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It's been a little time since Stahma arrived in this place, on board this ship: enough time for her to acquaint herself with the fact that nothing she can do will allow her to return home. The realization is not exactly a pleasant one. Her son has just gotten married to a young woman Stahma is quite charmed by despite herself, her husband is in the midst of a heated race for mayor of Defiance, and she may be falling in love with a woman she never imagined she'd get so close to. If anything, she worries over Kenya the most, because if anything should happen that would cause Datak to learn about their affair... Stahma doesn't even want to think about it, about what she would have to do to protect herself should that happen, even though it's something she has to consider. That possibility has been a part of her calculation from the beginning.

So much is happening around her, she's learning so much about herself that she never knew, so many possibilities are only now coming within her grasp that would never have been available to her as a woman back on Casti all those years (millennia) ago, and to have that taken away in an instant — needless to say, it's jarring to her. But Stahma is accomplished at wearing masks, not giving away what she's thinking or feeling when she needs to conceal it; and, furthermore, she's genuinely curious about this world, these people. Many are human, but not the humans she's used to; the Earth here is not the Earth she knows. Alternate worlds are only theory, where she's from; scientists bandy the idea about, but no one's ever taken it seriously. Certainly it's not something Stahma herself ever thought about before; it never took her interest. But now that she's had the theory proven to her fairly obviously, she's curious to see what the differences are between the people of this world and her own — not to mention all of the others who have come here like she did, brought here from their own places and times. It's a pleasant enough distraction, for the time being.

In that spirit, she's sitting at a table in Ten Forward, near one of the windows, alternating between watching warp-attenuated stars streak by and observing people as they come and go from the lounge. She's rather conspicuously by herself, but if she feels vulnerable it certainly doesn't show. She has a cup of tea between her hands; one of the first things she did, after the initial shock of being here wore off, was learn how to use the replicator. It won't make anything Castithan, which is a shame, but there are a few human teas that are... acceptable, at least for now. The steam from her cup gives off a slight fragrance of mint and citrus.

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One of the saddest things about this place, Noriko finds, is that the chairs here are totally impossible to sit comfortably backwards in, save for one position. That said, she's definitely occupying a table right next to Stahma--not that she has a clue who the very pale lady actually is--in exactly that position, with her knees hooked over the chair's back, bare ankles crossed, and her lower back supported by the chair seat (her head, likewise, is resting on the table surrounded by a loose flow of electric blue hair).

She's got a cup of tea too--mint and cherry, though, and god she loves this stuff--and a plastic ball filled with equally plastic track, through which she is maneuvering a tiny metal ball with surprisingly dexterity given the gauntlets that encase her hands in metal up to the elbow. "Smells good," she notes absently, turning her head towards Stahma. "What've you got?"

To say the girl at the table next to her is... rather unconventional is a bit of an understatement. There's the way she's sitting in the chair, which Stahma isn't entirely sure actually counts as sitting; there's the metal covering her hands and arms, which makes Stahma wonder just how she does anything with them; and then there's the blue hair. It isn't as if Stahma has never seen someone with dyed hair before; her own son streaks his hair with color, like many young Castithans who grew up around humans. She's not certain she approves (she knows her husband certainly doesn't), but she has thus far refrained from saying anything. On this girl, though, the color seems suitable, and Stahma has to stop herself from staring.

Instead, she meets Noriko's eyes at the question, and smiles, a perfectly pleasant smile. "Lemon and mint," she answers. Her gaze lowers briefly to her cup, and she turns it between her hands. "I've been told it is good for stress relief."

That may be a little bit of an admission, but it is a harmless one. Anyone would find suddenly arriving in this place more than a little overwhelming. Stahma is not exactly giving away very much by saying so.

"It's okay, you know," she says nonchalantly, with a little smile. "You can look at the hair if it's new to you. Kind of half the point of dyeing it that."

Noriko is not a shy person under any definition of the word. "Mint usually is--dunno about lemon, I've never tried that combination," she says, looking over. "You could probably do okay with a distraction, though. If you're stressed." She lifts the ball she's playing with in one hand, with a rattle as the bearing inside falls off the track and rests at the base of the sphere.

"Want to try?"

There's a pause, and then Stahma laughs, very softly. "I suppose you're right." She seems to consider a moment before adding, with another of those smiles, "It suits you. I think it's lovely."

It's hardly as if Stahma is shy, either, though for the sake of not drawing too much attention to herself, she's practiced at putting up a modest facade. She sips her tea, carefully, taking note of the flavor. Something to try again, perhaps.

