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Post by spacedaisy on May 30, 2019 18:39:57 GMT
I love this log so much
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Post by Nola on Jul 7, 2019 19:43:55 GMT
The In-Between (With Tom as Captain Marsland)
Sara stepped off the turbolift, trodding along the corridor towards her quarters after yet another long day, one which failed to really resolve anything. They still had one or more saboteurs on board. They still had lost half a dozen people. There were still Section 31 operatives working to bring conflict between the Federation and the Bok’Nor Pact. Command still hadn’t gotten back to her about her clearance.
Sara could handle having problems. She could handle having a lot of problems, but the powerlessness to fix any of them was the thing she couldn’t handle. What good was it to be Captain of a compromised crew? What could they reasonably accomplish knowing that, at any time, an enemy agent would be in place to hamper their efforts? This was as critical a problem as could be, and what was her solution again? To give this enemy or enemies an out?
She was a damned fool, and she could hear Jonathan saying as much. Jonathan wouldn’t take this shit lying down. He’d do something ruthless and effective to purge his crew, wouldn’t he? Was her perspective of the man even close to the truth any more, after turning him into a psychiatric foil?
Failure. Utter failure in every corner of her mind, her being, weighing across her shoulders because she now also had to be a cliched Atlas figure.
The doors to her quarters swished open.
“Mommy!” called Ulani, as thrilled to see her as ever. For the moment, hearing Ula’s voice lifted her spirits, and she smiled and bent down to scoop up her charging daughter and pull her into a tight hug.
“There she is,” said Sara, nuzzling her cheek into Ula’s as the Cardassian girl laid her head on her mother’s shoulder - a different weight, but a weight nonetheless.
“Hey, love,” greeted Thalev, who wrapped the two of them in an embrace. For a moment, Sara could forget her troubles, simply enjoying the warmth of her unlikely family.
“How are you?” asked the Andorian. Sara simply gave him a tired smile, and he kissed her forehead.
“Mommy, I made you a painting,” offered Ula. “But it’s still drying, though.”
“She’s literally been watching it dry,” remarked Thalev, eliciting a slight furrow from Sara’s brow.
“I wanna show it to you when it’s done!” Ula pressed.
“Okay, baby,” said Sara, turning her attention to the girl and offering a smile. “Mommy has just do a few things in the office, and then hopefully it’ll be dry and you can show me.”
“Okay!”
In an instant, Ula had kissed her cheek and sprung free of her grasp, sprinting back to her room.
“She’s been watching paint dry?” Sara asked dubiously. Thalev just shrugged.
“It’s just one of those creepy things she does now, I guess,” he lamented, before hugging his wife once more. Sara spent as long as she dared in that embrace before moving into her office, sitting heavily in her chair as she activated the terminal.
“Messages,” she called, eliciting a chirp from the computer.
“No priority messages,” it relayed. “Three query hits. No unsolicited messages.”
“Give me the queries.”
“Query one: FNN article on Operation Seleyan Sun.” She could read that later. Maybe.
“Query two: Attack reported at Zeta Nine.”
Sara’s heart froze before sinking directly into her stomach.
“Display that report,” she instructed. The Starfleet bulletin displayed on her screen, a sense of nausea building as she read. She looked for the reporting ship: The USS Zorya.
---
Tom tossed and turned in the plush bed in his stateroom, trying to sleep. He’d spent 23 hours on the planet’s surface, trying to allay fears and convince the Maquis below that he and his crew were here to help. At some points he’d thought he’d been successful in convincing the survivors that the Akira-class vessel was not, indeed, the source of the photon torpedoes that had detonated above the planet’s surface, and at other points he thought his words were falling on deaf ears.
He also still couldn’t come to grips with his discussions with Niamh - There were Maquis spies, and who knows what else, running around on his ship. How to get rid of them plagued his thoughts night and day, and even now, after being awake for over 20 hours, he couldn’t find the solace he needed in his comforter.
Rising, he padded over to his desk and slouched into his seat. The whiskey from his decanter flowed easily into his tumbler, and he flicked on his terminal, reading the latest news from around the quadrant.
An alert popped up on his screen, an incoming communication request from Sara Sumner, Captain of the Chiron - and former Captain of the Bremen.
