Gamefic: Daze of the Week.
Title: Daze of the Week.
Setting: Star Trek.
Rating: PG-13.
Description: In a world where she was never on Station 419, Meena Nalini runs a bar as only one slightly insane Trill can.
***
1: Beerday.
Meena renamed the days of the week two and a half months after arriving on the station, declaring that since her bar was technically neutral territory, she could thus call the days anything she wanted to. Since this came right on the heels of her adding three days to the week, no one was particularly surprised, and when she spun 'bar days' to be ever-so-slightly out of synch with station days, it was practically predictable. Local 'midnight' happened at station's noon, so that it was possible, if you timed it right, to start a beer on Freezeday and finish drinking it on Snoresday. There were sometimes prizes, if you did.
Every day had its own specials, traditions and rules. Beerday was the day for practical jokes and guessing games. It was never entirely safe to drink anything that hadn't been identified in detail, but on Beerday, the stakes became especially high. Riddle contests weren't entirely uncommon; neither were shouting matches when cultural differences caused the funniest riddle in a Klingon's lexicon to become unbearably insulting to his Bajorean drinking partners. Fortunately, Meena had never shown any reluctance to dump water on paying customers when they got out of hand, and after a few initial scuffles, Security found that they were called rarely, if at all.
Beerday never passed without a few surprises. And that was why Meena was standing on top of the bar in her stocking feet, hips ascribing a slow arabesque as she brandished a tall, opaque glass in her right hand.
"Test your luck! Prove your constitution! What's in the glass? Nobody knows -- but if you can keep it down, your drinks are on the house for the rest of the night!"
Most of the occupants of the bar stayed exactly where they were. It only took one of Meena's 'mystery drinks' to convince anyone with a grain of sense that they never wanted to taste another one. All of her concoctions were guaranteed non-fatal to any sentient biology that she was likely to encounter; on the rare occasions when someone had volunteered to drink something they'd react poorly to, she'd rewarded their bravery with free drinks and not being required to drink the mystery mixer. But allergies were nothing to bet on, and 'it won't kill you' is sometimes a poor compensation.
"Oh, come on! You're not afraid, are you?"
On a decent-sized station, there's always someone new and stupid. A human Ensign in Security gold stepped forward, cheered on by the shouts of his fellows. Meena grinned, offering him the glass, as two off-duty Medical officers exchanged a glance, finished their drinks with synchronized sighs, and rose, heading back towards the sickbay. 'It won't kill you' doesn't mean 'you won't want it to'.
The Ensign took the glass.
"Cheers!" cried Meena.
2: Experienceday.
Every Experienceday was different, because, as Meena said, 'Life should be the sort of experience that leaves you trying to figure out what the heck just happened when you make it to the end.' The first Experienceday had seen the bar filled with foam balls in a wide rainbow of colours, and a variety of signs encouraging people to pick sides. Several grand battles had broken out before the day ended -- officers against noncoms, Security against Command, the bartending staff against everyone else. Meena's last stand behind the bar with a bucket full of bright green balls had already become the stuff of station legend.
The second Experienceday had featured menus without labels or prices, just squares of random patterns and colours. Patrons touched the square that they wanted, and the servers brought them whatever drink it happened to correspond to. Over the course of the day, people compiled a guide to the colours and patterns and the drinks they represented, like explorers mapping out a brave new world full of alcoholic beverages and spicy bar snacks. There were surprisingly few arguments that day; people were too involved in solving the small, harmless mystery of 'what happens if I ask for this?' to really fight.
After eight Experiencedays, Meena was still coming up with new ways to turn stopping for a drink into an adventure. This week, the entire bar was flooded with holographic moths, butterflies and similar creatures from planets around the galaxy, from the gauzy-winged nectar-frogs of Bolarius IX to the fragile flying mice of Civeral III. They clustered on every surface, landing on the rims of glasses and 'tasting' the various liquids with illusionary tongues. Butterfly nets and large-mouthed jars had been set out on the tables, and signs on the walls boasted that anyone who managed to catch ten different types of 'aerial experience' would get a free drink -- two if they could catch one from their own home planet. People had been chasing butterflies around the room all morning, and the chaos showed no sign of slowing down, for all that several tables were occupied by people who were doing nothing more exciting than sipping their drinks and watching the confusion.
Meena herself was seated cross-legged on the counter behind the bar, letting her servers tend to business while she closed her eyes and relaxed beneath a living blanket of enormous blue-winged butterflies that gleamed almost copper in the shifting light. No one had yet figured out what world they were supposed to be from; some of the Science officers were starting to say that they weren't from any real planet at all, but had just been created by a clever holoprogrammer to add to the experience of the day. Probably the same holoprogrammer that had loaned Meena the projectors in the first place.
"Hey, Meena, what kind of experience do you call this?" asked one of the men at the bar.
"Life!" Meena said, not moving or opening her eyes; instead, she just smiled. "Ever seen it before?"
"Life isn't an experience," protested a woman in Command red.
"Sure it is," said Meena, with a slight shrug that set the wings of her guardian butterflies flapping madly. "It's the best kind of experience anybody gets. The thing is, if you don't slow down once in a while, there's a good chance that you'll miss it."
"Is that some Trill philosophy?"
"Nope. It's just life."
3: Freezeday.
Contrary to the name, Freezeday was effectively Meena's personal shorthand for 'that day when we turn up the heating, break out the tropical drinks, and embrace an old Terran concept known as 'the luau' until we're so sick of pineapple that we can no longer see straight'. Every fifth Freezeday featured snowball fights and hot drinks offered as an apology to those races from colder climes, such as the Andorians, but the rest of the time it was fun, fun, fun, in the sun, sun, sun.
