The curling shapes of fluffy clouds caught golden flecks of Janoor III’s setting sun above Morgan Township. The developed section of the Jasnea’s riverfront ran between the Riverside Casino’s neon petals and the sculpted glass towers of Isav’s Landing. Small shops and the occasional home lined the waterway. Music filtered from open terraces among quaint pubs and restaurants. Sounds ranging from live strings to pulsing synths filled tight alleyways. Each venue tried to out-charm its neighbor.

Tucked beside a curved stone wall woven with luminescent reeds, Kalurra’s Nest kept a thumping pulse. The bar’s low-slung seating and circular layout provided nooks for hushed conversation, an open center with elevated hearths, and wraparound displays that currently showcased a sports broadcast. Everything was set beneath a glass ceiling that revealed the thickening shadow of dusk’s arrival. Scents of spiced fruit, baked xeno-shellfish, and charred vines drifted over the bar’s natural wood countertops.

M’Row reclined against a plush half-moon cushion, one boot perched on the low edge of the table. His striped, cream-colored tail curled lazily beside a frosted glass of ginger seltzer. His orange jacket hung open, revealing the breathable tan undershirt he favored off-duty. The Caitian looked freshly groomed. Pointed ears twitched as they studied his surroundings.

The bold “M” marking across his forehead appeared stark under the bar’s warm glow. It appeared like an almost ceremonial sigil carved by centuries of evolution. One eye sparkled in electric blue, the other shimmered in an uncanny violet-red hue.

The massive screen behind the bar flickered with Ferengi SportsNet’s animated logo before cutting to a split feed. Both fighters were shown on a split screen view alongside their statistics.

M’Row’s left ear flicked at the sound of a screeching guitar outro from the promo’s cut-in. He let out a faint rumble of distaste.

“Well. That’s a pairing built to make your fur stand on end,” said a voice beside him, sultry and amused.

Crismarlyn Ruiz slid onto the cushion across from him. She wore a gleaming coral wrap that danced with every bounce of movement. Dyed brown hair was swept back into a braid laced with silver rings. The scent of floral oils wafted around her.

“I take it you’re not betting,” she added with a nod to the untouched wager paddles placed on the table in front of them.

“I bet internally, not with credits,” M’Row said lyrically. A subtle purr hummed beneath his words, like velvet brushing stone. “Besides, the odds are rigged. I can smell it.” M’Row’s tiny, curved nostrils scrunched as he took a deep whiff.

“Smell it, hmm?” she said with a restrained grin. “Okay, master instincts. Who’s taking this one?”

He turned his gaze to the screen. The Ferengi broadcast was in the midst of talking about Black Fury’s tough upbringing in the Caitian township of E’ve’ro.

“Whirl plays to the crowd,” M’Row said as he relaxed deeper into the cushions. “He exerts too much energy early. Watch his tail. It twitches left every time he repositions. He’s got to have more discipline than that.”

Cris smirked as she folded one leg over the other. “You say that like you’ve done this before.”

“I trained for a few years at my aunt’s enclave. We fought on cliff shelves during the high winds. It was competitive, but not really violent. More aggressive disciplines are taught for self defense.” He paused to sip his drink. “My uncle once broke his tail in a fence diving match. He taught me to land like a shadow, not a storm.”

Cris turned to him, lips parted. “You’re really into this.”

The room quieted with interest as a counting timestamp reached zero. Even a crimson-skinned bartender behind the counter paused, stark yellow eyes glued to the aerial drone footage.

The view panned out to show Graw’rath Arena crouched atop the high basalt cliffs of Cait’s western hemisphere. Its faceted dome gleamed under their late afternoon’s beaming rays. The stadium pulsed with twinkling iridescent lights, exotic scents, and the electric thrill of anticipation. Low purrs and hisses from thousands of Caitians flowed down from the ascending tiers of seating. The smell of overly-marketed fur oil and spicy fish broth drifted from concession drones flying above the stands.

A hexagonal platform of gleaming white alloys hovered a meter off the ground in the center of the audience. Metallic fencing formed a springy border around the combat zone. Overlapping hexagonal patterns projected soft golden shapes along the padded floor. Tiny holo-recorder drones orbited the platform’s edge to capture the fight from every angle. Ferengi Sports Net was broadcasting tonight’s event to countless eager subscribers across the four quadrants.

This was no petty skirmish. It was a headline bout. The Black Fury was squaring off against The Silver Whirl. Both aging former champions had two unique styles.

At the apex of the crowd’s murmur, a syrupy Ferengi voice boomed across the communications speakers.

