Title: Émigré
Summary: A tear in the fabric of space and time has consequences that echo across ages; one unexpected arrival from the twenty-first century challenges a nation's perceptions, and sets a most unlikely precedent. An exploration into Andorian culture from a Human perspective.
Warnings: Violence, coarse language, some mature themes.

Preface:
The premise of this story follows a challenge I received on LJ. The prompt: take the "girl transported to another world" cliche and do something new with it."

Additionally, several conditions were set: the fic must be in the Star Trek universe (any series or movie); it must be multi-chaptered (minimum 10 chapters); it must feature an alien race species other than Vulcans (for example, Andorians or Denobulans); it must expand upon canon details of this race (culture, language, etc.); it must have a well-developed OC, or set of OCs; it must not have a Canon/OC pairing; the OC must not be a Mary Sue/Gary Stu."

Thus, this story is not only a slightly different twist on the standard cliché, but it a creative look at the Andorians in terms of biology and culture. Given that there is so little canonical information about the Andorians –and I regard the novels as soft-canon at best- I felt that it would be an interesting exercise to fill in the gaps with a few ideas of my own. Furthermore, I was bitterly disappointed with the ending of the series (as most fans were) and I wish to try and correct some of that.

So, this story will feature a hint of travel, Andorians, Humans, the odd Tellerite, Vulcans, Denobulans, Orions and Romulans thrown in with a little bit of intrigue, a tiny bit of murder, a dollop of good old-fashioned espionage, a spoonful of romance, and a dollop or two of action. Some of the canon cast from Enterprise will pop up, but they are not the primary focus of this story. Rather, this story focuses on the concept of a Human interacting with and observing Andorian culture first-hand, and eventually integrating into it.

ONE: Settling In

"Good morning!"

Several sets of antennae wiggled politely in her direction as Dagmar entered the Andorian section of the newly set up Embassy and shivered in response to the considerable drop in temperature. A few of the Andorians more accustomed to Human interactions offered nods along with their wiggly-antennae greetings, and a few even murmured "Thiptho lapth" at her in characteristically soft and faintly sibilant voices–a common Andorian greeting.

She was never going to get used to those antennae, Dagmar thought to herself as she stepped into a turbo lift.

Well, to be honest, she was probably never going to get used to a lot of things about this time. Two hundred years had changed so much, between the stupid, needless wars and humanity's first contact with an alien species to humans making leaps and bounds in technological advancement, Dagmar more often than not felt overwhelmed by the enormity of the paradigm shift she was trying to adjust to.

Her studies at the Academy helped –they gave her something to focus on when the rest of the world was filled with too many sights and too much noise. Amidst her floundering attempt to integrate into this newer Human –Terran- society, a gift for languages came to light, even when her grasp on the more scientific side of things was... somewhat less than tenuous at the best of times. Whenever the Canadian began to feel stressed or about to slip into another bout of culture shock, which happened distressingly often, she would retreat into her studies and focus the majority of her energy there.

Her professors loved her for it, but her social life suffered significantly. Dagmar figured that, given that she had so much trouble relating to modern Terrans anyway, she was probably better off focusing on her studies over people anyway. She'd told one of her professors, a Vulcan xenobiologist by the name of Varek, as much. The Vulcan's response had been... surprising.

"Humans are social creatures by nature and function poorly when isolated for any period of time. Your inability to relate to your classmates is irrelevant –as a Human, you must have social interaction. There are many other cadets who are also far from their homes and suffer similar transitional difficulties. I would recommend speaking to one such student."

A sort of subtle Vulcan way of telling her to get her shit together and grab a random alien cadet for coffee, Dagmar remembered fondly. She was quite fond of Varek (who held the dubious honour of being one of her first aliens) in a distant, mentor-student sort of way, and kept loosely in contact with him despite no longer taking many of his classes. Varek had been instrumental in Dagmar's adjustment to the whole aliens-exist-and-they-really-do-have-flying-saucers thing, and the redhead wasn't about to forget it.

So, she'd taken his advice, although very reluctantly, and had struck up a conversation with an Andorian cadet in a bar that was popular with the student body. Dagmar rarely went to bars, even today, but not because of any form of culture shock –even in the twenty-first century, she hadn't been fond of pubs and bars, if only because of her introverted personality. Still, the Canadian had done it, if only because she respected Varek immensely, and had profited from the experience immeasurably.

As it turned out, the Andorian cadet was not a cadet at all, but an aide to the Andorian ambassador who was having trouble finding a satisfactorily accomplished xenolinguist. Apparently, they had been hiring and dismissing translators with alarming rapidity lately. Dagmar had sympathized, commenting that some of her classmates spent more time partying than actually studying languages and accomplishing the things they went to the Academy to do. Apparently, that happened to be exactly the right thing to say to the Andorian, and the two became tentative friends.