"Stressed may be the wrong word. I've only recently arrived. It is... a little overwhelming," she clarifies. "I have not been in space in a very long time." And the Arks were nothing like this.

The soft rattle of the ball in Noriko's hand draws Stahma's attention to it. She isn't much for games or toys like that... although now that she looks more closely, she's not even quite sure she knows what it is.

"What is it?" she asks, sounding unsure but curious.

"I haven't been in space ever, so you're one up on me," Noriko says with a soft huff of a laugh.

"It's a puzzle ball. Your objective is to get this little metal bead through all of the track in one go, by manipulating the way the ball tilts. Drop the bead, you have to start over. It's good for forgetting we're all trapped in a spaceship." Hey, she did not call it a tin can this time, this is progress. Though, as Noriko sits up and swings her legs down, she seems the least likely person to be stressed on this boat. (That is an opinion that will likely change if Stahma ever sees her acting as an X-man.)

"And you seem like you could use the escape."

And Stahma has to wonder how Noriko can seem so relaxed, among strangers on a foreign ship with no means of returning to her home — wherever that home might be. Stahma herself has settled with the fact that she is stuck here for the time being, but it wasn't so easy for her to take that in stride.

"I suppose it can't hurt to try," she allows, putting down her tea and reaching out, perhaps a little gingerly, to take the ball from the younger woman. Their eyes meet for a moment, across the short distance, and then Stahma smiles.

"I'm sorry, I don't believe I got your name."

If she's watching the room, she might notice the addition of a certain cowgirl after a spell who looks not so different from the sort of humans who wander in and out of Defiance. Guns on her hips, boots on her feet, blonde hair left loose around her shoulders and cowboy hat hung against her back from a stampede string. She's not a big thing by any stretch; just over five feet, with pretty blue eyes and soft features. But her hands are steel-rough and her shoulders are strong.

She makes her way over to a replicator and fetches her own tea — just black tea, with a dash of cream — gathering up the teacup and heading into the room in search of an empty table. It's a busy night, and most of the seats are taken.

That's when she makes eye contact with Stahma, and smiles.

"Howdy."

The gold of this woman's hair reminds Stahma immediately of Amanda Rosewater, but that's really where the resemblance ends. Her manner of dress isn't remarkable; what Stahma notices right away are the guns. She's still not used to seeing that sort of thing on a woman, even a human one. The implication there of someone who's far more than what she appears — it's in the set of this woman's shoulders, too, and in her carriage. Someone strong, perhaps even potentially dangerous.

Stahma's not certain what to think of her just yet, but she can't help but be intrigued.

She answers that smile with one of her own, and inclines her head slightly. "Good evening," she says — she assumes it's evening, from the lowered lighting in the bar that she's come to understand usually indicates ship's night. One certainly can't tell from the view outside.

She's seen that view before — space, unfiltered starlight — but it has been so long that she thinks she must have forgotten. How strange it seems to see it now.

She's lovely, certainly unique from any beauty Kate has come across in 19th century Texas, and even from the beauties she knew at the end of the universe. Her movements are graceful, practiced, like a lady of breeding; her hair immaculate and shiny, and such a lovely shade.

Kate smiles all the more, making her eyes sparkle.

"Would you mind some company?"

She wouldn't impose on her, but out here so far from home with so few people she can call her friends, it never hurts to be friendly.

"Not at all." That smile doesn't leave her lips, but there's something else in Stahma's expression now: curiosity. As unnerved as she is by being in a strange place among strange people, she can't quite help but be curious.

"I was only admiring the view." Her eyes flicker toward the stars a moment. "It has been a long time since I've seen anything like it."

"Thank you kindly."

She sets her teacup down and takes a seat, not lacking in her own measure of grace. Kate's rough around the edges, sure, but once upon a time she was a lady of good breeding herself. A teacher, as a matter of fact.

"It's lovely, ain't it? I've heard stories 'bout space, sailin' the stars, visitin' strange worlds, but we don't go that far where I'm from. We don't even have automobiles."

Though she's heard of them, too. Kate's nothing if not curious.

"Where do you hail from?"

Loneliness is a strange concept for a Wraith. On a Hive, surrounded by kin and a part of the vast telepathic network that stretches between individual Wraith and even across space to connect whole Hives, there simply is no such thing as loneliness.

This particular Wraith is no stranger to it, though. He has experienced isolation before, trapped inside a cell with no windows, without even the slightest hint of daylight or sky, and with nothing to help him measure time. He had wondered, then, what would drive him mad first; the hunger or the deafening silence that had descended over his mind, when the ever-present hum of his Hive was no longer there.