He ran his fingers through his blonde hair quickly and glanced at himself in the mirror, frowning at his tired face. Odd, he thought, as he tapped the screen. Commander Marsland of the Zorya. To what do I owe this honour, Captain Sumner?
"Captain Marsland," greeted Sara, managing a brief smile, though the worry in her expression was evident. "Sorry to bother you. I just got the alert about Zeta Nine. We, uh, had dealings with the world recently. How… How bad is it?"
“Pretty awful, but please.. Call me Tom.” A wane smile crossed his face. “A large portion of the inhabited populace has been wiped out. Many of the Maquis now think I did it, thanks to another faction of the Maquis and their resurrection of one of our ships. “I’m trying to figure out a way to track her down.”
Tom sat back in the chair a bit, his forehead creased with worry. “I don’t know what do. Part of me thinks I shouldn’t even be out here, but I feel like our presence could be key to resolving some of the conflicts these people have faced.”
Sara averted her gaze for a moment, unsure how to delicately ask her next question.
"Was Niamh Danann there?" She looked back to the screen.
“Yes, she was here on Zorya for a bit, and then side-by-side with me for the last 23 hours on the planet’s surface. We were old Academy classmates.” He sighed. “I have hopes that she’ll come back to Starfleet, but I don’t know.” Tom straightened up in his seat. “Her faction is the one here on Zeta Nine. They were attacked by another faction… using the ex-Bremen as their flagship. She’s more of a Captain now than we are, I’d almost be certain of that. She’s taking the damage here pretty poorly.”
Sara stared blankly at the screen, entirely unsure how to process, well, any of that information. She set about prioritizing.
"But Nia's alive," she said, more to herself than Tom. "And this other faction - they're flying my ship?"
There was just a hint of anger in her gaze.
Tom simply nodded. “They are. I tried the old SF command codes. No dice. I have another problem, too. There are spies on my ship. Probably from multiple factions of Maquis. Hell, we might be being listened to right now; but I don’t care. I’m going to do what I can to see the re-unitement of these people and safety - we owe them that much.”
Sara heaved a sigh that might as well have been a growl, momentarily running her hands over her face. 'Zombie-Bremen' hadn't even been on the list of things she'd expected from this call, and her inability to do anything about it seemed to make all the other bullshit filling her head just a touch heavier.
Her hands fell away and she looked to Tom, her visage steeled.
"I'd drop everything to come help, but the Chiron has its own infiltration problem, not to mention the whole 'don't start a war with the Bok'Nor Pact' thing," she explained. "For what it's worth, I think you have the right idea. The Federation owes a great deal of reparation to the people of Zeta Nine. I suggest bothering Command as much as possible for relief supplies. If they give you the runaround, tell them you'll have me call them on your behalf - they'll hate that."
She gave a small huff, running a hand through her crimson Mohawk.
"Will you do me a favor and give Nia a message from me?" she asked, her voice considerably more soft.
Tom nodded. “Of course, I can pass along anything you’d like. She’s a pretty awesome person who seems to have lost her way. What can I tell her?”
Sara thought on that a moment.
"She's finding her own way," she offered. "She gave much to Starfleet, more than it could reasonably ask of any of us. Don't push her too hard to return, or she'll turn away completely."
She gave a small nod, mostly to herself.
"As for the message, tell her that I'm… I'm sorry I can't be there for her, that I would be if I could. Then you tell her I expect her to send me everything she has on whoever took my ship. Tell her that I'll come get it personally if she doesn't - she knows full well how big a pain in the ass I can be."
Gravely nodding, Tom glanced to his left, to the picture frame sitting there. It was a graduation photo he still cherished of him and his friend with the fiery red hair. He held up the photo for Sara to see. “Such a long time ago. I’ll make sure she gets the message. Deal with your spies on Chiron, and let’s go put the Bremen to rest, what do you say?”
Sara managed another small smile at the picture.
"We'll have to share stories over a drink sometime," she mused. "Sounds like a plan, Tom. Thank you."
“Of course, Sara. Keep in touch, and fly safe. Marsland out.”
