On the spinward front of the United Federation of Planets, there is a Starbase, a great citadel of silver where the banner of blue flies proudly above the parapets. Aboard that great watchtower of liberty, there is a bar; one of a number but favoured by a great many beings whether they walk on two legs, or four, or none at all. It is a bar which plays host to the Fourth Fleet’s greatest officers during their brief respites, as they journey across the stars and allows the mix and mingle of any who seek to lay down their woes.

Within those wood-panelled walls, illuminated by the glow of faux tungsten lamps, there is a quiet side room. Many claim its seemingly flimsy wooden door is stronger than the portal of a keep. For it holds great warriors at bay and fends off the most ingenious spy; it has guarded against the galaxy’s most devious foe and held fast before the most devilish machines.

Within that room three friends now sit, grateful for it’s oaken safety after a day of endless meetings and reports.

For within this discreet side room, there is one golden rule. ‘No Shop Talk’.

Varen’s eyes narrowed as they swung between the pair of men opposite, evaluating the poker faces of his two dear friends. He had faced the spittle-spewing bluster of Klingon commanders and the slippery snaking smiles of Cardassian diplomats, but this pair were completely inscrutable. No twitch of the eyebrow that may reveal a gambit, nor twist of the lip that might signal a stratagem. This, it seemed, may be entirely down to luck.

“Do you have any sevens?”

Mamof leaned back in his chair, his demeanour softened in the comforting embrace of this rare sanctuary. He glanced down at the cards in his hand and pursed his lips together in mock contemplation before raising his gaze to Varen.

“Go fish,” he said with a smirk. Leaning back in his chair, he cradled his drink and shot Varen a wink. “You never know. Maybe the universe will smile on you with this next catch.”

He looked over his cards again before glancing toward Callen. Raising his drink slightly as if in a toast before setting it back on the table beside him. “Got any eights?”

Callen’s gaze flicked to Varen, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You know…” he said, the words rolling off his tongue like a challenge.

He leaned back slightly, his fingers brushing the edges of the eight in his hand before holding it out toward Mamof. The pause stretched just long enough to betray his reluctance before he let the card go.

He tilted his head, his eyes narrowing in a mix of appraisal and disbelief. “I’ve sat across from empaths and telepaths, even the kind who can see right through you,” he said, his voice low and edged with humour. “And yet here you are, Mr. Mamof, putting them all to shame.”

Mamof accepted the card with a grin that lit up his face, giving Callen an exaggerated nod of appreciation. “Well Callen” he began “I’ll take that as high praise, though I assure you no telepathic tricks here. Just good old-fashioned intuition. Or maybe I’m just that lucky.”

Callen’s eyes narrowed, his gaze fixed on Mamof with a sharpness that cut through the friendly banter. The corner of his mouth twitched, almost imperceptibly, as though holding back a retort. “Luck, sure,” he muttered, the words slipping out under his breath like an afterthought. His lips pressed into a thin line as he leaned back in his chair, the quiet creak of the wood punctuating the tension.

He tapped his fingers against the edge of his cards, the rhythm deliberate, steady, revealing nothing. Without breaking his stride, his eyes shifted to Varen, studying him as if searching for cracks in his composure. “Wyll, Got any threes, maybe?” he asked, the casual tone almost too smooth, his poker face firmly intact.

The Bajoran captain’s head swung theatrically around the room, before settling on the officer across the table.

“I’m still not convinced you don’t have hidden mirrors in every corner.” Varen reluctantly plucked a card from his small hand and slid its three dark diamonds across the table. “That or some secret telepathy of your own. I might have to start hiding you in the corner of my office for staff briefings. Did you know that Canterbury managed to-”

Callen’s laugh burst out, sharp and sudden, slicing through Wyll’s words like a well-aimed jab. He leaned back in his chair, the dim light catching the glint of mischief in his eyes. His grin broadened as he tapped two fingers against the table for emphasis.