Several people had theorized that this was all just an excuse for Meena to wear a polka-dotted bikini and claim -- falsely, according to the other Trill on the station -- that it was 'traditional ethnic attire'.
Several other people had asked why this was a problem.
No one really had an answer for that one.
The day was half-over, which mostly explained why a long conga line was snaking its way around the room, everyone stepping and kicking mostly in time while arguing with varying degrees of vigour over what, exactly, they were supposed to be shouting. The Ensigns who had first suggested the activity were beginning to realize that infinite diversity from infinite combinations is all well and good in theory, but quickly becomes a little more heated when combining Klingons who think that 'For the familiy honour-ah' is the appropriate cry for a conga with Bolians shouting something complex that apparently scanned in their native language but translated to 'It is highly entertaining to emulate swimming on the land with vigourous flailing of the limbs and now we will kick-ah'. Meena just made matters worse by changing her chant every thirty seconds or so; at present, she was opting for 'I can't feel my ankles-ah!', which was starting to catch on. Most of the servers had been swept into the line, trays and all, and were trying to frantically serve drinks while being rushed along by the tide of enthusiastic dancers.
The station's second officer was waving from the doorway, attempting to catch Meena's attention. After the third circuit of the room, she took pity on him and waved cheerfully back.
"Good afternoon, Lieutenant Nomastikos!" she called. "Come on in, the water's great!"
"Fortunately, there isn't any water, although we fully expect you to flood the place one of these days -- that was not a suggestion, Miss Nalini!" He held up his hands, palms outwards. "We don't need the Andorian population running in terror from an accidental typhoon." The chanting of the dancers provided a constant, if somewhat jumbled, underscoring to his words, with the Bolians coming in seven irregular beats behind everyone else.
"I promise, no floods!" Meena said, kicking and swaying in time with the rest of the line.
"I'll believe that when I fail to see it," he dryly replied. "I was told you were hosting a riot down here. What do you call this?"
"Old Terran custom! It's called the conga!" Meena lunged out of the line, grabbing his hands and dragging him back with her. "Just step and kick! Kick!"
Laughing, Lieutenant Nomastikos let himself be pulled, joining in with, "The Captain's going to kill me-ah!" as the line wound its way around the bar, and Freezeday continued towards its inevitable end...
4: Snoresday.
Snoresday was largely reserved for recovering from Freezeday and Experienceday, and saving up energy for Danceday, which was inevitably exhausting. It was also, unsurprisingly, the day of naps.
While the bar still offered its normal menu, a special Snoresday selection of hot teas, cocoas and sleeping draughts from every world in the Federation -- and half a dozen that hadn't joined yet -- was also put out, with all prices reduced in honour of the self-proclaimed 'day of rest'. Piles of mats, blankets and pillows were scattered against the walls, out of the normal walkways, and hammocks had been suspended from the corners. Meena generally spent the better part of every Snoresday tucked into one of those hammocks, wearing striped cotton pajamas, sipping herbal teas and telling long, involved bedtime stories to anyone that asked.
On this particular Snoresday, at the request of several Terran, Centaurian and Klingon regulars, they had declared an 'all-night campout', turned the lights down low, and commenced a festival of traditional camp snacks and long, involved scary stories guaranteed to keep bedtime at bay as long as possible. Watching Meena figure out how to eat a s'more had proven to be an education in itself.
"...and as the killer raised the head of his victim high, he let out a wild, triumphant shriek," said the Security officer currently in possession of the floor. Various members of his audience nodded appreciatively, although the Klingons looked bored, and Myadei -- the station's Betazoid Science Officer, and the only member of her race curious enough to attend the evening's fesitivities -- looked faintly ill.
Meena swung lazily back and forth in her hammock, sipping her cocoa as she watched the proceedings with an interested eye. Business was always slow on Snoresday, for all that the bar was generally packed; sleeping people don't drink as much. And somehow, she couldn't entirely bring herself to care. People were out, they were mixing, they were having fun...
...they were telling gruesome stories of men being eaten alive by space locusts...
Closing her eyes, Meena settled comfortably back, and listened.
5: Homeday.
Being on an orbital station around an uninhabited world, situated specifically for tactical and logistical reasons, means that technically, no one is anywhere near home. Even the children born on the station claimed one homeworld or another, although their views were sometimes a bit skewed -- there was at least one Human child on the station who had decided to come from Trill, and had to be kept strictly away from the fingerpaints.
That -- along with a few other reasons -- was the reason that Meena had declared Homeday to come between Snoresday and Danceday.
Homeday was the day that the bar fully embraced one world or another, changing menus, decor, language of choice, everything in an effort to make one small subsection of the station's teeming population feel more at home. The first Homeday had been Earth, not Trill, despite the expectations of most of the patrons; from there, they'd made a lazy tour of most of the major population centers of the galaxy, and more than a few of the minor ones. Fish chowders from Bolarius IX, spicy breads that almost burned the mouth from Vulcan, things only the brave would eat contributed by the Klingons...it was at once the most specialized and the most welcoming day of the bar's long, changeable week. Tell Meena you had an interest and you'd have a chance to spend a day at 'home' inside of the month.
Today, wide photographs of mountains, glaciers and purple seas covered the walls; stewpots full of shellfish, hard-shelled beetles and organic silicate mud were set up on the bar, and the servers were dressed, all of them, in the ethnic clothing of Trill's various regions. Nifari especially was making herself quite popular -- while most Trill don't boast blue skin or antennae, the scanty patchwork attire of the Mirilnis Bay area was more than enough to make most of the station's Trill proclaim her practically a native. The male ones, anyway.
