Since I know you got started writing DS9 stuff...

(please note, this does not _have_ to be Star Trek, use whatever fits)

Species 8472 could be reasoned with. They could be bargained with. And they sure as hell did not drive one insane with their mere presence,

The Medusans do.

You have to understand, the Federation has one of the ballsiest diplomatic corps in fiction. They’re the guys who have to walk up to Cthulhu and make friends. – RecklessPrudence


There is a saying in Starfleet: There’s plenty of room for cowards on Earth.

The brave… go into space.

The adventurous… get promoted.

But only the inventive, open-minded, resourceful and fearless get Ambassadorial training. And only the best of those join Starfleet’s Corps Diplomatique.

Twyla didn’t exactly know what she did to get herself fast-tracked into SCD, but she still couldn’t help noticing that she was the youngest one there. They certainly hadn’t replicated any uniforms in her size, before. And in her opinion, still hadn’t.

The data pad clutched tightly to her chest was one meant for all the grownups in the room. Half the buttons on it were a mystery she still hadn’t solved. And, true to her colonial roots, she used the one they gave her for just about everything she could.

Like a shield against the slings and arrows of outrageous -invisible- fortune.

The map had said she was supposed to be here. She even had the right floor. But that didn’t stop Twyla from feeling like an impostor. Like she was about to get yelled at for invading grownup space.

The grownups were talking in a cluster. Some sitting. Some standing. One sitting on a console. Their more tailored uniforms and ease of being here made her feel even less confident.

One poked another one, pointed to her, and laughed under his breath.

“Hey, sweetheart,” smiled the pokee. “You lost? Lookin’ for your daddy? Your mommy?”

Her knuckles went white. “I’m… s'posed'a report t’ room… 34D8?” Damnit. The colonial hick-talk spilled out whenever she panicked.

Now all six of them were smiling and poking each other. There were women among them, but Twyla got the feel of a bunch of bullies.

Miles from home and her Hucker Stick. Fighting was against the rules. Twyla had looked them up. Therefore, she had to be… diplomatic.

“I’m to attend Professor Granger’s class on diplomatic resolution and understanding,” she managed far more bravery in her voice than she was feeling, right now. Twyla made herself let go of the padd to offer her hand. “I’m Twyla DeVries.”

Three words, and their attitudes changed in an instant. “The Plaitzar Colony Twyla DeVries?”

“Discoverer of the Maliatt?”

“Ambassador for the Maliatt?”

“Uh.” Twyla reeled her hand back in and clung to her padd. “Yah?”

They were no longer bullies. They were fans.


“Holy shit…”

“EEEEEEEEE!” One of the women did an insane little dance.

“Listen, I’m sorry about the parental thing. I had no idea. Obviously.”

“So I’m in the right place?” asked Twyla.

“Sweetie, I’m surprised you aren’t teaching us.”

Everywhere she went -well, almost everywhere- thereafter, those six grownups made themselves her honour guard.

Twyla DeVries. Twelve-year-old ambassador material.

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