The "shuttlecraft" purred to life with a soft mechanical hum, the dashboard lighting up in smooth streaks of blue and white. Mina blinked in amazement.
"Okay," she said, eyes darting around the interior. "This is… way more high-tech than I expected."
The inside of the van was a Star Trek fan's dream. The dashboard was customized to mimic a Federation helm console, complete with sleek digital panels, blinking indicators, and a glowing LCARS-style display. The steering wheel bore a tiny Starfleet insignia at its center, and even the seats were upholstered in gray leather stitched with subtle command-red lines.
Wes tapped a button on the dash. "Computer, set destination: SMX Convention Center."
A smooth female voice replied immediately, "Course laid in, captain. Estimated arrival in fifty-three minutes. Engage when ready."
Mina's eyes widened. "You didn't—"
"I did," Wes said with a grin. "Fully voice-activated GPS. You can switch between standard or Starfleet voice packs. I went for immersive realism."
"And the horn?" she asked, half-dreading the answer.
Wes pressed the center emblem. The unmistakable theme song of Star Trek: The Next Generation was heard from the outside through the car horn speakers.
Mina burst out laughing. "You're unbelievable!"
"Attention to detail," Wes said proudly, merging into the morning traffic.
She leaned back in her seat, still giggling. "You really went all in on this, huh?"
"You have to commit to the bit," he said. "Besides, if I'm going to sit in traffic I might as well make it entertaining."
"Do you ever worry people will think you're… too into it?"
"Only the ones who don't understand," Wes said easily. "I've met presidents who collect model trains and CEOs who build dioramas in their basements. Everyone needs a passion. Mine just happens to involve warp drives and bat'leths."
She smiled, looking out the window. "You're like… two people in one. The businessman and the fanboy."
He gave a soft laugh. "Maybe they're the same person. I manage cargo by day and command starships on weekends."
The ease in his tone made her relax. For the first time since she'd arrived, she felt like she could talk to him without worrying about saying the wrong thing.
"Do you ever miss being a kid?" she asked suddenly.
Wes thought about it for a moment, eyes on the road. "Not really. I think I just learned how to keep parts of it with me. Adults forget to play. That's when they start aging for real."
Mina smiled at that. "Then you're definitely not aging."
He shot her a sideways look, amused. "Careful. That sounded dangerously close to flattery."
"Maybe it was," she teased, turning to look out at the passing skyline.
The rest of the drive passed in laughter, playful banter, and bursts of trivia. Wes quizzed her on movie quotes, she surprised him with her own pop culture knowledge, and by the time they pulled into the convention parking area, the nervous distance between them had all but vanished.
The moment they stepped out of the shuttlecraft, Mina was hit by a wave of color, sound, and energy. Costumed fans filled the open convention floor of the building. Jedi, super heroes, anime characters, stormtroopers, elves, and even a few other Klingons.
But it was Wes who drew the attention.
Heads turned almost immediately. Someone shouted, "Hey! Commander Korath's here!" and within seconds, a small crowd formed around him.
Mina blinked. "Commander who?"
Wes gave a sheepish grin beneath his prosthetics. "Long story. I've been doing this character for years. There's a fan film series. It got a bit… popular."
"Popular?" she repeated, as a group of cosplayers waved and one woman in a red Vulcan uniform ran up to hug him. "You mean famous."
He laughed it off, but it was clear he was a minor celebrity in this world. Fans greeted him, photographers asked for pictures, and every few steps someone called his Klingon name.
Mina followed, equal parts amused and impressed. Watching him slip so naturally into the crowd was surreal, the serious, mysterious Wes Chai now laughing with a bunch of costumed fans, joking in guttural Klingon, and posing with lightsabers and swords.
At one point, a trio of young women in matching sci-fi uniforms surrounded him, asking for selfies. He obliged easily, never crossing lines, always polite. Still, Mina couldn't help feeling a twinge in her chest, a strange mix of admiration and something softer she didn't want to name.
