Recruitment Attempt #1 (Star Trek: Deep Space 9/Venture Bros.)
Title: Recruitment Attempt #1
Author: astrogirl2
Prompt: Odo walks into a bar and meets... Brock Samson!
Fandoms: Star Trek: Deep Space 9/Venture Bros.
Word count: 1,162
Rating/Warnings: PG, no warnings needed
Author's Notes: I figure this is set sometime early in the series for Odo, and probably a little bit pre-series for Brock, but it's pretty vague, and there's definitely nothing spoilery for either show. It may or may not count as an AU, depending on what you think happens next.
RECRUITMENT ATTEMPT #1
Odo entered the door of the establishment he'd been instructed to visit and looked around. Tired-eyed human women were gyrating on a stage in a way that he supposed was meant to be erotic, while disheveled, inebriated human men watched with little apparent interest, leaving Odo wondering what, exactly, the point of the exercise was. Everything about the place was shabby and unpleasant in a way that made Quark's seem positively wholesome by comparison, a thought that brought with it a brief pang of something embarrassingly close to homesickness.
A man sitting in the corner caught Odo's eye, gesturing at him with a lift of his glass. No doubt this was the person he was here to meet. Odo looked him over carefully as he approached the booth: a hulking, yellow-haired human male with a closed-off expression. Although, he corrected himself as he drew closer, "hulking" was an understatement. He hadn't realized that the upper bodies of humans came that big. He wondered if it was difficult for the man to move.
Odo opened up a mental file, as he always did when he encountered someone new, automatically indexing this one under "thug." He knew the type far too well; he'd dealt with enough of them during the Occupation. There was something unusual about the man's eyes, though, something that hinted more at a weary, sardonic boredom than at the dull, brutal hatred of the typical thug. Odo might have been interested if he weren't already annoyed. He hated being at this kind of a disadvantage.
"You're Odo," the man said. "Siddown. You want a beer?"
"I don't drink." For a moment, Odo debated not sitting -- it was no more comfortable for him than standing, and he disliked being told what to do -- but he supposed it was not a good idea to antagonize the man until he'd found out exactly why he was here. Reluctantly, he slid into the booth.
He expected to have to explain, as usual, that, no, he did not drink anything, but the man only shrugged and took a swig of his own beverage. Beer, Odo thought, but he'd never been very good at identifying the substances humans ingested.
"And you are...?" said Odo. The message he'd been sent had been irritatingly vague. "Since you obviously know my name."
"Brock Samson." The name meant nothing to Odo, but then, he hadn't expected it to. "The people I work for have been watching you for a while now."
"Have they? And just who, exactly, are 'the people you work for'?"
Samson leaned in a little, as if worried that someone might overhear. Odo thought that highly unlikely, as the person nearest them appeared to have been passed out for quite some time. "Ever heard of an organization called the OSI?"
"No," said Odo, a hint of wryness in his voice. "But then, I am new here." Even if the months since he'd flown into that temporal anomaly and ended up in this place did feel like a small eternity.
"Office of Secret Intelligence. We're what you'd call the good guys."
Odo make a skeptical, disparaging noise.
"Yeah, I know," said Samson, "but we're the closest you're gonna get to it. And, see, here's the thing. People like you, they end up either bein' good guys or bein' bad guys. Nobody ever manages to stay neutral."
"People like me?" Odo said, with an exaggerated expression of polite interest.
"You know." One beefy hand gestured in Odo's direction. "Oh, shit, what's the polite word? Special people."
"I see. Special people." Odo's voice showed only the faintest hint of irony.
"Yeah. Special people. Telepaths, flying guys, guys who can do magic. Shapeshifters. If they don't come to work for an organization like OSI, they always either end up putting on tights and, like, saving kittens from trees, or going crazy and building death rays and crap." He drained the rest of his drink. "Always happens like that. Don't ask me why."
"All right," said Odo. "I won't." Indeed, he'd long since given up asking that particular question. Though he was wondering, not for the first time, whether he had ended up in some bizarre alternate universe as well as traveling through time. He wasn't especially familiar with Earth history, but surely someone would have mentioned if it had included this sort of thing.