If anyone noticed Meena's absence, they were polite enough not to comment on it. She wasn't always in attendence, after all; even the bar's owner had been known to take an evening or two off, for personal business. And if it struck anyone as odd that she would miss the day the bar was attuned to her own world of origin, they were polite enough not to comment on that, either.
In the back room, Meena tallied figures between pages of her old-fashioned record book, taking comfort, as she always did, in the methodical process of writing down numbers and seeing them add up the way she needed them to. The room around her was a mess, a jumble of discarded clothing, boxes of imported food and drink, broken chairs and other, stranger things. Most people didn't realize where Meena slept at night; she had quarters, after all, just like everyone else on the station. The fact that she'd never actually set foot in them didn't entirely matter.
The door hissed open and Raval -- the only other Trill on her staff -- stepped inside, carrying a small tray. Meena didn't look up as he carried it over and put it down beside her.
"Here," he said.
Smiling, Meena wrote out another figure and said, "Let me guess. Fresh mud and some hot Bithai'a Bay chowder."
"With the little wood beetles in it," Raval confirmed. "Come on. You have to eat."
"Nope." Meena turned the page, looking up. "I don't have to eat. I have to sit right here and balance the books. And after that, I have to go jogging. And then? Then I have to sleep. Eating is not on the agenda."
Raval sighed. "Meens, you should come out. People are going to wonder. I mean, the bar is home, and--"
"And that, right there, is why I'm in here, Raval." Meena shook her head. "The bar is home. Not Trill.
"Not for me."
6: Danceday.
After the relative calm of Snoresday and Homeday -- where the most exciting thing that tended to happen involved Klingon love poetry, an open microphone, and a hefty bill for chair repair -- it was time for cutting loose, cutting capers, and cutting a virtual rug. It was time, in short, for Danceday, when kinetic energy became the master of the hour.
The first Danceday had boasted Betazed ballroom dancing, which was a new experience for almost everyone involved. The second Danceday proved that Bolians are actually excellent dancers -- mostly because their dances were initially learned on the constantly-moving decks of boats, and after that, nothing is actually difficult. Every Danceday after that drew an increasing crowd, not just of spectators, but of dancers, instructors, and people who had brought a surprising number of small drums and wind instruments onto the station. Klingon ritual dance scored for ocharina and Andorian hand-drum was definitely an experience not to be missed. Or believed if you happened to be unlucky enough to miss it.
Dancing got you a thirty percent discount on drinks, on Danceday; teaching or playing an instrument got you sixty percent, Meena's undying gratitude, and a lot of new friends amongst the crew. It stuck most people with a modicum of talent as a fair exchange.
Presently, Lieutenant Nomastikos, dressed in traditional Centaurian costume (including the attractive blonde on his left arm), was walking a group of twenty through the increasingly complicated steps of a Centaurian wedding dance. "The primary point," he said, "is to make sure that everyone at the wedding has a reasonable chance to abduct the bride. Now, Meena here," he gestured to his prerequisite blonde, "is not Centaurian, but has agreed to act as our bride for the purposes of the demonstration."
"He promised me a wedding night," Meena commented. The gathered dancers laughed.
"So if everyone will follow me, it's one two three, turn, four five six, release your partner, side to the left, one two three, star-turn, four five six, change directions, bow to your new partner, and the person to the right of the bride -- that's you, Alexander -- will lean over on three, take her by the arm, do a butterfly turn while the rest of us courtesy-turn our partners, and begin anew at the head of the formation. And one, two, three -- very good, Alexander, Meena, feel free to kick and scream -- and turn, and turn, and now, begin again. One two three, turn..."
Danceday: not complex, but a lot of fun.
7: Shareday.
On Shareday, the bigger your drink was, the cheaper it became. This had led to some increasingly complex calculations on the part of various members of the crew, and the eventual discovery that if you got enough people willing to share one drink, the drink became completely free. You just had to convince that many people to all want the same drink at the same time. This was often harder than it sounded; after several months of Meena's unique system of days, only the Engineering department had managed it. This had led to a lot of recitations about 'the day Ensign Messonier took a bath in sangria', and a renewed dedication on the part of all the other departments on the station. One day, they swore, they would find something that all of them could stand.
Just not today.
The theme of this week's Shareday was 'things made with fruit', which was practically a cultural revolution for some members of the crew. The Klingons were especially mistrustful of the various things found floating in their drinks, and betting pools were already forming on how long it was going to be before somebody took an Andorian globefruit upside the head. They had a rind like concrete around a surprisingly tasty interior, and had been judged Most Likely To Crack Skulls by a completely impartial board of Ensigns.
"If you like pina coladaaaaaaaaaaas..." Meena was singing chirpily, as she threw grapes into a mug of hot mud for absolutely no reason that anyone could see.
Raval shook his head, looking deeply amused. "She bought the line about chocolate being a fruit," he said, putting a tall mug down on Myadei's table. "So this time, your chocolate surprise doesn't come with any unexpected pineapple."
"My hero," Myadei replied, wrapping her hands around the mug and wincing as Meena hit a particularly shrill note. "Where did she learn that song?"
"Apparently, one of the men who owned the miner's bar where she used to wait tables was a collector of old Terran music." Raval shuddered. "I'm hoping the original wasn't quite this creative."
"Lyrically, or in terms of the actual tune?"
