Touching Grass and other Palate Cleansers

Posted on Sat Oct 17th, 2026 @ 2:27pm by Commander Alex Flynn & Advisor Ramielos Volsunga

3,539 words; about a 18 minute read

Mission: Shifting Shapes [4-5]
Location: Tactical Briefing Room - DS13
Timeline: 1810 - MD06

Alex looked up from her padd after completing the third revision of the tactical review for the last month. She worked reclined back in the conference room seat, her feet up on the end of the long conference table. She wanted to get this out of the way before her evening truly started, and everything else had fallen to the wayside. The conference room had remained empty to the best of her knowledge, but at the other end of the table Alex saw she wasn’t alone as she moved one of her feet.

“RV. What are you still doing here?” She asked the seated space marine turned tactical advisor, who she now realised hadn’t departed with the rest of the tactical staff.

“Working. I have another meeting here at 1400. There are no other meetings in here between now and then.”

“1400 was four hours ago. Unless you mean 1400 tomorrow, which is 20 hours away.”

“The latter.”

“Oh come on, you can’t just sit there working on that little padd for 20 hours. That’s just silly.”

“I intend to get a lot of work done.”

“Okay look. It’s off-hours, you shouldn’t be working. It’s bad for your work-life balance.”

“You are working.”

“As a Command officer you officially sign over any right to work-life balance for the rest of your career.” Alex explained honestly.

“Life is work. Those who do not work die. That is the balance of nature. You celebrate weakness strangely.”

“We’re not in nature. We have technology so we don’t die of our own teeth, and other benefits. Nature’s a great starting point and something worth fighting for, but space-age civilisation cannot live by nature alone.” Alex said, suddenly worrying she was lecturing.

“Sounds like you work with some pretty unnatural shite back home. That Warp you mentioned, the hell-dimension your ships pass through to get anywhere fast. If that’s nature, sign me up for the artificial life.”

“There were other ways once. I’ve heard it said that the Emperor had almost completed a network to rival the Aeldari webway that would allow us to cross the galaxy with triumphant speed. But he was called away to sit the Golden Throne, and his great work remained undone.”

“What does sitting on this throne do for anyone?”

“It is… not considered something to be discussed outside the legion, but…” Volsunga seemed to stumble over his words. Almost like emotion was rattling him. “The Emperor was physically broken during the great betrayal of the Horus Heresy. His light still shines bright enough to be seen throughout our galaxy, but the throne also does what it must to keep him alive.”

“Your God is… mortal?” Alex asked, trying to comprehend what he was describing.

“His body can be destroyed, but he is perpetual. He would be reborn in the event of his death. However the light of the throne is all that keeps the dark powers from swallowing the realms of humanity, for it to dim for even a moment would abandon countless star systems to the warp. He cannot die, yet he does not live. What remains is on the edge of death.” It felt almost like a confession to hear him say it. He spoke as if it was of his own father.

“Well. I’m sorry to hear that. How did he come to get so badly injured if he’s so supremely powerful?”

“When his greatest son Horus turned against him, splitting the astartes legions in half, the Heresy ended with a duel between the Warmaster Horus and his father the Emperor. The Emperor could have destroyed Horus at any moment, but he so believed that his son could be redeemed that he waited until the very last possible moment to act and still attain some measure of survival.”

“He sacrificed himself in the hope his son would see the light. What happened to Horus?”

“The Emperor annihilated him. Body and soul.”

“Heavy.” Alex said, her expression giving nothing away.

“There is no greater traitor in the minds of mankind than Horus Lupercal. Even to think of him fills me with rage still.”

“Well. Let’s not do any more of that then. What are you doing tonight?”

“I intend to sample a new variety of nutrient slurry and anoint my rifle.”

Alex wanted to laugh at that but kept herself steady. “You really are one of the crew now. Only difference being that neither of those is a euphemism. Have you been to the civilian sector yet?”

“No. Only the centrepoint promenades we visited.” Volsunga admitted.

“Let’s go for a walk. See if you can find something that interests you. Something better than nutrient slurry and gun-oiling.” Alex suggested, deactivating her padd. “If nothing else, you can get a look at the sector. It’s a little taste of life in the Federation.”

“How does one taste life?” Volsunga asked, trying to understand the expression.

“I’ll show you.” She said, standing and gesturing with her head. “Up you get. There’ll be time for work later.”

Volsunga did not hesitate.

They both put their pads into an alcove, where they were backed up and redistributed.