---
Tom rose, padding his stateroom. It was almost the beginning of Alpha Shift again, and about time to head up to the bridge. He stepped into the shower, allowing the scalding water and steam to envelop him, cloud his mind, and give him time to think.
Maquis infiltrators. A Starfleet ship hijacked by the unfriendly Maquis faction. The True Federation still lurking around every corner. And a planetary bombardment to atone for. How was he going to handle it all?
Pick a singular point, and focus on it. Take Nia’s advice yet again, he thought. He stepped out, toweling himself dry, and pulled on a clean uniform.
“Time to get to work.”
---
Sara ended the comm and stared blankly at the screen, feeling a great many things all at once. She felt helpless. Powerless, even, bordering on defeat, and that particular bullshit wasn't gonna fly.
She was up and out of her office in an instant, making for the door out into the corridor.
"Bad news?" asked Thalev, putting up a wall of guilt that stopped her in her tracks.
"Something like that," she murmured.
"Need to go?"
Sara sighed and ran a hand over her headfuzz. She didn't need to go, per se. They were stuck there, and it wouldn't matter much if Raqiin knew now or later.
"I can cover for you," offered Thalev.
"No," replied Sara. "I don't need to go."
Thalev pushed off the bulkhead as Sara turned and walked into his open arms.
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Post by Shawna on Jul 10, 2019 20:05:56 GMT
zombie!Bremen is??? horrifying??? Let her REST!
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Post by aoibheni on Jul 27, 2019 14:32:35 GMT
I love the notion that you guys think there's any hope at all that Danann would be accepted back into Starfleet in the future, after all she's done.
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Post by Nola on Aug 30, 2019 22:23:56 GMT
Sown (With Annie as Lt. Nesrem Moritori)
“Deep breaths Nesrem…” dark eyes staring in the mirror as he tugged on his uniform jacket. He knew what was coming, it was only a matter of time. Turning away from the mirror he settled down at his desk and opened up the screen. He’d already sent off the necessary message. They knew what had happened, they knew he would be found out. He was a lost cause. There was one more message he needed to send to someone back home now, before the hammer fell.
“Computer, begin recording.”
There was an obliging chirp as the recording started.
“Imzadi, you’ll be receiving news about me soon. I’m sorry if you’re disappointed in me, but I did what I thought was right for you, the children, and Betazed. I chose the side that I believed prioritized our safety and best interests. Unfortunately my choices may reflect poorly on you. I’ll be branded a traitor, and you will come under a great deal of scrutiny. I’m so sorry for that Imzadi. I hope you know I love you so very much.” He drew a shaky breath and dropped his gaze for a moment, “Computer end recording and send to Nialiare Moritori on Betazed.” The computer gave another incongruently cheerful chirp as it did as requested. He passed a hand over his face with a sigh. Now to wait for the end to come…
---
The interviews had progressed department by department, each one essentially the same: a crewmen would be led by security to the Captain’s Ready Room, and Sara would give her spiel about the room being bug-free and the forthcoming conversation being confidential. Yes, Raqiin had already narrowed down the suspect list to just two transporter techs, but the appearance of methodical process of elimination was vital.
Sara was very much involved in the game, now - a shitty game with outlandish stakes and zero prizes. A game where she couldn’t help feeling three steps behind. Add in the fact that some murderous asshole Maquis was flying around in the corpse of her old ship, and Sara felt absolutely useless, a feeling she hated a great deal.
The last swallow of cocoa was gone too quickly, her break over. Sara strode back to her desk, picking up her PADD and looking at the next name, though there’d been no need. Next was one of the transporter techs: Lt. Moritori.
Nesrem gave a stiff nod to the security guard escorting him to the door of the ready room. The man seemed uninterested almost. This was just one of many interviews, he had no clue this was the one that mattered. Nesrem knew though, so he tried to compose himself as he hit the chime and waited for the call to enter. When that call came he stepped into the room and stood at attention.
Sara put on a professional smile.
“Lieutenant Moritori,” she greeted. “Please, have a seat.”
Once he’d done so, she went right into her now-memorized speech.
“As you’ve likely heard, we’re investigating a recent act of sabotage. As part of that investigation, I’ve decided to speak to every member of every department of this ship. I’m going to tell you the exact same things I’ve told everyone else.