"Both. Either. Neither. Really, I don't want to know." Raval picked up his tray. "Can I get you anything else?"
"I think it's considered rude to say 'earplugs' when the entertainment also happens to be the owner," said Myadei with a grin, "so I'll just ask when you get off duty, and whether you can find someone to share this for me."
Raval blinked at her, then glanced over his shoulder towards Meena, who flashed him a thumbs-up without pausing in her merry butchering of the tune. Turning back to the table, Raval nodded.
"I think that can be arranged."
8: Dave.
When asked why Meena felt the need to name a day 'Dave', she shrugged and replied, "It just looked like a Dave, don't you think?" Since no one else could figure out exactly what she meant by that, the topic was pretty much dropped. There was a bit of concern in some quarters that Meena would expect them all to understand once she went into more detail, and since they couldn't be certain that they would, they really didn't want to know. Sometimes, 'not knowing' was the only real defense where Meena was concerned.
Dave was the day of...well, Dave. Unlike the rest of the week, it didn't seem to have a particular theme; things happened on Dave, but they were just ordinary things, the sort that had happened every day before Meena came to the station, bought the bar, and proved herself to be incurably insane. People laughed, talked, bought beers, mingled, gathered, dispersed and gathered again. Bar fights broke out and were quickly squashed by Security. They behaved, in short, like people. Some of them found it to be a refreshing change after the hustle and bustle of the rest of Meena's 'week'. Others found it boring and a little bit unsettling. Business was usually very, very good after Dave, as people were reminded -- one way or another -- how much they didn't want Meena to move on to another bar.
Meena tended to spend most of Dave behind the bar, using her break from special activities, dance lessons and interior decorating to actually do what a bartender does best.
Dave was spent listening.
There were people on the station who swore that Meena, despite her fluffy demeanor and fondness for dancing randomly on high surfaces, was the only one who ever really took the time to listen. That's what a bartender is supposed to do; that's why they endure, even in a universe with replicators and instant gratification. So on Dave, Meena listened to stories about families and friends and lovers and homeworlds. She looked at pictures of children, husbands, pets and abnormally large fish caught on treasured vacations. She offered advice and a shoulder to cry on. She mixed drinks.
On Dave, Meena did her job.
Most people didn't even notice Dave; there was nothing going on at the bar, and so they moved straight on by, never batting an eye. But the people who knew Meena well knew a secret; one they knew she'd never tell anyone.
Dave was her favourite day of the week.
9: Hideday.
On Hideday, ingredients were hidden, specials changed hour by hour, and it was difficult to be sure that what you ordered was actually what you were going to get. It was a day for surprises, and -- on occasion, when it was late, and the only people present were Ensigns too new to be overly aware of their own dignity -- a day for rousing games of hide-and-seek all around the bar. Hide-and-seek, Meena maintained, was one of the only games that appeared on every planet with sentient life, and could, in fact, be used as a test for intelligence. Language skills, tools and fire were all well and good, but for her, it was the ability to play that really mattered.
Life was sometimes simple, if you happened to be Meena.
A large group of officers in Science blue was gathered around the bar, watching with academic interest as one of their number swished a mouthful of dark purple liquid experimentally back and forth. Finally, swallowing, she announced, "Terran grape juice, Andorian ale, Bolian salt wine, half a cup of grenadine, and a lemon."
They looked to Meena, who nodded.
The cheering was still going on five minutes later, as the new winner of the all-station What The Heck Is That? competition (safer than Beerday's version in that Meena was allowed to mix, but not design, the mystery drinks) was carted around the bar on the shoulders of her crewmates.
Life was usually simple, if it happened to be Hideday.
10: Seekday.
Seekday was the day when the bar sought equillibrium, cleaning up messes, clearing away decorations, and generally recovering from the week that had just ended, while looking towards the week ahead. As with most means of measuring time, Meena's weeks ended with a day of rest.
Seekday was Meena's day off.
She was very strict about that, and so was her staff; they knew how much energy she burned through on a daily basis, and how much of her time was spent racing from point to point like a whirlwind. She needed the time to find herself again, so that she could spend the better part of a ten-day week getting lost. It was a delicate cycle, one that hinged from both directions on the relative peace and quiet of Seekday.
Some people wondered what Meena did on Seekday. She didn't wander the station; she was seen more outside the bar during the rest of the week than she was on the one day when she was supposedly obligation-free. When asked, Raval just shook his head and told them, "You wouldn't believe me if I answered." More than that, he wouldn't say.
Curled in the viewport window of the bar's back room, Meena tapped her lip lightly with her pen, considered the sheet of old-style paper in front of her, and wrote:
This is my home, this place
Outside the reach of gravity's embrace;
The force that draws our feet to ground
Is only the belief that we are drawn,
Moons in orbit of a greater whole.
This is my home, this crafted star
Which flies, and shines, and never falls.
Wish upon me, if you would;
One day your wishes might come true.
I have never seen you, though I seek;
My eyes are far more quiet in their scope.
Still, I know you, when I stop, and seek, and dream.
The feeling of your hands, the sound of laughter,
The taste of salt and skin upon my tongue...
These things I know, and always have,
Although I know not how.
Somewhere, you are waiting, in a garden
Where my roots have never caught, and never held.
This is my home, this quiet hour
Where you and I are close as we may come.
Wish upon me, if you would;
One day your wishes might be heard,
And that may guide you home.
It wasn't right. It was never right. But how do you write a love song to someone you've never met? Meena put her pad aside, hugged her knees against her chest, and watched the stars.