They reached the nearest turbolift in silence and climbed inside. “Do you find people react to you differently now with the uniform?”

“Yes.” Volsunga nodded.

“Is it a good thing?” Alex asked cheekily.

“I think so, yes. There is less fear in it. More… appreciation. They still tend to clear my path if I am noticed. It reminds me of being among civilians in the Imperium.”

“Well, that’s inevitable, I’d take the win if I were you.”

Volsunga nodded quietly, considering her words.

The doors slid open, and the pair were deposited in a curated metropolitan scene that could have been one of any number of Earth or other Alpha Quadrant cities. Despite the obvious artificiality and techno-futurist architecture, the real grass in the omnipresent green strips and the trees and plants growing all throughout made it feel closer to a real place than starbases usually got.

“This is blue sector.” Alex said as they advanced down the central avenue, a path accompanied by stretches of grass-surface and the upper edges of the promenade balconies. “Federation cities tend to look a lot like this.

The sky was twilight purple, the orange sun was out if view but its artificial reflection bounced off one of the holographic skyscrapers visible against the flawless holographic skybox.

Alex said hi to a few different people as they passed them. “What do you think?” Alex asked as they passed the frontal tables of a large and very popular Italian restaurant, the people nearest them had all ordered Spaghetti Alle Vongole, one of the more outstandingly popular dishes served there.

“It is busy. And deliberate. Well designed. Good through flow. The attention towards imitation natural areas is obvious. I don’t see the point in them however.”

“They’re good for the soul. Sometimes people have gotta touch grass to remind them what’s real about the world. When was the last time you did it?”

“I can’t recall.”

“Let’s just have a sit here then.” Alex said, leaning against a nearby waist-high elevated grass area. She felt a slight damp on her bum, this area must have been recently watered. Good thing the uniforms didn’t show most marks.
Volsunga sat himself down next to her.

“Well go on then, give the grass a touch.”

“Why?”

“Touch something that’s alive. Remember that you’re part of a larger universe.”

Volsunga did as she said. The grass was lush and thick, retaining the residual warmth of a sunny day. He gripped it slightly too hard and left something of an imprint in the shape of his hand in the grass and dirt beneath it. He moved his hand slowly away, trying not to draw attention to it.

“I’m guessing grass probably isn’t that common a feature in your life? Ice planet, living on starships.”

“There have been grasses. But few that I have not seen burn.” Volsunga said.

Alex let the response hang for a moment before speaking. “Do you still find yourself thinking of nothing but war?”

“No.” He admitted, something he might not have told anyone else. “War is always there, but it is not my focus. I have been learning your systems. Your technology, your science. It takes time and attention to learn manually.”

“What are the other options beyond manual learning?” Alex asked.

“Hypnotic tutelary engines were a common feature in the Imperium. Many tasks were taught by the machine.”

“Wild.” She said flatly, standing up from the edge.

“Alright, you’ve touched grass. Feeling more in touch with the greater universe?”

“No.” Volsunga said.

“Well, these things take time.” She replied without a lot of enthusiasm. “Come on, let’s keep going.”

He followed her.

“Sing out if anything takes your interest. Even if it’s just a smell you like. I saw a sandwich back there I’d like to spend some time with, but it’s up to you.”

“Why?” He asked.

“Because I know these places. I won’t gain anything from making a decision. You might.”

“Let’s keep going.” Volsunga said simply.

Past a Bajoran bakery, two bars, one tiki themed, one Andorian ice-scuplted, and a Betazoid restaurant of surprising elegance one found the bulkhead that passed into the next quadrant. They crossed through the transport corridor in the middle, and emerged in Red Quadrant.

It was mid-day and as bright as it got in Red Quadrant, which was still something one had to look towards the sky to see between the oppression of the towering urban landscape. “This is Red Quadrant. It’s meant to more resemble urban life in colder climates, particularly the Klingon homeworld, Kronos and the cave cities of Andoria.”

Braziers burnt along every walkway, Klingons, Andorians and Remans were perhaps the most common sight this time of day, with a smattering of humans and other species in the mix.

“We should eat somewhere here.” Volsunga after a brief advance along the walkway.

“Alright. Point one out that speaks to you.” Flynn told him.

“I shall.” Volsunga said without slowing.

Shafts of steam and outlets of hot air were frequent as one advanced through the region. Multistory venues promised warmth and volume in every direction. Eventually they reached a quieter section were fewer businesses were established. There was a single restaurant open alone, apparently empty within, but a visible kitchen hissed and steamed as a Klingon worked.