“Esteemed viewers across the stars, welcome to Caitian Kickboxing on FSN! Tonight’s event is brought to you by Riverside Casino on Janoor III! Lose your latinum, find your rhythm. Don’t forget to visit Nez for food and drinks, coming soon to a starport near you!”

A lone bead of sweat slid down the diminutive orange man’s forehead. Fabrics of metallic copper and silver tones formed his robe. Exaggerated shoulder pads were designed to make the announcer feel bigger. “Nez. At least we’re not Quark’s.”

The crowd yowled as tails batted impatiently and ears flattened in annoyance across the stands.

Tribal music from the region of Cait known as Me’ew played as the first competitor entered. Drums beat over mystic ambiance.

Fury was an obsidian tomcat of imposing height. The genetically longhaired cat was notorious for trimming his fur down to shorthair length for each fight. The decision left him shunned by many in the longhaired community. Rich golden eyes blinked slowly as he stepped onto the hexagonal-spotted floor. Every motion was measured by sensors. Soft black mittens shaped more like a cat paw’s than his own hands were worn. Similar booties covered his furry feet. Orange trim ringed his pads and ebony silk shorts.

Black Fury gave no nod to the crowd. Slow, deep purring rumbled confidently through raspy breaths.

Then came Whirl’s explosion of an entrance. The music’s tempo increased rapidly. A melodic guitar solo sang to the heavens.

The crowd exploded into joyful purrs and screeching.

The silver tabby darted onto the platform in a streak of motion. Ocean blue eyes shimmered as he twirled mid-run and leapt straight upward. Silver Fury landed on all fours inside of the ring. He leaned forward with an exaggerated stretch that carried his lithe hindquarters skyward. A striped tail rose like a proud flag. Bright pink with reflective piping covered his clawpads. A wrap around his tail bore the unmistakable Nez logo. Fury winked at the nearest camera drone and gave his right hind paw a slow, deliberate lick.

The bell rang.

Fury struck first in a blur of motion. His forepaws came down in diagonal swats with quick snaps. It was less like a punch and more like a cat batting at a toy. Whirl dodged backwards, tail raised. He bounced up and spun into a twisting kick. Both hindlegs delivered what could have been a fatal blow with claws. Instead, they pattered Black Fury with an accompanied verbal yeowl. Whirl’s upper body followed the motion into a spinning turn. The tabby chittered, fangs briefly flashing in amusement.

The crowd howled.

Fury narrowed his gaze and lunged with a pair of downward swats meant to pin and pressure. They were reminiscent of a feline slapping a misbehaving sibling. The strength behind them rocked the silver tomcat’s head with a dazing impact. Whirl absorbed the first, but slipped under the second. He countered with a sudden spring upward. Whirl’s front limbs yanked downwards before he delivered another double hindquarters kick to Fury’s midsection.

The fighters separated to dance for positioning. Each threw searching swats towards the other as they exchanged menacing growls.

In the commentator booth high above, the Ferengi host exclaimed, “Folks, if these claws weren’t padded, fur would be flying.”

Tails flicked as blows were exchanged. Ears swiveled. Whirl dropped into a low crouch, tongue out in mock panting. Fury hissed and leaned forward to release a combo of four wide-palmed swats.

Whirl twisted and leapt upward, rotating to deliver another signature kick. The striped cat followed with a pair of low swats and a bounding strike. Fury ducked underneath and seized his opponent’s flank with a hind leg hook. This escalated into a full grapple.

The duo batted, kicked, and twisted in a knot of limbs before finally springing apart. Fury panted heavily, pink tongue hanging from his mouth. Whirl kept a strategic distance away from the shadowy tom as a timer counted down to zero.

The bell chimed to mark the end of the first round.

The arena erupted into paw-pounding, tail-thumping applause.

The first round was scored to The Silver Whirl. Fury blinked once before retreating to the corner to refresh. Whirl winked, bowed theatrically, and limped away with a mock-sad mewl.

Holographic text floated above them in Caitian script.

“No prey caught. No pride lost. The hunt remains.”

Above the ring, a Ferengi voice reminded the audience to, “Book a ride with Glezorb’s Ferry Service. If it’s not with Glezorb, I don’t want to go. ”

The screen above the bar pulsed with stylized hexagonal overlays, locking in the data of Round One. Bright red and silver graphics crowned The Silver Whirl as winner of the opening exchange. A column of stats swept across the bottom of the broadcast. Strike velocity, hang-time, tail balance ratios were shown above a scroll of live odds that updated in real-time. The consensus seemed to be quickly shifting towards the silver tabby.

Applause broke out from several booths tucked in the deep corners of the bar. Holo-walls shimmered briefly to reflect the rising cheer. Colors subtly adjusted their warming tone to match the crowd’s mood. This was a newly installed Ferengi hospitality program at work, programmed just in time for Task Force 21’s arrival.