It had eventually been the hunger that had just about done it. The base physical need for sustenance had overridden the need for companionship. And yet, the day when his freedom arrived, it wasn't the end of the hunger that left the largest impression in his mind, but rather the odd companionship he had found during his escape.

It's not loneliness he feels now. Not quite. There are people all around him, of all manners of races, milling about this great ship. He isn't confined to a cell, and outside the windows the bright streaks of stars can be seen as the ship flies through hyperspace. But, he is still trapped, and it is a completely different kind of isolation he experiences now. A sense of not belonging.

The more pragmatic side of him says that it doesn't matter much. His objectives are really quite simple: find a way back to his own galaxy and his own people, and find a way to stay alive long enough to accomplish this. That he misses his own kind has no real impact on this, motivation aside.

Allies are a useful thing, be it to aid in his quest to get home, but also if worst comes to worst and he has to remain for an extended period of time. Alone and without allies, even an ancient thing like him can only do so much.

Though not a necessarily social creature, he can admit to feeling the need to be around others. The best place for this seems to be the very place he first appeared at: Ten Forward. While he doesn't have a want or need for anything to eat or drink, he nevertheless heads for the bar. Having a glass in front of him seems to make him being there - a place where people go to eat and drink and spend time with others - more... Normal, for the lack of a better word.

He doesn't make it to the bar, however, before he spots a somewhat familiar face. A pale female, clad in clothes as white as her hair.

"Stahma Tarr," he greets, coming to stand beside her table. "I trust you are well?"

She's no Wraith. She has no way off this ship any more than he does, and he doesn't know if she could prove to be a useful ally or not. But whatever else, she can hopefully provide a moment of pleasant company.

Stahma looks up from the window when she senses someone approaching her table, only to recognize the man she had encountered here not so long after her arrival. Perhaps she does not yet know what to think of him — they certainly barely know anything about one another — but it is... reassuring, for lack of a more pertinent word, not to see a complete stranger.

Her smile is easy and pleasant. "As well as can be expected," she replies, which is rather a non-answer — but at least it's truthful. "This ship is strange — but the people here have been very kind."

She clasps the teacup between both her hands, drawing the edge of her thumb over the rim briefly, considering.

"And you? Are you well?" she asks, sounding solicitous.

She hasn't offered him a seat, but the chair across from her is empty and she doesn't seem uncomfortable with his presence.

The ship is large, with many people populating it, though he wouldn't necessarily call it strange. More that it's different than what he's used to. The truly strange thing is still how they got there.

"As well as can be expected," he echoes her words with a slight smile, holding his concerns that he won't be well for much longer to himself. And true, while he has become rather annoyed security for enforcing the restrictions that have been placed on all visitors as to where they are allowed to go, he hasn't been treated unkindly.

"May I?" He asks, gesturing with an open palm to the vacant seat at her table.

It's unusual to her, in the sense that when Castithans had fleets of ships, many thousands of years ago, they weren't used for exploration. Not like this. Oh, they certainly discovered new worlds, new peoples — but then they conquered them by force of arms. The Enterprise, while equipped for a fight, is primarily a vessel of exploration and diplomacy. And, well, perhaps it's odd simply to see so many dozens of different races on the same ship, especially so many she's unfamiliar with.

"Of course," Stahma says, inclining her head politely. "Please, sit."

She watches him from under her lashes, taking a sip of her tea. They have only spoken the once; she still doesn't know what to make of him. He has been polite enough to her, but that tells her nothing. She of all people knows well enough that courtesy can hide many things.

And he seems like a man with something to hide, though Stahma wouldn't have the faintest idea what that might be. It interests her, nonetheless.

"I had hoped the replicator might produce something from my homeworld," she says, smiling slightly as she looks down briefly at her tea. "I suppose it was... wishful thinking." Stahma laughs softly. "Or merely homesickness. I suspect we all are, a little."

She cocks her head slightly to one side, watching his face, though still from that same demure, unassuming posture. "Do you have somewhere to return to?" she asks. It's probably a personal question, but she told him enough of herself the last they spoke. He has her at a disadvantage, just slightly.

"No doubt. Would it not be strange if we weren't?" He pulls out the chair and sits down before going on to address her question, back straight and forearms resting on the table.

"We are a nomadic people. There is no home, in the way most people would think of it." He remember telling her as much last time. "I do have a ship under my command, however, and a rather large alliance under my leadership." That he gained control of that alliance by deception, and keeps control by the same means, that isn't something they need to talk about.