Tomorrow, after all, would be another day.
Setting: Star Trek.
Rating: PG-13.
Description: In a world where she was never on Station 419, Meena Nalini runs a bar as only one slightly insane Trill can.
***
1: Beerday.
Meena renamed the days of the week two and a half months after arriving on the station, declaring that since her bar was technically neutral territory, she could thus call the days anything she wanted to. Since this came right on the heels of her adding three days to the week, no one was particularly surprised, and when she spun 'bar days' to be ever-so-slightly out of synch with station days, it was practically predictable. Local 'midnight' happened at station's noon, so that it was possible, if you timed it right, to start a beer on Freezeday and finish drinking it on Snoresday. There were sometimes prizes, if you did.
Every day had its own specials, traditions and rules. Beerday was the day for practical jokes and guessing games. It was never entirely safe to drink anything that hadn't been identified in detail, but on Beerday, the stakes became especially high. Riddle contests weren't entirely uncommon; neither were shouting matches when cultural differences caused the funniest riddle in a Klingon's lexicon to become unbearably insulting to his Bajorean drinking partners. Fortunately, Meena had never shown any reluctance to dump water on paying customers when they got out of hand, and after a few initial scuffles, Security found that they were called rarely, if at all.
Beerday never passed without a few surprises. And that was why Meena was standing on top of the bar in her stocking feet, hips ascribing a slow arabesque as she brandished a tall, opaque glass in her right hand.
"Test your luck! Prove your constitution! What's in the glass? Nobody knows -- but if you can keep it down, your drinks are on the house for the rest of the night!"
Most of the occupants of the bar stayed exactly where they were. It only took one of Meena's 'mystery drinks' to convince anyone with a grain of sense that they never wanted to taste another one. All of her concoctions were guaranteed non-fatal to any sentient biology that she was likely to encounter; on the rare occasions when someone had volunteered to drink something they'd react poorly to, she'd rewarded their bravery with free drinks and not being required to drink the mystery mixer. But allergies were nothing to bet on, and 'it won't kill you' is sometimes a poor compensation.
"Oh, come on! You're not afraid, are you?"
On a decent-sized station, there's always someone new and stupid. A human Ensign in Security gold stepped forward, cheered on by the shouts of his fellows. Meena grinned, offering him the glass, as two off-duty Medical officers exchanged a glance, finished their drinks with synchronized sighs, and rose, heading back towards the sickbay. 'It won't kill you' doesn't mean 'you won't want it to'.
The Ensign took the glass.
"Cheers!" cried Meena.
2: Experienceday.
Every Experienceday was different, because, as Meena said, 'Life should be the sort of experience that leaves you trying to figure out what the heck just happened when you make it to the end.' The first Experienceday had seen the bar filled with foam balls in a wide rainbow of colours, and a variety of signs encouraging people to pick sides. Several grand battles had broken out before the day ended -- officers against noncoms, Security against Command, the bartending staff against everyone else. Meena's last stand behind the bar with a bucket full of bright green balls had already become the stuff of station legend.
The second Experienceday had featured menus without labels or prices, just squares of random patterns and colours. Patrons touched the square that they wanted, and the servers brought them whatever drink it happened to correspond to. Over the course of the day, people compiled a guide to the colours and patterns and the drinks they represented, like explorers mapping out a brave new world full of alcoholic beverages and spicy bar snacks. There were surprisingly few arguments that day; people were too involved in solving the small, harmless mystery of 'what happens if I ask for this?' to really fight.
After eight Experiencedays, Meena was still coming up with new ways to turn stopping for a drink into an adventure. This week, the entire bar was flooded with holographic moths, butterflies and similar creatures from planets around the galaxy, from the gauzy-winged nectar-frogs of Bolarius IX to the fragile flying mice of Civeral III. They clustered on every surface, landing on the rims of glasses and 'tasting' the various liquids with illusionary tongues. Butterfly nets and large-mouthed jars had been set out on the tables, and signs on the walls boasted that anyone who managed to catch ten different types of 'aerial experience' would get a free drink -- two if they could catch one from their own home planet. People had been chasing butterflies around the room all morning, and the chaos showed no sign of slowing down, for all that several tables were occupied by people who were doing nothing more exciting than sipping their drinks and watching the confusion.
Meena herself was seated cross-legged on the counter behind the bar, letting her servers tend to business while she closed her eyes and relaxed beneath a living blanket of enormous blue-winged butterflies that gleamed almost copper in the shifting light. No one had yet figured out what world they were supposed to be from; some of the Science officers were starting to say that they weren't from any real planet at all, but had just been created by a clever holoprogrammer to add to the experience of the day. Probably the same holoprogrammer that had loaned Meena the projectors in the first place.
"Hey, Meena, what kind of experience do you call this?" asked one of the men at the bar.
"Life!" Meena said, not moving or opening her eyes; instead, she just smiled. "Ever seen it before?"
"Life isn't an experience," protested a woman in Command red.
"Sure it is," said Meena, with a slight shrug that set the wings of her guardian butterflies flapping madly. "It's the best kind of experience anybody gets. The thing is, if you don't slow down once in a while, there's a good chance that you'll miss it."
"Is that some Trill philosophy?"
"Nope. It's just life."
3: Freezeday.
Contrary to the name, Freezeday was effectively Meena's personal shorthand for 'that day when we turn up the heating, break out the tropical drinks, and embrace an old Terran concept known as 'the luau' until we're so sick of pineapple that we can no longer see straight'. Every fifth Freezeday featured snowball fights and hot drinks offered as an apology to those races from colder climes, such as the Andorians, but the rest of the time it was fun, fun, fun, in the sun, sun, sun.