“I have had this room swept repeatedly by engineering crew that I explicitly trust. I am assured as possible that there are no hidden bugs in this room. Nobody’s listening in; the contents of this discussion will be entirely confidential. Understand?”
He settled into the seat she indicated, but his posture never relaxed. Nerves prevented him from really loosening up now. Back straight, he nodded wordlessly in response to her question.
Sara took a moment to truly regard the Lt., to observe his posture, all those little details one learned about in the course of diplomatic negotiations. She dearly wanted to just cut through the bullshit, but the game demanded otherwise.
“I’m not going to ask you whether you were involved in this act of sabotage, or whether you have any connection to Section 31,” she explained, her words measured carefully. “Instead, I’m going to tell you that I’m not out for revenge. I understand that not all who work for Section 31 do so willingly, and I am offering protection to anyone who comes forward and admits their involvement. They will not be arrested. No outward appearance of apprehension will be given in the interest of protecting them and their loved ones until such time as all are secured.
“Further, if they are willing to provide what information they can about who their contacts are, or if they know of any other operatives on board, I will do everything in my power to ensure they see leniency when the time comes. Okay?”
A slight furrow of his brow, he hadn’t expected that offer. He had expected to be cracked down on. Then as quickly as it crossed his face, he’d wiped his expression clean again. “Understood Captain.” He wasn’t interested in ratting anyone out or turning on their cause.
The Captain stared at him for a long moment, her polite smile having been gradually replaced with a tired passivity. Numbness was her friend at this point, which is a notion her younger self would’ve found horrific. She couldn’t afford to let the swirl of angry frustration show, a thought that immediately brought Jonathan to mind.
“I’m giving the saboteur one week to consider my offer and come forward,” she explained, the end of her practiced speech. She leaned forward and folded her hands on her desk.
“Unless there’s something you’d like to say now.”
Maybe they hadn’t put the finger on him yet. He hadn’t anticipated this at all. When the message had come through, those urgent orders to put a stop to Starfleet getting their hands on the Ibis crew, he didn’t have time to be careful. He knew it would lead to him eventually. Now she’s giving a week? His mind raced through the idea that maybe this would give him a chance to slip away before they managed to sort it was him. If they didn’t know yet, just maybe… “I don’t have anything to say Captain. I don’t know anything about what happened.”
Another long stare, with perhaps just the faintest twitch of her jaw as she again measured her words.
“I will tell you that we’ve narrowed it down to two possibilities,” she stated. “It would’ve had to be one of the two techs overseeing the transport.”
A deep breath.
“Did you notice anything strange about Ensign Siwara’s behavior at the time of the incident? Signs of anxiety, or stress?”
Just the tiniest clench of his jaw as he watched that dream of escape disappear. They’d be watching him like a hawk if they had it narrowed to just two people. No, this really was the end of the line. He put on a carefully composed look of confusion, “No sir. But to be fair, I was focused on the job, I didn’t think I needed to be assessing my crewmate’s mental state. Are you certain about this? I can’t imagine Siwara doing anything like that…” Nesrem couldn’t stand the thought of her taking the fall for this. She was truly good, loyal Starfleet through and through. He may disagree with her beliefs, but he admired her heart. She reminded him of his oldest daughter.
“I can’t either,” remarked Sara. “Primarily because she’s already been cleared.”
She let the implication sit for a moment, hands still calmly folded on her desk.
“I will ask you once: is there anything you’d like to say now?”
He steeled himself now as he felt the trap spring closed around him. “In light of that Captain, the answer is I definitely do not have anything to say.”
Sara gave a small nod at that, her eyes finally averting to glance out a window. She had hoped he would be more willing to cooperate. Dealing with one saboteur wasn’t going to solve the overall problem, so sure was she that other enemy agents were on board. To a more petty degree, she had also hoped her leadership style would’ve engendered more goodwill.
A very petty degree.
“Are your wife and children in any immediate danger?” she asked, her attention drifting back to Lt. Moritori.
He tried to swallow the sudden lump that seemed to lodge itself in his throat and anger coursed through him. Was she threatening his family? His gaze stayed steadily on her, “I can’t imagine why they would be. They’re on Betazed.”