"The OSI doesn't usually recruit, uh--"
"'Special people?'" Odo suggested.
"Yeah. But shapechangers..." Samson leaned in closer again. "Very useful in an intelligence operation, you know what I mean?"
"You're offering me a job." It wasn't quite a question.
"Yup."
"And if I accept? The message I received implied that someone might have a means of sending me back where I came from."
Samson scratched at his neck. "Yeah. I know a guy. Superscientist type. Might be able to help."
"But only if I come to work for you."
"That's the deal."
Odo sighed. "Mr... Samson, is it?" Samson nodded. "I'm sorry, but I am exceedingly uninterested in working for you or for anyone else. I do not require any help to keep me from -- what was it? -- going crazy and building death rays. And on the off chance that this... insane... place is part of the history of my universe, it would be an extremely bad idea for me to interfere. Humanity is an annoying species in any number of respects, but if they are capable of moving on from this period of their history, believe me, I have no desire to do anything to prevent it."
Somewhat to Odo's surprise, Samson just shrugged. "Yeah, the intel said that'd probably be your answer. But, hey, you gotta try, right? If you change your mind, come back here and leave a message with one of the girls. They all know me."
Samson held out his hand, and, with some hesitation, Odo took it. The man squeezed hard enough that Odo felt his own hand start to liquefy before he got it back under control.
"Good luck with the gettin' home thing," Samson said. "And, listen, stay away from those Guild guys. You start wearing black and calling yourself Dr. EvilMorph or something, and I'm gonna have to, y'know, kick your ass."
He let go of Odo's hand and vanished through the back door, leaving Odo wishing, for once, that he could drink. He was beginning to understand what humans saw in alcohol. "Come on Dax," he muttered to himself. Surely, she would be able to figure out where he had gone. Surely, his Starfleet colleagues would be able to pull off one of those routine miracles of theirs and bring him back any day now. Surely. Because if they didn't, he was beginning to think he might actually entertain the idea of interfering in this world, just to impose some badly needed order and sanity. Come to think of it, he supposed the phasers on the runabout did qualify as a "death ray"...
Author: astrogirl2
Prompt: Odo walks into a bar and meets... Brock Samson!
Fandoms: Star Trek: Deep Space 9/Venture Bros.
Word count: 1,162
Rating/Warnings: PG, no warnings needed
Author's Notes: I figure this is set sometime early in the series for Odo, and probably a little bit pre-series for Brock, but it's pretty vague, and there's definitely nothing spoilery for either show. It may or may not count as an AU, depending on what you think happens next.
RECRUITMENT ATTEMPT #1
Odo entered the door of the establishment he'd been instructed to visit and looked around. Tired-eyed human women were gyrating on a stage in a way that he supposed was meant to be erotic, while disheveled, inebriated human men watched with little apparent interest, leaving Odo wondering what, exactly, the point of the exercise was. Everything about the place was shabby and unpleasant in a way that made Quark's seem positively wholesome by comparison, a thought that brought with it a brief pang of something embarrassingly close to homesickness.
A man sitting in the corner caught Odo's eye, gesturing at him with a lift of his glass. No doubt this was the person he was here to meet. Odo looked him over carefully as he approached the booth: a hulking, yellow-haired human male with a closed-off expression. Although, he corrected himself as he drew closer, "hulking" was an understatement. He hadn't realized that the upper bodies of humans came that big. He wondered if it was difficult for the man to move.
Odo opened up a mental file, as he always did when he encountered someone new, automatically indexing this one under "thug." He knew the type far too well; he'd dealt with enough of them during the Occupation. There was something unusual about the man's eyes, though, something that hinted more at a weary, sardonic boredom than at the dull, brutal hatred of the typical thug. Odo might have been interested if he weren't already annoyed. He hated being at this kind of a disadvantage.
"You're Odo," the man said. "Siddown. You want a beer?"
"I don't drink." For a moment, Odo debated not sitting -- it was no more comfortable for him than standing, and he disliked being told what to do -- but he supposed it was not a good idea to antagonize the man until he'd found out exactly why he was here. Reluctantly, he slid into the booth.