"I will admit to being somewhat concerned about how they are faring without me present." They are probably doing well enough, all caught up in the endless war with the humans and between rivaling hives. However, he will have his work cut out for him in order to regain his political standing when he comes back.

If he comes back.

"I suppose so," she agrees, with one of those slight smiles that looks almost but not quite abashed. Homesickness is certainly to be expected... although assuming might be unwise in that case, too. Perhaps there are some here who, for one reason or another, don't miss their home at all.

Stahma remembers what he had told her before, about the nomadic nature of his race, but that hardly means he himself has no place that he thinks of as home. Home isn't restricted to planets or worlds. What he tells her next, though — she tilts her head slightly, listening with interest. His particular situation is not one that she has experience with, but command of a group, an organization... that she knows, even if only through watching her husband with his employees in the Tarr family business. In Castithan society, the authority of command usually comes through right of birth, rather than being earned — one's caste determines the opportunities available. Having seen Datak carve out his own power and position — with her help, though she knows he convinces himself that he deserves most of the credit — has shown Stahma that there are, however, more routes to power and prestige than just being born to it. Gaining a command through illicit means... well, perhaps she wouldn't disapprove as much as one might imagine.

"I would imagine so," she says. There's a moment, the briefest hesitation, and then she adds, "Is it a matter of trust?"

Perhaps too personal a question, but she asks it anyway, and doesn't shy away from meeting his gaze. If it were her husband, separated from his men, she knows he would worry that one of them would replace him and he would have to fight to regain his position if he had the chance to return. But perhaps that is only the Castithan way. She doesn't know how things differ with this man, who is not of her people.

The wraith regards her silently, seemingly considering her question. Trust? He trusts that his people will do their best in his absence. He trusts that when he might find his way off this ship and back to his own galaxy, some of his underlings will be pleased with his return. But he also trusts that others of his subordinates, who might have made a reach for power, will not be so willing to give it up.

He lets his hands rest on the table, long, clawed fingers interlaced. "I think I would be honestly disappointed in my underlings if they were too quick to return my command to me. Some degree of resistance would be a good sign of ambition." And that is, in his opinion, something very valuable. A loyal, capable and obedient crew is good, yes, but he does prefer his officers to have a mind of their own.

There's a quiet chuckle before he continues. "Of course, too much would only be a show of foolishness." There's confidence in those words. He will get his command back and to stand in his way would not be wise. There will be conflicts, of that he's sure. Deception and lives lost. But that's just how it goes, that's just politics. It's an arena he's well familiar with.

Stahma doesn't have to hear the confidence in his tone to see it in his body language — the straight lines of his back and shoulders, the unconcerned way he clasps his hands together where they rest on the table. So the idea of having to fight to regain his command is one he doesn't fear — perhaps even enjoys.

"Ambition," she echoes. "Your culture encourages gaining power through struggle, then. Through superior wit, or through force of arms."

She smiles, and takes a sip of her tea to mask the expression threatening to creep onto her face — envy, almost. If it were that simple for her, she would have taken control of her husband's business out from under him a long time ago.

"My people have a strict caste system; those who rule do so by right of birth. Attempting to step out of one's place is shameful. A Castithan man who tried to take power that was not rightfully his..."

Stahma lowers her eyes, just briefly, and her smile acquires a slight edge. "That is not to say that it doesn't happen, but such an attempt that did not succeed would bring dishonor on the man's liro — his caste. It is... not encouraged."

And women, of course, are nowhere in the power structure. If Stahma had been born a man, with all the privileges of the shanje liro, she would have had all the power she could want. The bitterness she feels at knowing that is terrible.

He picks up on that bitterness. It's in her smile and in her voice, and he finds it interesting.

"We do not put value in such things as bloodlines. It says nothing about someones drive or skills, or how capable they are to lead." He nearly scoffs in disdain at the idea, but he has seen it enough in the various cultures in his galaxy to know that it's not a rare thing.

"Though I suppose we have an exception. No matter how much power I gain, I will always bow to the rule of a Queen, as will anyone else of my people." This isn't exactly true. He is ambitious enough and wily enough to rebel again the Queens of his people when he sees a need to, even to the point of taking their lives if he deems it necessary. But he has no problem playing the part of an obedient commander.

He has a reason for mentioning this. He did notice that Stahma talked about the men of her people; if they stepped out of line to gain power, if they failed... Again, looking at some of the cultures he's seen, and the apparent meek and mild way in which she conducts herself, he guesses that the women of her culture are not in a position of power. He wonders what her reaction will be, to learn of a culture where the exact opposite is true.