“There.” Volsunga said, pointing.

“Let’s do it.” Alex said, veering off the path into the restaurant. It was a simple place, barely more than a street stall with thin walls mostly occupied by large windows.

“Nuq’neh!” The chef emerged from the kitchen as if to defend the entrance to his restaurant from them.

“cha’quS.” Alex told him simply and forcefully.

He didn’t seem to be looking at her, instead he was focused on the enormous Volsunga behind her.

“cha’quS!” Alex repeated with extra vigour. The Chef finally relented, and turned, gesturing for them to follow.

Volsunga ducked under the entrance and moved to strategically avoid low-hanging lights in the poorly-lit restaurant.

“naDev!” the chef told them, pointing to a table, one seat of which had a booth, and the other a chair. Alex knew which one she was taking, and sat in the chair, pulling the table back slightly to assist Volsunga’s sitting.

He made it in, and with his knees up and to the side they were able to get the table back in.

“You haven’t eaten Klingon food before, have you?” Alex asked with a quiet suspicion.

“No.”

“So why now?”

“I’ve been reading about them. Their culture reminds me of the Legion. Of humanity more broadly. They are brave and fierce. Or at least, they were.”

“Don’t say that too loud. They’re extremely proud.”

“It is not intended as criticism. Any party that would be your ally must extinguish its fierceness. As a people you do not respond well to fierceness.”

“Okay yeah, that’s fair to say.” Alex observed, just as a young Klingon woman appeared, looking at Volsunga. “Nuq’neh!” She shouted at him.

“The translator isn’t working.” Volsunga told Flynn.

“No, she’s trying to speak to Klingon on purpose. Cha ‘Iw HIq!” Alex ordered excitedly.

“What did you say to her?” Volsunga asked once she had gone back to the unseen service area she emerged from.

“Two bloodwines.”

“Does it contain actual blood?”

“You know I really can’t answer that question confidently.” Alex said, realising she’d never thought about it. “Would that be a problem for you if it was?” She felt suddenly neglectful, like she’d forgotten all about the idea that he might have certain cultural sensitivities around what he consumed. “I could ask.” She corrected, sitting forward.

“No. Consuming the dead can sometimes lead to absorbing their memories. I do not know if blood alone could trigger it. But it would only be a concern if it were a sapient being.”

“Well that’s... disturbing. But thank you for sharing. Don’t feel any pressure to drink it if you don’t want.

“I do not.” He clarified.

The waitress returned with two heavy goblets of bloodwine.

“Is there a ritual for drinking this? I’ve noticed that drinks usually entail ritual here.”

“For Klingons they just say ‘Qapla!’” Alex responded enthusiastically, shouting the last word and bringing her goblet to cheer with Volsunga’s.

“Qapla!” Volsunga responded with an unexpected enthusiasm, moving and steadying his own drink to collide the two together.

Several courses later, Alex had surrendered. Volsunga was still finishing the last of what they’d ordered. Alex still sipped at her bloodwine, which had started to cool.

“So, what do you think of Klingon food?” Alex asked.

“I prefer human food.” He admitted simply between bites of the blood pie and the kvelt steaks. He'd made short work of the gagh, which Alex hadn't touched.

“Still going at it, though.”

“Should I stop?” He asked, setting down the remains of the pie.

“No, not unless you want to.” Alex said with a smile.

Volsunga looked at the food for the first time like stopping was an option. He also put the steak down. There weren’t any napkins or towels so he wiped his hands on his pants.

The chef emerged from the kitchen then, carrying a large, heavy stringed instrument that looked to weigh at least as much as a bat’leth. He burst into what Alex quickly figured out was a Klingon opera number, singing passionately and slowly in a language that was deliberate enough for the universal translator to leave it untranslated.

“Oh. Music. Goody.” Alex said with a neutral tone, ready to be pleasantly surprised.

Volsunga sat quietly, absorbing the performance with impressive stillness.

The woman emerged from the service section again, singing a second part of the duet. Alex successfully diffused her own desire to laugh at the sudden transition from server to performer. She loved Klingon stuff, but it didn’t have an ounce of subtlety.

It took some time, and some soaring arias, but after at least five minutes they were done, and Alex clapped automatically.

Volsunga copied her, he had seen this done before and was ready for the gesture. Appreciation. A standard response to any performance.

“Interesting.” Volsunga said as the applause concluded.

