“I tire of this,” Braga complained as he read the latest updates from the Klingon Empire. “It never used to be this…” he searched for the right word, “…stupid.” He sat at a portable table on the stage, his half-eaten meal before him. Across from him sat Karga, the stage manager. They’d come to Montana Station on a lark, hoping to find a rest stop before deciding where to take their Klingon theatre troup. The days had turned to weeks, and February was halfway finished. Still, they remained.

Karge chuckled, “I don’t have memories of the old days, Braga. I was too young. Perhaps it was a good thing for me to live in the age I do.” He indicated the display device, “I suppose it is more of the same?”

Braga did not laugh. He stared at his food, his eyes darting this way and that. He was old enough to remember the days of old. His creativity had kept him from the warrior classes, and his charismatic style had left him on the sidelines in most social situations. While he had impressed some with his productions, it had become clear he would need to seek his fortune elsewhere. “You do not miss home, Karge? The food. The sound. The smell.” He closed his eyes, “I miss it. More and more.”

Karge’s smile faded. He had heard these words from Braga before. Yet this time…there was a heaviness to them—a weight he could not ignore. “What is to stop you from returning? We’re not exiles, Braga.”

He was quiet. His eyes searched the table and then the walls as he muttered thoughts. “We might as well be. With all Chancellor Toral has said and done…would we truly be welcome? I hear he’s pulled funding from smaller creative groups for ‘the betterment of the Empire.’ There is talk amongst some that he will put them to work in the ongoing escalation efforts…that they will be placed on the line.”

Karge’s eyes widened at this, “But they are not warriors! It is not…,”

Braga threw his arms up in frustration, “Whether it is proper or not does not seem to matter. It is now the direction our Empire goes, and with it – our hope of returning home without worry. Would you accept such a fate – poured into the soup that passes for the food that feeds the beast? To fear for your life at the hands of those who do not care about your destiny…only that of the Empire and the Great Houses.”

The younger Klingon’s eyes dropped, his silence deepening. Braga was old and wise. He had known this when he’d met him and become his ward. He had trusted him through it all. Something in him began to break as his reality slowly shifted. “We are without a home…without a people.”

Braga stood, dragging his chair beside Karge, “Do not despair – it is dark; I cannot deny it. But we have each other…we have our troupe. They are our House now, Karge. This place…this theatre…the Federation has rules about removing aliens from their starbases. We present no threat.”

Karge groused, a quiet smile, “That Fleet Captain doesn’t like us.”

Braga’s smile widened, “Perhaps…but the sold-out shows suggest the rest of them like what we do. And like us.” He put his hand on the younger man’s shoulder, “Chancellor Toral cannot take away what we’ve had our whole lives. Our power is here on this stage. Do not think us less or subordinate to his vision.”

Karge’s eyebrows went up, “Unusual to hear a little heresy from you, Braga.”

The older Klingon chuckled darkly, “I suspect that when the Empire’s fate is decided in the end…heresy will be the least of the problems, Karge. Come, let us prepare for rehearsal. Your King Lear needs a little more madness.”