Several people had theorized that this was all just an excuse for Meena to wear a polka-dotted bikini and claim -- falsely, according to the other Trill on the station -- that it was 'traditional ethnic attire'.
Several other people had asked why this was a problem.
No one really had an answer for that one.
The day was half-over, which mostly explained why a long conga line was snaking its way around the room, everyone stepping and kicking mostly in time while arguing with varying degrees of vigour over what, exactly, they were supposed to be shouting. The Ensigns who had first suggested the activity were beginning to realize that infinite diversity from infinite combinations is all well and good in theory, but quickly becomes a little more heated when combining Klingons who think that 'For the familiy honour-ah' is the appropriate cry for a conga with Bolians shouting something complex that apparently scanned in their native language but translated to 'It is highly entertaining to emulate swimming on the land with vigourous flailing of the limbs and now we will kick-ah'. Meena just made matters worse by changing her chant every thirty seconds or so; at present, she was opting for 'I can't feel my ankles-ah!', which was starting to catch on. Most of the servers had been swept into the line, trays and all, and were trying to frantically serve drinks while being rushed along by the tide of enthusiastic dancers.
The station's second officer was waving from the doorway, attempting to catch Meena's attention. After the third circuit of the room, she took pity on him and waved cheerfully back.
"Good afternoon, Lieutenant Nomastikos!" she called. "Come on in, the water's great!"
"Fortunately, there isn't any water, although we fully expect you to flood the place one of these days -- that was not a suggestion, Miss Nalini!" He held up his hands, palms outwards. "We don't need the Andorian population running in terror from an accidental typhoon." The chanting of the dancers provided a constant, if somewhat jumbled, underscoring to his words, with the Bolians coming in seven irregular beats behind everyone else.
"I promise, no floods!" Meena said, kicking and swaying in time with the rest of the line.
"I'll believe that when I fail to see it," he dryly replied. "I was told you were hosting a riot down here. What do you call this?"
"Old Terran custom! It's called the conga!" Meena lunged out of the line, grabbing his hands and dragging him back with her. "Just step and kick! Kick!"
Laughing, Lieutenant Nomastikos let himself be pulled, joining in with, "The Captain's going to kill me-ah!" as the line wound its way around the bar, and Freezeday continued towards its inevitable end...
4: Snoresday.
Snoresday was largely reserved for recovering from Freezeday and Experienceday, and saving up energy for Danceday, which was inevitably exhausting. It was also, unsurprisingly, the day of naps.
While the bar still offered its normal menu, a special Snoresday selection of hot teas, cocoas and sleeping draughts from every world in the Federation -- and half a dozen that hadn't joined yet -- was also put out, with all prices reduced in honour of the self-proclaimed 'day of rest'. Piles of mats, blankets and pillows were scattered against the walls, out of the normal walkways, and hammocks had been suspended from the corners. Meena generally spent the better part of every Snoresday tucked into one of those hammocks, wearing striped cotton pajamas, sipping herbal teas and telling long, involved bedtime stories to anyone that asked.
On this particular Snoresday, at the request of several Terran, Centaurian and Klingon regulars, they had declared an 'all-night campout', turned the lights down low, and commenced a festival of traditional camp snacks and long, involved scary stories guaranteed to keep bedtime at bay as long as possible. Watching Meena figure out how to eat a s'more had proven to be an education in itself.
"...and as the killer raised the head of his victim high, he let out a wild, triumphant shriek," said the Security officer currently in possession of the floor. Various members of his audience nodded appreciatively, although the Klingons looked bored, and Myadei -- the station's Betazoid Science Officer, and the only member of her race curious enough to attend the evening's fesitivities -- looked faintly ill.
Meena swung lazily back and forth in her hammock, sipping her cocoa as she watched the proceedings with an interested eye. Business was always slow on Snoresday, for all that the bar was generally packed; sleeping people don't drink as much. And somehow, she couldn't entirely bring herself to care. People were out, they were mixing, they were having fun...
...they were telling gruesome stories of men being eaten alive by space locusts...
Closing her eyes, Meena settled comfortably back, and listened.
5: Homeday.
Being on an orbital station around an uninhabited world, situated specifically for tactical and logistical reasons, means that technically, no one is anywhere near home. Even the children born on the station claimed one homeworld or another, although their views were sometimes a bit skewed -- there was at least one Human child on the station who had decided to come from Trill, and had to be kept strictly away from the fingerpaints.
That -- along with a few other reasons -- was the reason that Meena had declared Homeday to come between Snoresday and Danceday.
Homeday was the day that the bar fully embraced one world or another, changing menus, decor, language of choice, everything in an effort to make one small subsection of the station's teeming population feel more at home. The first Homeday had been Earth, not Trill, despite the expectations of most of the patrons; from there, they'd made a lazy tour of most of the major population centers of the galaxy, and more than a few of the minor ones. Fish chowders from Bolarius IX, spicy breads that almost burned the mouth from Vulcan, things only the brave would eat contributed by the Klingons...it was at once the most specialized and the most welcoming day of the bar's long, changeable week. Tell Meena you had an interest and you'd have a chance to spend a day at 'home' inside of the month.
Today, wide photographs of mountains, glaciers and purple seas covered the walls; stewpots full of shellfish, hard-shelled beetles and organic silicate mud were set up on the bar, and the servers were dressed, all of them, in the ethnic clothing of Trill's various regions. Nifari especially was making herself quite popular -- while most Trill don't boast blue skin or antennae, the scanty patchwork attire of the Mirilnis Bay area was more than enough to make most of the station's Trill proclaim her practically a native. The male ones, anyway.