His name... well, Andorians had painfully long names, and Dagmar could only really recall the first name she'd been given, Theb, but she was fairly certain his clan name was Hrisvalar. Maybe. Possibly.

God knows.

Regardless, that encounter had been four years ago, and, with some reluctant (and often curt) guidance from Theb, Dagmar had become fluent in Andorii –though, Theb lamented the faint regional accent she'd picked up from her linguistics professor. Additionally, she had also picked up a dialect or two of Klingon as well as some of the Tellerite language. Her Vulcan was reasonably fluent, but not formal, however, and she could find no one willing to teach her any so-called "High Vulcan" –at least, no one in Starfleet.

When she felt she was fluent enough, and had earned a degree in xenolinguistics, she had contacted Theb to see if the situation had changed. Theb had left the Embassy in favour of joining the Imperial Guard, but informed her that the situation was much the same as before. More importantly, though, Theb happened to have a clan member in the Embassy who had an interest in finding a new translator.

Thus, Dagmar Gunnarssen, much to the surprise of her counsellor and several naysayers, became an employee of the Embassy. It was a minor position, supporting the Embassy's main translator and running errands, but it was more than quite a few had expected from the twenty-first century woman. Varek, older-than-dirt and eternally composed as the Vulcan always was, had merely raised an eyebrow and offered his felicitations upon hearing the news, but Dagmar was almost positive she'd earned a tiny, fractional twitch of a Vulcan smile. Either that, or she'd been imaging it.

A pressurized hiss heralded her arrival to her designated floor and the twin doors slide open almost soundlessly. As Dagmar stepped out of the turbolift and onto the third floor, she nodded to an Andorian female (whose name she had yet to learn) and received a polite antennae wiggle in response. By that point, the cold was starting to get to the Canadian woman, so she set off at a brisk pace to find Ambassador Thoris. The Andorian Ambassador was on Earth temporarily to discuss some sort of trade issue on neutral ground with the Tellerite Ambassador –apparently, what was being traded was not quite what had been negotiated.

As the redheaded woman passed down the hallway, she made a point of waving and calling out greetings through the open office doors of each employee she passed. Andorians had a funny habit of not having doors, which went along with their lack of a concept of personal space and nudity taboos –something which had caused the Canadian no end of mortification and placed her in a number of awkward situations; apparently, Earth's climate was unreasonably hot, even with the cooling systems in the Embassy running on their maximum settings day in and day out.

Finally reaching the largest office on the floor, Dagmar slowed her pace and, with a wry smile, rapped her knuckles against the doorframe.

The older Andorian male behind the large desk didn't look up from the PADD he was reading, but his antennae flicked in her direction and, with a negligent wave of his hand, Ambassador Thoris beckoned her over. Wordlessly, Dagmar approached the Ambassador's desk, nodding politely at Shral, one of the aides, as she passed, and waited to be acknowledged. Given that Thoris was a typical Andorian and given that he seriously outranked her, Dagmar figured that meant that she would be waiting for quite some time. Something about tolerance of arrogance as a sign of respect... Dagmar tended to find the displays a bit tedious, but she never outright complained –to do so would be unforgivably rude, and Andorians were very, very, very touchy about manners.

The twenty-first century woman took the time to observe the Ambassador and his aide, as well as the office itself. She didn't interact with the Ambassador directly, usually, but her superior –a Ms. Savannah White- had called in sick with some alien flu or another, along with most of the other human employees. It was just as well that Dagmar had an immune system made of steel –otherwise, the Ambassador and his aides might have to deal with the Tellerite embassy themselves and the Tellerites were in a collectively foul mood that day. Apparently, for them, it was entirely too cold and they were taking it out on just about anyone within their line of sight.

Ambassador Thoris was not what Dagmar would ever consider attractive, regardless of species. She found his features were a bit too broad and rough-hewn, as it were, and his arrogance was bordering on appalling at the best of times. Age was also a factor, Dagmar supposed, and god only knew how old Thoris was –but he was a competent Ambassador and a skilled politician. He also had a very no-nonsense attitude towards negotiations, which Dagmar approved of –especially since it cut down on the amount of useless waffling she had to translate for the Tellerites, who specialized in producing an abundance of it. His sense of humour, if he had one, was incomprehensible for the most part –and Dagmar suspected the feeling was quite mutual.