Lt. JG Crismarlyn Ruiz lifted her glass with a pleased smirk. “I told you. Whirl had that round.” She leaned toward Lt. M’Row, eyes still fixed on the replay in the corner projection. It showed Whirl’s first double hind-kick in slow motion. “You don’t kick like that unless you’re trying to remind people you’re made of spring steel.”

M’Row’s expression was calm, but his ears flicked backward slightly in reluctant concession. “He played it well. That counter kick after the feint was clever.” He watched footage, jaw tight in thought. “He still spent too much to get it. Fury barely breathed. Watch what happens in the late rounds.”

“Fury lost the round,” Cris countered with a grin caked in subtle lipstick. “That’s what catching your breath gets you.”

M’Row’s tail gave a slow sweep beside his seat. “Whirl won the opening,” M’Row admitted. One claw tapped lightly against the rim of his now empty glass. “Black Fury is just positioning. The Whirl just showed him everything he’s got.”

Behind them, the central bar glowed in coppery curves. The space was tended by a half-dozen staff from across the quadrant. A Ferengi manager in a gleaming vest surveyed the room from behind a display rack of Romulan ales and Betazoid liquors. Massive lobes twitched every time a new order came in. Most of the workers wore uniforms in sleek metallic fabrics, tailored to reveal just enough to keep guests around. A Caitian woman with sleek copper fur and a turquoise bikini top served drinks from a raised circular platform behind the bar. Her lithe tail swayed with feline grace. She balanced a tray of frozen beverages on one hand and a PADD in the other.

The diversity of the crowd reflected the bar’s orbit-side reputation. A retired Andorian colonel nursed a synthehol cocktail alongside a Nausican trader in one booth. A small knot of Bajoran junior officers discussed match stats shown on the screens. A pair of Pakleds shouted “Whirl fast!” while pounding their table. Their Tellarite waitress gasped in concern.

Crismarlyn glanced sidelong at M’Row, then back at the screen. “Have you thought of going back to Cait? I have two weeks off. Let’s get some people together and hop on a ferry.”

“It shouldn’t be hard to find a ship”, M’Row said. “I saw ads for those Glezorb star-ferries back at the hotel. I bet we can find one here scheduled to Cait.”

“A Ferengi ferry? I guess it’ll be fun”, added the Chief Flight Control Officer. “At least I won’t have to fly.” Cris knew she might find it hard to simply exist as a passenger. She preferred to be at the helm.

“I have some friends there now. Family too.” M’Row’s voice rose with excitement. “Let’s reach out to everyone and see who’s up for it.” A chirping mew was mixed into his vocalizations.

“We’ll probably pass Eldor III on the way. It’s too bad Trell and Kian are stuck there.” Crismarlyn tried to visualize what life was like for those left on the class-L planet.

Around them, the circular screen shifted to an expensive looking advertisement. A sleek, lime green-trimmed pleasure yacht coasted above a crystalline ocean beneath a binary sun. A feminine Caitian voice purred in Federation Standard:

“Zeles Shipbuilders. Custom starcraft for you and your crew. Designed with precision.” The voice took on a throaty, seductive quality laced with a rich purr. “Tuned to pleasure. Turn your next jaunt into a journey worth remembering. Visit our new showroom at Delta II, near Veda.”

“It’s too bad we can’t just buy our own ship”, M’Row ruminated wishfully.

“Not on this salary anyway”, said Crismarlyn.

“I tell you who could probably buy a ship if she wanted.” M’Row batted the empty glass between his palms. The bronze waitress leaned forward seductively and looked the Chief of Operations deep in the eye as she set his glass down.

He nodded a quick thanks and smiled as he continued. “Your pilot, Ensign Veetha. I spoke to her at breakfast. She was heading out to the investment bank to buy stocks. That woman must have quite the stash of latinum.”

“I love her”. Cris paused to smile. “She’s kind of a revolutionary woman on Ferenginar. She pushes old traditions aside to make profit.”

“So then why is she in Starfleet, instead of working in business?” A look of confusion crept across his furred ginger face.

“Because she met Nez. The guy from the bar ad digging at Quark’s? He served a few years in Starfleet, long ago. He gives classes to young Ferengi about how a career in Starfleet can lead to future contracts. Nez’s career led to his chain of restaurants being placed across Federation starbases. There are a new generation of Ferengi crewmembers because of him. Not to mention officers like Nog and the others.”

“That’s awesome, but kind of scary.” M’Row lifted the glass just high enough for his wide tongue to lap out and draw up the seltzer water in a series of licks.