If anyone noticed Meena's absence, they were polite enough not to comment on it. She wasn't always in attendence, after all; even the bar's owner had been known to take an evening or two off, for personal business. And if it struck anyone as odd that she would miss the day the bar was attuned to her own world of origin, they were polite enough not to comment on that, either.
In the back room, Meena tallied figures between pages of her old-fashioned record book, taking comfort, as she always did, in the methodical process of writing down numbers and seeing them add up the way she needed them to. The room around her was a mess, a jumble of discarded clothing, boxes of imported food and drink, broken chairs and other, stranger things. Most people didn't realize where Meena slept at night; she had quarters, after all, just like everyone else on the station. The fact that she'd never actually set foot in them didn't entirely matter.
The door hissed open and Raval -- the only other Trill on her staff -- stepped inside, carrying a small tray. Meena didn't look up as he carried it over and put it down beside her.
"Here," he said.
Smiling, Meena wrote out another figure and said, "Let me guess. Fresh mud and some hot Bithai'a Bay chowder."
"With the little wood beetles in it," Raval confirmed. "Come on. You have to eat."
"Nope." Meena turned the page, looking up. "I don't have to eat. I have to sit right here and balance the books. And after that, I have to go jogging. And then? Then I have to sleep. Eating is not on the agenda."
Raval sighed. "Meens, you should come out. People are going to wonder. I mean, the bar is home, and--"
"And that, right there, is why I'm in here, Raval." Meena shook her head. "The bar is home. Not Trill.
"Not for me."
6: Danceday.
After the relative calm of Snoresday and Homeday -- where the most exciting thing that tended to happen involved Klingon love poetry, an open microphone, and a hefty bill for chair repair -- it was time for cutting loose, cutting capers, and cutting a virtual rug. It was time, in short, for Danceday, when kinetic energy became the master of the hour.
The first Danceday had boasted Betazed ballroom dancing, which was a new experience for almost everyone involved. The second Danceday proved that Bolians are actually excellent dancers -- mostly because their dances were initially learned on the constantly-moving decks of boats, and after that, nothing is actually difficult. Every Danceday after that drew an increasing crowd, not just of spectators, but of dancers, instructors, and people who had brought a surprising number of small drums and wind instruments onto the station. Klingon ritual dance scored for ocharina and Andorian hand-drum was definitely an experience not to be missed. Or believed if you happened to be unlucky enough to miss it.
Dancing got you a thirty percent discount on drinks, on Danceday; teaching or playing an instrument got you sixty percent, Meena's undying gratitude, and a lot of new friends amongst the crew. It stuck most people with a modicum of talent as a fair exchange.
Presently, Lieutenant Nomastikos, dressed in traditional Centaurian costume (including the attractive blonde on his left arm), was walking a group of twenty through the increasingly complicated steps of a Centaurian wedding dance. "The primary point," he said, "is to make sure that everyone at the wedding has a reasonable chance to abduct the bride. Now, Meena here," he gestured to his prerequisite blonde, "is not Centaurian, but has agreed to act as our bride for the purposes of the demonstration."
"He promised me a wedding night," Meena commented. The gathered dancers laughed.
"So if everyone will follow me, it's one two three, turn, four five six, release your partner, side to the left, one two three, star-turn, four five six, change directions, bow to your new partner, and the person to the right of the bride -- that's you, Alexander -- will lean over on three, take her by the arm, do a butterfly turn while the rest of us courtesy-turn our partners, and begin anew at the head of the formation. And one, two, three -- very good, Alexander, Meena, feel free to kick and scream -- and turn, and turn, and now, begin again. One two three, turn..."
Danceday: not complex, but a lot of fun.
7: Shareday.
On Shareday, the bigger your drink was, the cheaper it became. This had led to some increasingly complex calculations on the part of various members of the crew, and the eventual discovery that if you got enough people willing to share one drink, the drink became completely free. You just had to convince that many people to all want the same drink at the same time. This was often harder than it sounded; after several months of Meena's unique system of days, only the Engineering department had managed it. This had led to a lot of recitations about 'the day Ensign Messonier took a bath in sangria', and a renewed dedication on the part of all the other departments on the station. One day, they swore, they would find something that all of them could stand.
Just not today.
The theme of this week's Shareday was 'things made with fruit', which was practically a cultural revolution for some members of the crew. The Klingons were especially mistrustful of the various things found floating in their drinks, and betting pools were already forming on how long it was going to be before somebody took an Andorian globefruit upside the head. They had a rind like concrete around a surprisingly tasty interior, and had been judged Most Likely To Crack Skulls by a completely impartial board of Ensigns.
"If you like pina coladaaaaaaaaaaas..." Meena was singing chirpily, as she threw grapes into a mug of hot mud for absolutely no reason that anyone could see.
Raval shook his head, looking deeply amused. "She bought the line about chocolate being a fruit," he said, putting a tall mug down on Myadei's table. "So this time, your chocolate surprise doesn't come with any unexpected pineapple."
"My hero," Myadei replied, wrapping her hands around the mug and wincing as Meena hit a particularly shrill note. "Where did she learn that song?"
"Apparently, one of the men who owned the miner's bar where she used to wait tables was a collector of old Terran music." Raval shuddered. "I'm hoping the original wasn't quite this creative."
"Lyrically, or in terms of the actual tune?"