Sara nodded once more, taking a deep breath as she sat back in her chair.
“We’ll refrain from placing you under arrest until we’re sure they’re safe from reprisal,” she explained. “In the meantime, I’d encourage you to stick to your normal routine as best you can. You movements will be monitored, though.”
“I don’t understand, am I being put back onto duty?” He genuinely couldn’t figure Captain Sumner out. Why would they trust him to go back to work?
"Transporters are offline pending the conclusion of our investigation," she explained. "It'll be at least a few days before we receive new orders, barring the unforeseen, so your workload will be light. An engineering team will be with you in the transporter room, and security will be right outside."
“Understood.” He felt tired and spent as he resigned himself to the unavoidable. “Is that all Captain?”
“That’s not even close to ‘all,’” Sara spat before she could stop herself, a rueful smirk on her face. “... But that’s all I have for you. We’ll make sure your family is safe, that they don’t suffer for your choice. I’ll give you until then to think about my offer. It’s by far the best deal you’ll get. Once you’re off my ship, you’re SFI’s to deal with.”
“With all due respect Captain, there’s no way you can protect me from SFI,” his gaze softened and weariness crept into his eyes, “as much as I appreciate the offer, you wouldn’t betray your beliefs and I won’t betray mine either.”
Sara knew what she was supposed to say, here: that she respected his conviction, even if she disagreed with it. She didn’t, though. This wasn’t some ideological difference - Lt. Moritori had murdered six people, and those were just the ones they knew about. What else had he done? What else would he have done?
No, this wasn’t about conviction, or beliefs. This was about evil trying to justify itself as pragmatism, and there was nothing respectable or novel about it.
She wanted to scream that at him. She wanted to beg him, with tears in her eyes, to explain how exactly he could justify what he’d done, the danger he’d put his wife and children in from multiple fronts. To demand he answer the ultimate question of why any of this was happening at all.
So much grief. So much loss. Here, now, face to face with this man who had so readily sold out his comrades, she knew there was no ‘win’ in this fight, no victory to be had. The question wasn’t who was right, but who would survive, and what it would cost them in the end.
“Dismissed,” was all she managed to say, her voice barely more than a whisper.
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Post by Nola on Sept 26, 2019 18:21:58 GMT
Hard Corners (With Pezzley as Lt. Hamlet)
Sara took a deep breath, the wheels turning as the ill-advised path she'd chosen became clear. Echoes of psych courses played in her head about the dangers of trying to control the uncontrollable and the paralysis that came with trying to predict every variable, from which she'd derived a key strategy: never mind the bullshit and be direct. Then again, maybe she was just determined to get that court martial after all.
With a huff, she tapped her combadge.
"Mr. Hamlet, please report to the Ready Room when you have a moment," she called.
Hamlet was going over some notes at his station on the bridge, and it took him a few moments to re-engage with the surrounding world at the sound of his commbadge. "I'll be right there, ma'am." He closed up his files and logged out of his console, singalling at the ready room door no more than thirty seconds later.
"Enter," she bade. The autopsy report was in-hand as she motioned for Hamlet to sit.
He quickly pulled up a seat and stared at the padd waving in the captain's hand. "Thats either the recipe for yer family's traditional holiday brew, and you think as the old man of the ship, only I have the age and wisdom to cook it right; or this about the recently departed Ms. Gaudin."
"The next time I hate myself enough try bloodwine, I'll let you know," she offered, with just a hint of levity. "But yes, Ms. Gaudin is part of this. We've gotten the autopsy back, and I want to trust that it's conclusions are accurate, but..."
A soft sigh as she set the PADD down.
"I guess I'm unwilling to underestimate Section 31, to the point of paranoia. If you manage to find time, I'd like you to see if you can come up with any other possible causes of death that fit these findings, if only to give us something to look out for as we sift."
He scooped up the pad and quickly skimmed over the contents, shaking and nodding his head as he went, before stopping to place it back down on the desk. "It... appears to be exactly what I expected." He stroked his beard pensively. "Her cause of death seems to be fully consistent with the method of interdimensional travel these Breen raiders are utilising."