When they finally took a break at a café stand inside the convention center, Mina leaned forward over her iced tea, still smiling. "Okay, confession time. I had no idea you were this much of a geek."
"Surprise," Wes said, setting down his drink. "Now you know my darkest secret."
She laughed. "Honestly, this makes way more sense than anything else I imagined."
"Oh?"
"Well…" she hesitated, swirling her straw. "I kind of thought maybe you were hiding something serious. Like some secret business project or… I don't know. A top-secret lab upstairs or something."
He raised an eyebrow. "A lab?"
"Yeah," she said, smiling shyly. "But now that I've seen this, I think I get it. The locked second floor, it's probably your geek cave, right? All your collectibles and gadgets and top-secret fan projects?"
For the briefest second, Wes's expression froze, just a flicker, gone before she could read it. Then he smiled. "Maybe. You'll just have to keep guessing."
"Fine," she said, mock-pouting. "But I'm betting it's your personal Batcave."
"Bat'leth cave," he corrected, tapping his armor. "Different franchise."
Mina laughed again, shaking her head. "You're impossible."
"And yet here you are," Wes said lightly.
She didn't answer, but her heart felt strangely warm. For the first time since California, she wasn't weighed down by the mess of her life. The laughter, the crowd, Wes's easy presence, it all blurred into something that felt like freedom.
By the time the afternoon sun dipped over the convention center, Mina's cheeks hurt from smiling and taking selfies with fans. She realized, with a pang of guilt and delight, that she hadn't thought about her parents or her college friends once all day.
And when Wes offered his arm, jokingly calling her "Lieutenant Uhura," she took it without hesitation, feeling for that brief shining moment, that maybe this strange new world could be home.
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Observer Log: Manila, 11:20 PHT
Lee cursed under his breath for the third time in fifteen minutes, a low growl swallowed by the cacophony of the convention hall. This time, it was a massive, foam-and-cardboard sword, wielded by an enthusiastic but spatially challenged cosplayer, wearing a spiky, bright yellow wig, that nearly took out his left eye.
Growing up, Lee had been immune to the siren call of pop culture. His world revolved around the satisfying crack of a baseball bat or the rhythmic squeak of sneakers on a basketball court. He understood the fervor for signed jerseys, the reverence for limited-edition sneakers. But grown men and women parading in public as cartoon characters or video game avatars? Even outside Halloween, it was an alien concept.
He'd followed Wes Chai and his niece into this sprawling, neon-soaked convention hall, a last-ditch hope that perhaps all this chaos and noise was cover for something covert. Maybe a clandestine meeting or a package handoff would unfold amidst the sensory overload. He was sorely and painfully mistaken.
The assignment was becoming a farce. His last job had him tracking key members of the Sinaloa Cartel across borders, unraveling their chemical supply chains from India to the darkest corners of China. Today, he was tailing an overpaid company executive dressed as a alien warrior from a science fiction franchise. Watching him geek out and play make believe with other costumed weirdos. Freelance contracting, he decided, truly sucked.
Lee had accepted this job because his employer told him his target was someone they suspected to be, the infamous mercenary commander, Khan. The name alone sent shivers down the spines of anyone who'd served in the Middle East during the early to mid-2000s. Khan. A phantom of war, a ghost with a reputation for impossible feats of tactical brilliance and a body count that would make Hollywood directors blush. A seasoned warrior, a ruthless strategist, a man who got things done, no matter the cost.
This guy, Lee thought, watching Wes Chai animatedly discuss the finer points of fictional starship warp cores with a woman dressed as a green-skinned alien, is anything but. Wes Chai, the cheerful, effervescent CEO in prosthetic ridges, would probably run screaming at the first glimpse of an actual ISIS terror soldier.
The irony was a bitter pill. Lee felt an almost physical ache of disappointment. This assignment was a monumental waste of time, money, and his particular skillset. And he was going to make it a point, in no uncertain terms, to tell his employers exactly that. He just needed to get through this day without being impaled by a foam spear.