It's not a completely unfamiliar concept to her, the idea that in some cultures women can have just as much social power as men. Before coming to live on Earth, she had always heard that such a thing was a mark of an uncivilized society, that it was the will of Rayetso that men should lead and women should serve. A proper Castithan man is one who has his wife firmly under his thumb. The humans, on the other hand, seem to feel differently, though she's given to understand they've had their own struggles over proper roles for each gender.

The idea that women lead by default, though — that is a little new to her, and the surprised flicker of her lashes as she glances back up to his face may give that away. Immediately afterward, Stahma wonders if she's shown him too much, if the frustration she feels at her people's traditional strictures is too obvious, that he felt the need to point out that particular aspect of his own culture — or perhaps he is simply very perceptive.

"Then your leaders are all female?" The question is pure curiosity, though she is trying not to sound as startled by that suggestion as she feels. She laughs, very softly. "Such a thing would never be permitted among my people. Men lead and women serve. To do otherwise would be to subvert thousands of years of tradition."

Stahma doesn't sound particularly as if she is trying to convince herself of anything. If nothing else, she's just stating a fact — that that is how things are and, if those in power have their way, that is how they will continue to be. And yet... the Castithan way, as well she knows by now, is not the only way.

He is rather perceptive, especially now that he's studying her reactions. He had been right, then, in that the females of her society are subservient to the males. And this one, seems she's none too pleased about it.

"Certainly. Who better suited to rule than the very ones who bring us into this world and gives us life?" That really isn't the reason for it. It is more that the Queens are far stronger than the males. Perhaps not physically, though that certainly happens. But mentally? Oh yes. However, he chooses to - for now - not reveal just how violent his race can be.

Then there's the fact that all males are more or less hardwired to crave to be ruled by a Queen.

"It seems to me a waste, that your women only serve."

Stahma certainly has reason to be frustrated. Growing up in the shanjifyo, the nobility, is a life of privilege even for women, but in some ways it is worse than being raised in one of the lower liro — the expectations are higher, the rules more stringent. A shanje woman is supposed to be pure, flawless, the epitome of demure, modest grace, little more than a pretty, subservient ornament for her husband. At best, she might offer her opinion or advice if he seeks it, but she is never to allow herself to seem smarter than he, or aspire to believe that they are equals. To disagree with this sentiment, especially in public, is to invite suspicion and shame upon oneself.

It's a fact Stahma is all too aware of, and it's old habit that has her glancing aside as he speaks, like a woman who fears being caught — as if anyone were there to overhear them, or as if anyone who overheard them would care. Her marusha, her reputation, will not suffer for simply speaking of this, and no one to whom it would matter is here to care if she does something to shame her liro.

She smiles again, but it's brittle and discomfited, perhaps more so for the fact that she agrees with him. It certainly feels a waste to her — more intelligent than her husband, and yet relegated to hovering in his shadow and manipulating events as much as she can without being seen to do so, or without giving Datak cause to suspect anything. That he believes he is truly the one in charge in the end, even if it isn't true, is important if Stahma is to keep even the small freedoms she's managed to win for herself.

"Perhaps," she says, hesitating over the word. It's all the concession she'll allow, at least for the moment. "Yet a society is nothing without tradition. We would not have conquered the stars without the strong foundation of our cultural heritage." There's a pause, and then she adds, "Some of our children, the ones who were born on Earth — they believe differently. Needless to say, it's proven quite the challenge."

"Certainly, tradition has its place," he agrees. "It gives us identity and provides a sense of security." His own people lives the same way as they have for millennia: sleep, cull the herds, feast and sleep again, finding the time during waking periods to wage war against rivaling factions. It seems an endless cycle.

This old one, he has the same basic desires and drives as the rest of his people: a mind for war and conquest, a thirst to hunt and feed. To kill. But he also has the mind of a scientist, an endless curiosity, and a wish to see things evolve and improve. He can see how the cycles of his people are limiting, and can't help but to wonder with both an eager fascination and a sense of dread; if they somehow managed to break that cycle and were no longer forced to fight each other for the right to feed, then what would they be? What could they become?

And if they don't break the cycle, how long will they last?

"But if we adhere too strongly to tradition and shy away from change, that sense of security becomes entirely false," he goes on to say "To refuse change and reject evolution is to invite death." Literally, in his case. He has to not only embrace evolution in order to live; he has to force it.

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