"She suffered severe and systemic cellular degredation, caused by inverted tetrionic particle radiation, of which there was still a trace in her body; meaning she was subject to this radiation's presence on numerous occassions over a long period of time." His head bobbed and shuffled for a moment. "She was pretty much ordained to die, after probably a dozen uses of whatever device they're using."
Sara sighed heavily, tenting her fingers as she lowered her gaze to the desk. That hadn't been what she'd wanted to hear, she realized, which was a problem. She could repeat her desire for other explanations, for some possibility that this was assassination, but she knew that would then become an obsession.
More importantly, Sara knew she had to trust her crew. She may not be able to trust Command or SFI, but she had to believe she could trust Hamlet's judgment, particularly when it came to a field she clearly didn't understand.
"Okay," she answered, as much to herself as Hamlet, before lifting her gaze once more. "So this technology is dangerous. Would it affect Breen or Cardassians as well?"
"Absolutely." Hamlet immediately responded. "Any organic material exposed to this radiation would slowly break down at the cellular level; the damage and progression getting worse with each exposure. Out of the races in the Bok'nor pact, the only one's who probably wouldnt be affected would be the Tholians; but Breen and Cardassians and their carbon-based chemistry... absolutely. Mitochondrial break down, processes like mitosis and apoptosis would be severely hampered, followed by rapid onset organ faliure."
"Even if we didn't directly detect inverted tetryon radiation... the signs and symptoms of systemic radiation poisoning would be apparent."
The Captain's brow furrowed as she began to concoct some crazy notion or other, her index fingers tapping rapidly.
"If the Tholians wouldn't be affected by it, then it's not very likely they'd have something designed to counteract it, at least not immediately," she reasoned, though she left a space for Hamlet to either confirm or deny that assumption.
"The Tholians as a general rule, don't give a shit about any species other than themselves; unless someone strays into their space, or if they have something to gain out of the relationship. While it is possible they have a solution, you're prolly right that they wouldn't have bothered." The old Klingon furrowed his brow as well. "Why? What're you thinkin'?"
Sara wasn't entirely sure, in fact, but the general idea was there. The ass-chewing she'd likely receive would be legendary.
"An act of kindness," she offered cryptically.
"That sounds... ominous... Captain." He leant in closer, for effect. "You have me intrigued."
"Does it sound ominous?" Sara replies, loosing a chuckling huff as she shifts in her chair. "Unwise, maybe. My plan is to tell Gul Baraad that the drive is dangerous to those operating it, that they need to scan and provide medical care for all personnel operating them... And ask nothing in return."
Hamlet raised his finger to speak, before retracting it, as he quickly realised he didn't quite know what to say to that. "interesting approach..." He shrugged and pensively stroked his beard. "To what end?"
Sara furrowed her brow for a moment at the question, not entirely sure how to answer. She could explain about trying to prevent warfare, or engendering goodwill, or working a contact behind enemy lines, and she could moralize about how it was the right thing to do and how that ought to be their primary focus out here in the vast darkness. For whatever reason, she felt compelled to do neither, simply sitting forward in her seat and placing her folded hands on her desk as she looked to Hamlet.
"There's an old saying," began Sara. "Not a widely used one. It goes 'there is but one thing in this world that evil cannot endure: forgiveness.' I first heard that when I was in primary school, and I like to think it's helped shape my life ever since."
She dropped her gaze to the desk for a moment before looking back up, a slight frown on her features.
"I can't express to you how angry I am these days. I'm not that good at words. I wake up every day and I remember how messed up everything is, and how stupid the circumstances that led to it are. I stare at the ceiling and I simmer in it, and then I get up and I wash up and I put on my brave face so I can smile and be happy for my husband and my daughter.
I come up to the bridge and I try to catch up on whatever new craziness is going on, and I have to keep that face on because I gotta keep morale up. It would be so much easier if I could just say 'fuck it' and assume that we're already at war with the Bok'Nor Pact, if I could just stop caring about doing things 'the right way,' a-and use the sorry state of things to justify cutting corners, but I can't. You know why?"
"Beacuse you're a Starfleet officer; and that means something." He replied confidently. "Because of the values that you hold dear, and personal beliefs that you've been instilled with."