“It’s my job to know the Canterbury managed to misplace their CO,” he said, his voice laced with mock gravity. He let the words settle for a beat, then tilted his head, his grin sharpening into a sly smirk. “But you…” He pointed at Varen with exaggerated precision, his voice dropping into a conspiratorial tone. “…you, my dear friend, are breaking the prime directive of games night.”

He paused, letting the moment linger before delivering the final blow.

“No shop talk.”

Mamof chuckled as he swirled his drink gently in one hand as he watched the exchange unfold. He shot Varen an amused look, his eyes twinkling with that ever-present jovial warmth.

“Careful Varen,” he said leaning in just a bit. “Break the rules too many times and we might have to start assigning penalties. And trust me you don’t want to know what Callen and I can come up with.”

He winked, taking a slow sip of his drink before settling back in his chair, clearly enjoying the friendly ribbing. “But by all means carry on,” he added lightly, his grin widening. “This is far too entertaining to interrupt.”

Letting out a defeated sigh Varen took to shuffling the positions of the cards in his hands, hoping to outplay the apparently all-seeing pair of officers. “Fine,” he huffed from behind the fan of playing cards.

Callen leaned forward, the faint creak of his chair breaking the heavy silence. The dim light caught the edge of his smirk, sharpening it like the glint of a blade. His gaze swept across the table, lingering just long enough on each face to drink in the wide eyes and hesitant stares. Slowly, he straightened, his expression smoothing into a mask of calm, his features unreadable, as if nothing had been said at all.

“The mirrors?” His voice was quiet, almost offhand, but the edge beneath it was unmistakable. “I don’t need them.” He paused, letting the words hang like smoke, his fingers brushing idly against the cards in front of him. “My career’s shown me a trick or two…” His eyes flicked up, locking onto his friends for the briefest moment, the barest hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “…maybe three.”

Mamof let out a low rumbling chuckle, his eyes crinkling with amusement as he gave Callen an approving nod. “Well now” he mused. “That explains an awful lot, doesn’t it?” He leaned forward slightly, his grin never faltering. “All this time I thought it was just sheer luck and impeccable timing. But no—turns out you’ve been holding out on us with those tricks of yours.” Shooting a glance at Varen with an expression full of mock suspicion. “I don’t know about you but I’m starting to feel a little outmatched here. We might have to start checking under the table for hidden subspace relays.”

He took a sip of his drink, settling back again with an easy smile. “Of course, if you’ve got a few honest tricks to share Callen, I’m all ears. And trust me, these ears know a thing or two about a good deal when they hear one.” He flicked his ear with a light chuckle. “Might even help me next time I’m haggling over a ‘once-in-a-lifetime’ opportunity at the station’s trading post.”

“Hey, I warned you that trader and his crates of ‘ancient Vulcan herbs and spices’ were bogus,” Varen crowed from across the table. “Salt, 50 metric tonnes of completely normal salt. It wasn’t even from Vulcan!”

Callen’s smirk crept across his face as he leaned back in his chair. “At least we won’t have to worry if the replicators go down on Starbase 21,” he said, a mischievous glint in his eye. “You can always cure your meats, pickle your vegetables, and ride it out.”

He let the words hang in the air for a moment, then straightened, his expression turning playful as he raised an eyebrow. “So, I believe we were playing a game, gentlemen?”

“Have you got any-” Varen began before a fearful cough from the room’s corner interrupted his inevitable slide into defeat.

All heads turned to the corner, a collective narrowing of brows honing in on the young petty officer who stood at the secreted doorway, her timid mousey features hovering bodyless from behind its dark oaken form.

“Sorry sirs, I know you said that you didn’t want to be disturbed.” She twitched noticeably as the trio each raised an unimpressed eyebrow in unison before ushering a quivering arm into the room with glacial hesitancy. A cluster of slender golden deltas nestled in her shaking palms, all three emitting the incessant, hungry chirps of responsibility.

“But they all started going off at once…”