Alexander focused on the Klingon boy with the torn strip of white rag tied around his upper arm.   He was posting a notice for an upcoming meeting of the Disciples of Kosh.   Within moments, a band of hostile peers gathered, badgering the boy with insults, the words soon turning to blows.   Alexander stepped in to break up the fray.

     "What are you, a sympathizer?", one of the boys jeered at Alexander.   Another added, "Yeah, a Civilist coward sympathizer."   "Afraid to wear your dishonor on your sleeve?   You ought to be!"
     Alexander watched the retreating boys, amazed at the public display of disrespect.   On a deeper level, he began struggling with the thought that he was the cause of this small skirmish -- and worse, of Dr. Trang's murder that Terry had just informed him...
     "Are you?", the battered boy asked from behind him.
     Alexander turned, "Am I what?"
     "Are you a coward?"
     "I am no coward," Alexander asserted.
     "Where do you stand, then, Klingon?"
     The boy's arrogance amazed him.   But then he recognized his own childhood rebellion in him.   Was that an inherent Klingon trait?   He referred to the handbill the boy had hung up.
     "I'm a visitor to these parts.   Where is this Blood and Guts Pubhouse?", Alexander asked.
     "Come.   It's nearly sundown.   I'll take you there."

     They moved slowly along the crowded walkway of the high East wall as the Klingon sun was setting over the great city of Klinshai.   Though there was much going on around him, and the majesty of the city grew even more mysterious in the twilight, Alexander's thoughts turned inward.   But they were a blur.   He had only been on the planet for several hours now, and already he felt, amidst the blatant poverty, the public tensions that the Civilist movement -- his movement -- was causing.   He was having a hard time reconciling the idea that he was at the vortex of recent, violent events.   One thing he was certain of, though:   this was not what he intended.   Not at all.

-----

     It had been a long time since Worf saw the sun setting over Klinshai.   He considered it's pale to be a fitting match for the rampant societal decay so obvious throughout this once great city.   Dax and Worf confined themselves to Droq's empty home, waiting for news about his disappearance.
     Worf believed no one was aware of the request Droq had made of him -- to speak as an expatriate Klingon against the Civilists.   He told the inspector that he and his wife were merely on a personal visit to an old friend, which was largely the truth.   If Droq's disappearance was related to his anti-Civilist stance, anyone could be suspect.   Worf and Dax agreed that to be declared on either side of the issue was potentially dangerous -- even fatal.   Worf still had not made up his mind.   He wanted to see for himself the impact Kosh and the Civilists were having on the Klingon homeworld.

     While Dax rested in the guest room, Worf watched the interplay of shadows and red-golden sunlight reflecting off the spires and talons of the great city, and found in himself a renewing sense of determination and pride.   It was good to be "home".
     The door chime sounded, and Worf called out, "Who's there?"
     "Worf, son of Mogh?," a Klingon stood in the opening doorway.
     "Yes?", Worf responded.
     The Klingon approached him with a document in his hand.   "A confidential message from the High Council."
     As Worf took the document, something pinched his hand.   He looked in time to see the needle retract back into the messenger's leather glove.   Two more Klingons entered the room, just in time to grab him as he passed out.

-----

     Elsewhere in the great city, from the sole window of a dark and ill-kempt apartment, another Klingon brooded in the twilight of the setting sun.   He heard footsteps approaching from the outside hallway, followed by the apartment's door opening and closing.   Without turning, he spoke in a low voice, "So, Pachqua, you have returned empty handed."
     "Wrong, Toral.   We both arrived only a few hours ago," a younger Klingon woman answered.
     Toral raised an eyebrow, "Kosh is here?   I'm curious, Pachqua.   I did not think you would find him so easily."
     "It was not as easy as you suspect.   As you can see, it took some time and expense to locate him."
     Toral turned and snapped at her, "You will be well compensated for your troubles, if it is truly Kosh you bring me, sister!"
     "His name is Alexander," Pachqua offered.
     "A human name?", asked Toral.
     "He's a Klingon, at least in appearance, about my own age.   It seems he was raised by adoptive human parents on Earth," she responded.
     Toral exploded, "Bah!   What has The Empire come to? -- falling for the rantings of one who's not even a true Klingon!"
     "That's how I found him," Pachqua spoke calmly.   "Since we knew that Civilist teachings were obviously Federation propaganda, I investigated Federation publishing sources with ties into the Klingon Empire.   Eventually, my search led me to a Dr. Trang, a professor -- or should I say ex-professor -- at a Terran University.   At first I thought Trang was Kosh.   But it was not difficult, as it never is with humans, to extract the requested information."
     "Where is Kosh now?," Toral asked pensively.
     "Upon our arrival, I followed him, to learn where he was staying.   He wandered in the streets and upon the walls for several hours."   Pachqua handed him the paper she was holding.   "I believe you'll find him here tonight..."
     Toral read the meeting notice and turned his gaze in the direction of the Blood and Guts Pubhouse.   He watched the shadow of nightfall rise to consume the last of the sunset on the eastern wall of Klinshai.   As he crumpled the page in his hand, he swore, "Soon, the glory of the House of Duras shall be restored!"