Sara nodded slowly, a hint of relief relaxing her shoulders just a touch.
"The moment I do that, I become part of the problem," she affirmed. "I become part of that cycle of retaliation. And I learned, and I was so lucky to learn early on that what it takes to stop that cycle is for one side to refuse to retaliate. To not punch back, but to throw your arms around this person who hurt you and tell them you understand why they did it. That you forgive them for it."
Sara sat back once more, sniffling as she wiped away a tear, and smiling despite.
"So I'm going to forgive Cardassia, and I'm not gonna hold this valuable information away from them and demand they pay me for it because that doesn't work. I'm gonna give it to someone I at least know might listen, and I'm gonna tell them that I care about them and that I'm sorry for the enmity between us, because someone has to say that. The only way to be sure it happens is to be the one to do it."
The old Klingon nodded. "Just be careful captain. Strange forces are at play, and we may be wrong about who's manipulating those forces."
"But, remember we'll all stick by you, Cap'n." He threw her a warm smile. "Even if what I just said comes to nout but paranoia, I imagine som'un'll be pissed off at you. And you'll always be able to count on us to keep 'em at bay."
Sara gave Hamlet a warm, if beleaguered, smile.
"Let's just hope you don't all come to regret it."
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Post by spacedaisy on Oct 6, 2019 17:39:36 GMT
I love this so much!
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Post by Nola on Nov 14, 2019 19:02:19 GMT
Questions Without Answers(With Annie as Paul Bechard)At some point Sara had given up on scrounging up a proper jacket. The immediate aftermath of the incident on the surface had been an all-too-familiar whirlwind. New France security personnel were looking for the shooter and they had questions. Starfleet had been informed and they had questions. Bechard had been given a set of guarded quarters and he had questions. Naturally, answers were in short supply. These moments always brought something out of her. The sheer volume of crisis seemed to shut out her heart's voice, banishing her grief to some cellar so mommy could deal with shit. Gone was the heartbreak, the despair that things had gotten so bad that even civilians were turning on Starfleet. Now there was only business, only things that needed to be done with a steady hand, and the quiet question now living in the back of her head: Was this what it was like for him? Sara rounded the corner and nodded to the security officers outside Bechard's quarters. A combadge had been affixed to her basic red turtleneck, the only physical indication of her status as she stepped in. Paul Bechard sat in an armchair, facing the viewport in the quarters in which he’d been placed. In his hands was a cup of tea, long since gone cold as the void of his expressionless gaze met the void of the black. Sara’s footsteps seemed to draw him out of the despair he was drowning in. He drew a sharp breath and took a quick sip of the tea, then grimaced at the temperature. “Hello Captain Sumner, would you like a seat?” He tipped his head in the direction of the rest of the seating area without looking at her. Sara took a moment to observe the man, a variety of psych assignments flitting through her thoughts with words like 'shock' and 'bereavement.' She didn't reply immediately, quietly moving to take a seat nearby. "He's alive," she forced herself to say. "Still critical, but everything that can be done is being done." “Thank you,” he responded quietly, but sincerely. Sara didn't say the thing she thought next, about how it had been her fault. About how she had to go and be principled, about how someone somewhere had probably told her that principles only served to get people killed. She didn't have it in her to defend herself just yet. "I, um," she started, not immediately knowing what to say. "I wish I didn't have to ask things of you. I'm keenly aware that I came in here and ruined many days for your family, and that there's nothing I can do to make up for it." He finally turned to look at her, genuine confusion in his eyes, “You aren’t responsible. They’re responsible.” The mug turned anxiously in his hands as he pondered the reason he was here on this ship now. She had a retort, but she swallowed it. This wasn’t about her, or the things she could’ve done differently. Bechard was right - this was their fault. “When did it start?” asked Sara. “How long had Elise been working for them?” “I don’t know exactly,” he let out a weary sigh, leaning forward to set his mug on the glass table. “Elise was recruited some years ago as a SFI asset, but I think eventually the lines got blurred. At some point she must’ve got in with Section 31, but I don’t know when. She didn’t discuss it with me, for obvious reasons.” Sara furrowed her brow. “What about that business at the bar?” she asked. “Something separate?” “I don’t