"Both. Either. Neither. Really, I don't want to know." Raval picked up his tray. "Can I get you anything else?"
"I think it's considered rude to say 'earplugs' when the entertainment also happens to be the owner," said Myadei with a grin, "so I'll just ask when you get off duty, and whether you can find someone to share this for me."
Raval blinked at her, then glanced over his shoulder towards Meena, who flashed him a thumbs-up without pausing in her merry butchering of the tune. Turning back to the table, Raval nodded.
"I think that can be arranged."
8: Dave.
When asked why Meena felt the need to name a day 'Dave', she shrugged and replied, "It just looked like a Dave, don't you think?" Since no one else could figure out exactly what she meant by that, the topic was pretty much dropped. There was a bit of concern in some quarters that Meena would expect them all to understand once she went into more detail, and since they couldn't be certain that they would, they really didn't want to know. Sometimes, 'not knowing' was the only real defense where Meena was concerned.
Dave was the day of...well, Dave. Unlike the rest of the week, it didn't seem to have a particular theme; things happened on Dave, but they were just ordinary things, the sort that had happened every day before Meena came to the station, bought the bar, and proved herself to be incurably insane. People laughed, talked, bought beers, mingled, gathered, dispersed and gathered again. Bar fights broke out and were quickly squashed by Security. They behaved, in short, like people. Some of them found it to be a refreshing change after the hustle and bustle of the rest of Meena's 'week'. Others found it boring and a little bit unsettling. Business was usually very, very good after Dave, as people were reminded -- one way or another -- how much they didn't want Meena to move on to another bar.
Meena tended to spend most of Dave behind the bar, using her break from special activities, dance lessons and interior decorating to actually do what a bartender does best.
Dave was spent listening.
There were people on the station who swore that Meena, despite her fluffy demeanor and fondness for dancing randomly on high surfaces, was the only one who ever really took the time to listen. That's what a bartender is supposed to do; that's why they endure, even in a universe with replicators and instant gratification. So on Dave, Meena listened to stories about families and friends and lovers and homeworlds. She looked at pictures of children, husbands, pets and abnormally large fish caught on treasured vacations. She offered advice and a shoulder to cry on. She mixed drinks.
On Dave, Meena did her job.
Most people didn't even notice Dave; there was nothing going on at the bar, and so they moved straight on by, never batting an eye. But the people who knew Meena well knew a secret; one they knew she'd never tell anyone.
Dave was her favourite day of the week.
9: Hideday.
On Hideday, ingredients were hidden, specials changed hour by hour, and it was difficult to be sure that what you ordered was actually what you were going to get. It was a day for surprises, and -- on occasion, when it was late, and the only people present were Ensigns too new to be overly aware of their own dignity -- a day for rousing games of hide-and-seek all around the bar. Hide-and-seek, Meena maintained, was one of the only games that appeared on every planet with sentient life, and could, in fact, be used as a test for intelligence. Language skills, tools and fire were all well and good, but for her, it was the ability to play that really mattered.
Life was sometimes simple, if you happened to be Meena.
A large group of officers in Science blue was gathered around the bar, watching with academic interest as one of their number swished a mouthful of dark purple liquid experimentally back and forth. Finally, swallowing, she announced, "Terran grape juice, Andorian ale, Bolian salt wine, half a cup of grenadine, and a lemon."
They looked to Meena, who nodded.
The cheering was still going on five minutes later, as the new winner of the all-station What The Heck Is That? competition (safer than Beerday's version in that Meena was allowed to mix, but not design, the mystery drinks) was carted around the bar on the shoulders of her crewmates.
Life was usually simple, if it happened to be Hideday.
10: Seekday.
Seekday was the day when the bar sought equillibrium, cleaning up messes, clearing away decorations, and generally recovering from the week that had just ended, while looking towards the week ahead. As with most means of measuring time, Meena's weeks ended with a day of rest.
Seekday was Meena's day off.
She was very strict about that, and so was her staff; they knew how much energy she burned through on a daily basis, and how much of her time was spent racing from point to point like a whirlwind. She needed the time to find herself again, so that she could spend the better part of a ten-day week getting lost. It was a delicate cycle, one that hinged from both directions on the relative peace and quiet of Seekday.
Some people wondered what Meena did on Seekday. She didn't wander the station; she was seen more outside the bar during the rest of the week than she was on the one day when she was supposedly obligation-free. When asked, Raval just shook his head and told them, "You wouldn't believe me if I answered." More than that, he wouldn't say.
Curled in the viewport window of the bar's back room, Meena tapped her lip lightly with her pen, considered the sheet of old-style paper in front of her, and wrote:
This is my home, this place
Outside the reach of gravity's embrace;
The force that draws our feet to ground
Is only the belief that we are drawn,
Moons in orbit of a greater whole.
This is my home, this crafted star
Which flies, and shines, and never falls.
Wish upon me, if you would;
One day your wishes might come true.
I have never seen you, though I seek;
My eyes are far more quiet in their scope.
Still, I know you, when I stop, and seek, and dream.
The feeling of your hands, the sound of laughter,
The taste of salt and skin upon my tongue...
These things I know, and always have,
Although I know not how.
Somewhere, you are waiting, in a garden
Where my roots have never caught, and never held.
This is my home, this quiet hour
Where you and I are close as we may come.
Wish upon me, if you would;
One day your wishes might be heard,
And that may guide you home.
It wasn't right. It was never right. But how do you write a love song to someone you've never met? Meena put her pad aside, hugged her knees against her chest, and watched the stars.
Tomorrow, after all, would be another day.