Shral, Theb's fellow clansmen and also the one to recommend hiring Dagmar, also possessed the typical Andorian arrogance and curt behaviour, but to a lesser degree. His features were sharper, more angular, and, once she got past the species thing, Dagmar supposed he was fairly handsome... except that his antennae freaked her out. Whenever he was in the same room at her, his antennae pointed directly at her and stayed that way –and not just in a politely interested manner, like most of her blue-skinned coworkers, but in a creepy I'm-intensely-interested-in-anything-you-might-possibly-be-doing-at-any-given-point-in-time sort of way. It was weird, and Dagmar couldn't tell if it was a threat or not. No one else did it and Dagmar had no idea if she was supposed to ask someone about it, but there it was.

Shral caught her eye as he stepped forward to place a PADD on the Ambassador's desk (the Ambassador was still ignoring her), and his antennae were doing that creepy pointing thing again. Dagmar realized she must have zoned out and, sparing Shral's antennae a wary glance, refocused on the Ambassador.

And waited.

And waited.

God, this was boring. Dagmar had to fight not to fidget, and instead studied the room. Whoever had decorated the place had had ice planets on the brain; everything was painted various shades of cool beiges, whites, faint blues, and greys, with the odd touch of black or brown. Whoever had been contracted to decorate the place probably hadn't known much about Andorians; ironically, they were rather fond of bright, vibrant colours –particularly when they clashed.

Various weapons decorated the walls of the Ambassador's office, including one that was supposed to be an ice-pick of some sort but looked like anything but. Additionally, there were a number of spears and swords of varying designs, as well as shields and things that looked like arm-guards attached at the wrist by some sort of cord.

"See something interesting?" A thin, reedy voice cut in, amused. Dagmar started before realizing that the Ambassador had spoken, and had probably been waiting for her to acknowledge him for at least a few minutes now. Crap. "You are not Miss White."

She coloured, embarrassed, and apologized as calmly as the unhappy squirming in her bellow allowed. "I'm sorry, sir, I was admiring your weapons collection. Miss White and Mister Jones are both ill, unfortunately. I'm apparently the only translator who speaks Andorian and Tellerite fluently and isn't sick." –and, feeling awkward, she added, "It's a beautiful collection, sir."

In hindsight, that just made things more awkward.

"It is a functional collection." The Ambassador told her, antennae flicking in irritation but quite not rearing back in outright anger.

Dagmar felt her face drain slightly of colour instinctively and swallowed reflexively. "That's usually the best kind, sir. I never saw much point in ornamental weapons."

Shral, in her peripheral vision, was apparently having a hey-day off to the side with the way his antennae were twigging out. Dagmar opted not to pay too much attention to the aide, lest she start freaking out too. Grumpy Andorians tended to be violent Andorians, after all, and all Shral and his creepy antennae were doing was making her nervous.

Her answer, however, seemed to puzzle the older Andorian, enough to pause the agitated flicking of his diminishing antennae and curve them forward in curiosity. "Do you collect weapons as well, then?"

Shifting her weight and suppressing a slight shiver from the cold, the twenty-first century woman answered wryly, "I used to."

She ignored the sharp, nostalgic pang the memory brought her. She'd been an avid weapons collector –armour as well- back in the twenty-first century. Her father had started her off with a Roman short sword and the casual hobby had blossomed into a full-on favourite pastime. When she'd first gone to college, Dagmar had been distressed to learn that she couldn't take any of her collection with her –even if the university had allowed it, her mother certainly wouldn't have.

Outside of her personal bubble, the Andorian Ambassador had decided that the redheaded female wasn't going to volunteer any more information, had moved onto business. "What do you have for me, then...?"

The Canadian opened her mouth to reply, by Shral beat her to it.

"Dagmar Gunnarssen, Ambassador –a translator." Shral volunteered, and, damn it, his antennae were doing that thing again. The redhead opted to deliberately avoid eye contact and not think about it, but she didn't miss the way the Ambassador's mouth twitched ever-so-slightly into something vaguely resembling a Human smile.

Whatever the hell that meant.

There wasn't much to add to Shral's statement, so Dagmar settled for nodding and handing the Ambassador the PADD she'd brought. With the PADD delivered and the cold beginning to get to her, Dagmar was regretting her decision to not bring a sweater with her. Ordinarily, she preferred the cold –she was from the upper west coast of Canada, after all- but she had adapted to the weather in San Francisco over the last few years.

As soon as the Ambassador dismissed her, with a new PADD to deliver to a Tellerite official (which then, presumably, would be passed on to the Tellerite Ambassador) Dagmar had to refrain from bolting out of the room towards warmer climates and less unsettling antennae.