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LTCmdr. Quentin Collins - The Weight of Gold


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(OOC: A very poient and moving sim. I swear that I'm not crying.)


((Interior. U.S.S. Arrow, Deck 5 Aft. The Living History Annex.))

Quentin Collins stepped back and surveyed his work. Stopping only slightly to run his gloved right hand over the top of the lustering plaque of precious metal he had just carefully, but securely placed beside the door of the "Living History Annex". A slight cropping of fine dust had collected on top of the plaque thanks to his fasting it into the bulkhead. But his light silken gloves had kept it from the real mess in Quentin's eyes. His own fingerprints. 
The plaque itself was obscenely expensive. So much so that Quentin didn't think he would ever really tell anyone just HOW expensive it was. But it was something he felt he had to do, having met a kind and quiet foundry foreman during one of his last explorations of Casperia Prime's marketplace. The ringing of the foreman's hammer on calcite had drawn him to the shop in the first place. A tinny, but ringing sound. Made even more interesting by the lithe and controlled way The Foreman had treated the materials. That same care and kindness, it seemed, had extended to the rest of his wares and underlings. Three in toto, who were all treating different metals at their workstations, huddled around a roaring kiln.
The Foreman, a long-haired and clean shaven Tellarite, had clocked Quentin instantly as a tourist, but softened once he had heard the man's request. Softening further and turning shockingly empathetic eyes to his specifications. 
"This will be expensive.", The Foreman had warned. But no further warnings, only curious eyes came once Quentin had produced his "down payment". Four full gold-pressed latinum bars. Laid in a fan across one of the underling's workstations. With the promise of a few more upon completion of the work. (The grand total of which Quentin would likely take to the grave as spending money, even his own, still tasted like licking copper to Quentin). The Foreman and his workers had posited that the work would take, at best, a day. A day in a half, more likely. Quentin had nodded at that understandably. By the looks of things, they did fine, meticulous work. Beautiful details glinting off both the armor and other metalworks displayed throughout the other end of the shop. Presumably the "Storefront", though Quentin saw no sign upon his entry. His only clues toward this being what he needed, the sounds of ringing tools and the balmy, but comforting heat of a furnace.
Quentin left his contact information...and another 4 strips of latinum for the assembly. His distaste for spending momentarily curbed now that he had found something else worthy to spend on. The Foreman nodded with the promise that it would "be done right". Of that, Quentin Collins had no doubt. 
Not even six hours later, the job was complete. Presented to him with an earnest reverence in a loosely wrapped parcel. Along with the finely spartan "handling gloves" The Foreman had thrown in for good measure. Quentin felt his eyes grow heavy with internal perspiration once The Foreman had fully shown him the finished product. A smallish plate of tightly pressed iron. Earth iron too, by the smell and hue of it. How they ever had actual, no-frills iron all the way out here Quentin would never know, but the gesture and distant connection to old ship's of yore was not lost on Quentin. 
Nor were the exquisitely filigreed names and script atop of the plate. Shining through the deep dark of the iron in a dazzling yellow-gold. Somehow free and clear of ostentation. It was better than Quentin could have hoped for.
A feeling that had only deepened once he had it hung properly now. Centered well just to the side of the turbolift door that emptied into the compartment. One Quentin Collins was now unequivocally connected to. He carefully shed his handling gloves and gave the plate one final look. Appreciating just how "at-home" it felt amid the rest of the compartment's emotionally charged and interpersonal bric-brac. 
Dedicated to Those We've Lost
Their Aim Forever True 
Less than a dozen names filled the rest of the space. Cadet Amanda Crossley's first amongst them. Room for more, as there would be room in their hearts for what would come next. But the only thing Quentin Collins could think at the moment?
oO Gold well spent...Oo 

Lieutenant Commander 

Quentin Collins III

Chief Science Officer


U.S.S. ARROW NCC-69829

ID: E239512QC0



(SB118 Forums

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