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At the moment, she felt like she couldn’t possibly be surprised . . . and she knew from experience that feeling that way was usually when the universe decided to shake things up a little more, to try and find out what a person was created from, clay or sand, adapt or crumble. As
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Quark was definitely going to have to find out more about his nephew’s new friend. The son of the Emissary, now the son of Charivretha zh’Thane; Nog apparently had an instinct for choosing powerful friends . . . . . . and if he doesn’t want to exploit it himself, why shouldn’t somebody else benefit? All this and the task force would be arriving soon, fresh blood for his dabo girls and many a merry Klingon getting roaring drunk on bloodwine. It seemed he’d been mistaken about something he’d said, only a day or two ago; the Federation really did care about the small-business man, after all.
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The doors of heaven and hell are adjacent and identical. —NIKOS KAZANTZAKIS
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Why didn’t you say that’s what you were planning in the first place?” Vaughn smiled. “Because, Doctor, when they make you a commander, they take the bone out of your head that makes you explain orders.
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Nog was proud to be a Ferengi, but that didn’t mean he was proud of everything the Ferengi people had ever done, and that definitely included plenty of his relatives.
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The right to be a god.
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For all that Starfleet insisted on military protocol, their officers had a tiresome tendency to question everything.
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Nog remembered what an Earth-style omelet was made from, from his time at Starfleet Academy—bird eggs and flavored mold. In a word, revolting.
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Expect the unexpected, that was the S.T.A.R.S. motto—although.
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Bashir looked up and smiled, wondering why some people seemed to think that if you were reading, they weren’t interrupting anything.
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Kira watched them talk and noticed how they quickly fell into the easy give-and-take of Starfleet-trained information exchange. It was a skill she had always admired in Sisko, Jadzia, O’Brien, and Julian, but hadn’t imagined it extended to all Starfleet officers, even former ones like Ro. Klingons don’t do this, she mused. Or the Romulans or the Cardassians. They have their own methods, their own martial cultures, but nothing that can compete with this. Ro
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And she was beautiful, a beautiful, strange adventure just waiting to happen.
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He didn’t know who she was, but she was too crazy to be holding anything in a test tube.
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May 16, 1998: Rumor’s going around that a researcher who tried to escape the estate last night was shot. My entire body feels hot and itchy and I’m sweating all the time now. I scratched the swelling on my arm and a piece of rotten flesh just dropped off. Wasn’t until I realized the smell was making me hungry that I got violently sick. The writing had become shaky. Chris turned the page, and could barely read the last few lines, the words scrawled haphazardly across the paper. May 19. Fever gone but itchy. Hungry and eat doggie food. Itchy itchy Scott came ugly face so killed him. Tasty. 4 // Itchy. Tasty.
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I'll be as strong as I need to be.
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The truth was, she couldn't stand to let such an opportunity pass; she wanted to see what was behind the closed door, because it was there. Because leaving it unopened would get under her skin.
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What was it that Nog was always quoting, one of Vic Fontaine’s colloquialisms . . . in for the penny, in for the pound? Ro
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There is no comfort in change But also no learning in the Steady drone of peace. There will be no greater sorrow Than watching you go - Except for watching you grow old And tired here - Clarity awaits Elsewhere
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I’ve been Attainted.” Ro stared at her. “You mean . . .” “I mean that I am no longer welcome within the Bajoran faith,” Kira said calmly. “I’m forbidden from entering any temple, nor can I study any of our prophecies, or wear my earring, or look into an Orb, or even pray with other Bajorans. Ever.
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Over time, she’d come to believe that the only true emotional infirmity was denial; once a thing was accepted, it could be met without fear. She wished she could tell him that it was no weakness.
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