He expected to have to explain, as usual, that, no, he did not drink anything, but the man only shrugged and took a swig of his own beverage. Beer, Odo thought, but he'd never been very good at identifying the substances humans ingested.
"And you are...?" said Odo. The message he'd been sent had been irritatingly vague. "Since you obviously know my name."
"Brock Samson." The name meant nothing to Odo, but then, he hadn't expected it to. "The people I work for have been watching you for a while now."
"Have they? And just who, exactly, are 'the people you work for'?"
Samson leaned in a little, as if worried that someone might overhear. Odo thought that highly unlikely, as the person nearest them appeared to have been passed out for quite some time. "Ever heard of an organization called the OSI?"
"No," said Odo, a hint of wryness in his voice. "But then, I am new here." Even if the months since he'd flown into that temporal anomaly and ended up in this place did feel like a small eternity.
"Office of Secret Intelligence. We're what you'd call the good guys."
Odo make a skeptical, disparaging noise.
"Yeah, I know," said Samson, "but we're the closest you're gonna get to it. And, see, here's the thing. People like you, they end up either bein' good guys or bein' bad guys. Nobody ever manages to stay neutral."
"People like me?" Odo said, with an exaggerated expression of polite interest.
"You know." One beefy hand gestured in Odo's direction. "Oh, shit, what's the polite word? Special people."
"I see. Special people." Odo's voice showed only the faintest hint of irony.
"Yeah. Special people. Telepaths, flying guys, guys who can do magic. Shapeshifters. If they don't come to work for an organization like OSI, they always either end up putting on tights and, like, saving kittens from trees, or going crazy and building death rays and crap." He drained the rest of his drink. "Always happens like that. Don't ask me why."
"All right," said Odo. "I won't." Indeed, he'd long since given up asking that particular question. Though he was wondering, not for the first time, whether he had ended up in some bizarre alternate universe as well as traveling through time. He wasn't especially familiar with Earth history, but surely someone would have mentioned if it had included this sort of thing.
"The OSI doesn't usually recruit, uh--"
"'Special people?'" Odo suggested.
"Yeah. But shapechangers..." Samson leaned in closer again. "Very useful in an intelligence operation, you know what I mean?"
"You're offering me a job." It wasn't quite a question.
"Yup."
"And if I accept? The message I received implied that someone might have a means of sending me back where I came from."
Samson scratched at his neck. "Yeah. I know a guy. Superscientist type. Might be able to help."
"But only if I come to work for you."
"That's the deal."
Odo sighed. "Mr... Samson, is it?" Samson nodded. "I'm sorry, but I am exceedingly uninterested in working for you or for anyone else. I do not require any help to keep me from -- what was it? -- going crazy and building death rays. And on the off chance that this... insane... place is part of the history of my universe, it would be an extremely bad idea for me to interfere. Humanity is an annoying species in any number of respects, but if they are capable of moving on from this period of their history, believe me, I have no desire to do anything to prevent it."
Somewhat to Odo's surprise, Samson just shrugged. "Yeah, the intel said that'd probably be your answer. But, hey, you gotta try, right? If you change your mind, come back here and leave a message with one of the girls. They all know me."
Samson held out his hand, and, with some hesitation, Odo took it. The man squeezed hard enough that Odo felt his own hand start to liquefy before he got it back under control.
"Good luck with the gettin' home thing," Samson said. "And, listen, stay away from those Guild guys. You start wearing black and calling yourself Dr. EvilMorph or something, and I'm gonna have to, y'know, kick your ass."
He let go of Odo's hand and vanished through the back door, leaving Odo wishing, for once, that he could drink. He was beginning to understand what humans saw in alcohol. "Come on Dax," he muttered to himself. Surely, she would be able to figure out where he had gone. Surely, his Starfleet colleagues would be able to pull off one of those routine miracles of theirs and bring him back any day now. Surely. Because if they didn't, he was beginning to think he might actually entertain the idea of interfering in this world, just to impose some badly needed order and sanity. Come to think of it, he supposed the phasers on the runabout did qualify as a "death ray"...