um, right now, th-they’re still in those, uh, initial stages, where it’s very passionate, you know what I mean, right?”



“That hot, sweaty, can’t-wait-till-ya-see-‘em, tear-your-clothes-off stage? I’ve had some acquaintance with it,” Devereux answered with mock gravity.



Tara frowned at him in mild rebuke, which was considerably leavened by the crooked corner of her mouth betraying her amusement. “Okay, now, um, wh-what happens when that whole stage…ends?”



Devereux leaned back in his chair, now in full Counselor mode. “Well, it never entirely goes away, Tara. Yes, it does get replaced with other things…trust, commitment, the knowledge that, God willing, this is the person you want to be with for the rest of your life, and with whom you hopefully build a home and a family. And even if that doesn’t work out—“



Tara’s empathic senses picked up the sharp, emotional pain that Devereux still carried, the only remnant of his wife, Rachel, long dead.



“—the commitment and trust becomes its own thing, becomes real and permanent, in a way that the passion never really does. Passion is fire, kiddo. A lot of times it may be what keeps us warm, keeps us alive, but you can’t build a house solely from it.”



Tara smiled. “Thanks, Charlie. I mean,” she amended hastily, and probably futilely, “if, if someone asks me about this, now I know what to tell they. Them.”



“No charge.”



Tara glanced at the chronometer. “Oh. It’s almost time for the senior officer’s meeting.”



Devereux nodded. “Uh huh. Which brings me to something else I want you to do.” At Tara’s unasked question, he added, “Come along with me. You can sit in.”



“The s-senior officers meeting? But-but, I’m not—“



“You’re a ship’s counselor, they all know you, and it’s good practice. You’re just going to be an observer,” he said, standing and walking from behind his desk. She stood up, too shocked to protest further, except…



“I-I have a couple of appointments, right after this…”



“I rescheduled them,” Devereux threw back over his shoulder as he walked towards the door, expecting her to follow in his wake. “Consider this part of your education.”



Tara rolled her eyes as she followed him out of the office and headed towards the turbolift. What is it with people on this ship always throwing me in the deep end?



TBC

_________________



"Many such journeys are possible. Let me be your gateway."

Hello Kittens-



I like the fact that Tara has enough confidence to ask someone about relationships. It was very Tara to ask it in the old "not me but somebody who sounds an awful lot like me" way.



For my own silly moment-Tara being tossed into the deep end and Willow helping her wet partner in those clinging clothes get out.





Jixer

Tara's hesitation to ask about her situation was very cute, and more importantly,very Tara. So far I'm very pleased with this fic, Captain. Excellent work.

I got bitten by a drunk lesbian! Does that mean I'll turn into one?



~my friend Mary

Fan mail from some flounder? (A Mighty Marvel No-Prize to the Kitten who recognizes that reference...)



Artemis:

Quote:

---

Tara going to Devereux for advice was sweet - and very funny. "Let's say we have two people"... heh, she was that close to starting with "I have this friend, and she has this girlfriend, and she's wondering-" Good advice from Devereux, hopefully Tara won't be so worried now about what happens when the novelty of her and Willow being together wears off.

---

You'd think that, wouldn't you? Don't bet the farm planet on it, bunkie. Tara without insecurities would be like McDonald's without cheeseburgers. Willow, too, for that matter.

Quote:

---

Her and Willow sharing thoughts was very sweet too - a bit of imzadi action going on there? (I had this bizarre thought, though, that it'd be useful if the ship's in a crisis and they lose intraship communications. Willow and Tara could make out in a turbolift, then go to the bridge and engineering and relay orders back and forth. They could help save the ship, and get a commendation for exceptional hot gay loving in a crisis situation Okay, so I'm just being silly again.)

---

I'm not sure I introduced the idea of their mental link as the prelude to a cheesy plot device...because, the Great Bird knows, I never use those. My wonder would be the aftermath; Captain Murdock would call the two of them into his ready room to explain how they managed this little trick:



"So, exactly, how did you establish this little private comline?"



Tara, blushing furiously: "Well, th-that's kinda, um, private, s-s-sir."



Willow, more than a little red herself: "Yeah, see, it involves her, and me, and us..." hand making vague mixy-mixy gestures.



Murdock: "Please stop. I'm getting a terminal case of Headmovies."



Devereux, sitting on couch: "You can tell me."



DaKar, sitting next to him: "Better yet, write a report about it, and send me a copy."



Murdock, snarling at Devereux and DaKar: "Oh grow up!" before slamming his head on desk and contemplating buying that shellmouth farm on Aldebaran.



(hey, that's a pretty good scene. I may save that...)



****



BTW, your avatar rocks. I hate you in a good way.



jixer:

Quote:

---

For my own silly moment-Tara being tossed into the deep end and Willow helping her wet partner in those clinging clothes get out.

---

We did get some of that with Willow pulling Tara in the the bathtub in the last episode. I think I can promise more bathtub fun before we get into the Main Story (oh, I can hear the groans now: "Do we have to have a plot with our smut?" Hush now, or Uncle Matt won't read to you before bedtime).



Tempest Duer: Beside my sincere thanks for the feedback, I can only say this: Refering to your tagline...if you get bitten by a drunk lesbian, and then turn into done, do you become an eternal creature of the night with bad wardrobe?



Thanks for the kind words, kittens. I will try to update ASAP, but as I have just started a new temp job, I don't have as much free time as I used to.



Take care!

_________________



"Many such journeys are possible. Let me be your gateway."

Hullo!

Just wanted to say that I luurved Equilibration and YEAH SEQUEL!!

You're giving an old trekker a bad case of Trek abstinence, but, hey, real Trek didn't have naked Taras in bath tubs, so on second thought, I think I actually prefer your version

Live Long and Write Smut!

Well, given how long it takes me to write these stories (two years for Equilibration...thank god I don't work on deadline around here ) you may have to satisfy your itch for Trek on this thread when Enterprise goes off in May.





Glad you like the first story. I hope to make this one as good.



I know, I know, I'm writing, OK?

_________________



"She has illusion, and you have reality. May you find your way as pleasant." -- The Cage

I enjoyed Equilibration so I'm looking forward to the journey you'll bring us on in this story. I'm glad you decided to stage it early on in Willow and Tara's relationship, so we can see the innate trust they share build as they blossom together.

---

Yea! It’s great to see a sequel to Equilibration, which was a lot of fun for me to read. I used to watch Next Generation and Deep Space Nine, but I haven’t been able to get into any of the other Trek shows. Still, so far at least, I have enough background in the Star Trek universe to read and enjoy these fics. Of course, your writing style makes it easy to understand what’s going on, and the pacing makes it a pleasure to read.



Thanks for continuing!