“Yeah. One thing you can’t fault the Klingons on, it’s hospitality. You’ve just gotta have the willpower to ask them for a creature comforts. They have them. They use them. They just like to pretend otherwise."

"Hospitality isn't something I experienced before coming here. It is... pleasant. Are we expected to be providing it to this Dominion and their ambassador? Even though they were your enemies?" Volsunga asked.

"Oh yeah. Klingons were our enemies once too. And turns out that turning on the charm and the hospitality can lead to good relations. Of course it did take their Chancellor getting murdered and a whole conspiracy unravelling for it to happen, but it happened. Now look at us. Best of friends."

"I read about that. Gorkon. By all prior accounts the conspirators had the right of it. But history has proven them wrong. Other than the brief belligerence at the start of the Dominion War. I understand I'm supposed to wear a different uniform. I thought the purpose of uniforms was that they were for all occasions?" Volsunga said.

"Yeah, dress uniform. You do have one already, don't you? If not I'll have Olson get one out to you. It's another kind of hospitality. Clothes are a form of self-expression, and the dress uniform is a way of showing respect. Like if a President was visiting. Or an Emperor. Would you wear anything special if you knew you had an appointment with your Emperor? Or whoever is next down in the ranks of importance?" Alex explained and asked.

"Some chapters have ceremonial armour or finery they wear over the top. In my chapter we simply ensure our armour is repainted and polished, we affix new purity seals and hunt for fresh furs, if possible." Volsunga explained.

"Yeah, right. So dress uniform is the same principle. We wear it for special occasions, celebrations, things like that. So what did you think of the bloodwine?" Alex asked.

"The name is accurate. It is not a beverage I would like choose again." Volsunga observed.

"Fair enough. It's kind of tradition in a Klingon joint, but you do you. I noticed you don't seem to find alcohol odd, do they have it where you're from? I'm guessing all your super organs probably take all the fun out of it." Alex asked and observed.

"We do. And you are correct, the effects of intoxication last only very briefly. That is why in my chapter we brew a beverage called Mjød, it contains a plant from Fenris that temporarily neutralises the oolitic kidney. It allows us to become intoxicated. It is common at feasts." Volsunga explained.

"No shit. So you guys do know how to party other than eating the odd roast beast. Maybe we'll see if T'Zor can whip you up some, get you proper shit-eyed." Alex said with a laugh. "Maybe on the holodeck though, just to be safe. I can only imagine the damage a bunch of you boys pissed as newts could do."

"A bit." He acknowledged, a sidewards glance suggesting he was reverting to memory.

"Actually, that reminds me. You mind if we wander briefly to a second location? There's something came across my desk today that I think you might enjoy. A celebratory drink would probably be appropriate, even if it only lasts a few seconds." Alex said. She swore loudly as she hit her knee on the table while she stood.

"Alright." Volsunga agreed, drawing no attention to her injury. He had noticed that she often tended to bump herself on things.

Alex paid, and they left the venue with thanks. She stopped by one of the Starfleet terminals, and grabbed a padd from an alcove, loading the information she wanted.

"So, Mr Ramielos Volsunga, the Federation Council has taken a look at your status, and they've decided to grant you permanent residency." Alex passed him the padd with the details.

"I see. It says I am expected to serve for at least six months. Then what?" Volsunga asked.

"Then it's up to you. You can leave. See the Galaxy. Find yourself a job doing whatever best pleases you. I think we're all quietly hoping you'll stay here. If you ever want to get home this is the most logical place to be. And there might be some limitations on you, given that there's a lot of people out there who'd want to cut you up and figure out how to make Astartes of their own. But something could surely be worked out." Alex said.

"I would sooner destroy myself than allow such a thing." Volsunga said sternly.

"Well, we'd all like to think that about ourselves. But some crooked fuckers are subtler than that. If whatever remains got the Borg got their hands on you, we'd be proper fucked." Alex judged bluntly.

"I will make sure that does not happen." He said with a nod.

"I believe you will. So, want to get a drink to celebrate? I'm keen to see if we can't get you drunk, even if it's only momentary." Alex said with a cheeky grin.

"I am willing to try." Volsunga said. "That music we heard the other night. Bossa Nova. Could we hear more of it?" He asked.

"Hey, look who's developing tastes. I can't guarantee there'll be any going live, but worst case scenario we can find somewhere and have them put it on. I can put the hard word on them as the XO, after all." Alex said.

"I would like that."

"Let's get moving then." Alex said, and they moved towards the crossing into Green Zone.

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