know what business you mean exactly. I stay neutral, and people trust me. Your presence upset that balance, so if I seemed hostile, I apologize. I felt … threatened.” “Blase seems to know who Elise was working for,” Sara pressed, rubbing her eyes. “Do you?” “Things she said made it clear that getting involved with the True Federation was because of Leroux. I’ve seen other things in the bar that make me believe he’s heading up whatever group is running out of New France, or at least Viviers. I just have tried to keep out of it, I believe Elise is,” his gaze dropped to the floor for a second, “she was a good woman. She believed in a cause, and honestly I can’t really say I felt one way or the other about it. It’s just easier to avoid choosing sides. Or it was, anyway.” After a moment, Sara rose from her seat and moved to crouch down in front of Bechard, staring up at him with a somewhat inscrutable expression. Her jaw clenched, her breath catching for a moment before she managed to steel herself. “I didn’t get to know her long, but Elise seemed like a brave, dedicated woman,” she offered. “The thing that makes Section 31 so wrong is that they thrive on exploiting good people. They take your concern and find the best way to leverage it into fear. They take your conviction and they corrupt it to suit their wants. I truly believe that most of the people on the other side of this line are good people, and that’s why they’ve been so successful. “Elise wasn’t my enemy. The people who took advantage of her anger are, and they’re the ones I will do everything I can to pursue.” He studied her face for a moment, “I believe you will. That’s why I’m here. They must’ve known what they had her doing would kill her. They used her, treated her like she was disposable,” he shook his head, blinking back tears, “They have to be stopped.” Sara gazed up at Bechard with as much determination as she could muster and slowly nodded her head. “We’ll get you a PADD,” she explained. “Write down everything you know about Leroux and their associates. Locations, timeframes, activities - we’ll get started on the hunt as soon as possible. I’m guessing SFI will want to debrief you further at some point, but as of now you’re not being detained. You have access to the common areas of the ship, and the moment you wish to leave, just let us know, though I figure you’ll want to stay near Blase, understandably.” He gave a nod at this, responding gratefully, “Thank you Captain, I’ll do whatever I can to help. And thank your medical team for me too. My sister has already lost one child, I can’t see her lose Blase as well.” Sara did well to keep the tight squeeze in her chest at those words from her expression. She wasn’t sure she could take telling Celeste and Maurice they’d lost another child, especially if it were due in part to her own actions. Today was already approaching ‘too much’ as it was. “I will,” managed the Captain, placing what she hoped was a comforting touch on Bechard’s knee before turning and walking out of the room. After giving instructions to provide the PADD to Bechard, she made a beeline for her quarters, desperately needing a hug.
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Post by Nola on Dec 19, 2019 19:38:03 GMT
Dressing Down (With Annie as Admiral Martin Walker)
Sara Sumner sat in the reception area of Starfleet Command, patiently waiting for her chewing out by the C-in-C. The Captain had fantasized about making a big show of storming into his office, throwing him her badge, and telling him to either take it or stop jerking her around. It was the kind of thing Henry would’ve loved, and one she grudgingly accepted wouldn’t actually help matters.
She had a good idea what Martin would say she’d done ‘wrong.’ Indeed, Sara usually had a good idea what she was ‘supposed’ to do when Starfleet gave her these kinds of missions, and in many ways her ‘failures’ had been intentional. That was the thing that made this habit principled instead of ignorant, she liked to tell herself, knowing full well that wouldn’t save her from anything beyond her own conscience.
Henry would say that was the only thing that mattered in the end. Sara amended that to be the only thing one could honestly do: be themselves. Sure, maybe that made her a terrible Captain, and maybe this would be the end of a short-but-momentous career, and maybe it would break her heart to be torn away from her crew, and maybe she’d spend the rest of her days wondering if losing that family was worth her principles, but…
In the end, she could only be herself, regardless of the consequences.
The door to Walker’s office opened and he leaned out to see her sitting there, “Come in please Sara.” He didn’t wait for her to respond, disappearing back into the office. He sat down at his desk, leaning back in the seat and waiting for her to join him.
Sara took a calm breath and rose to her feet, nodding to the receptionist as she stepped into Martin’s office, sitting across from him as the doors slid closed.
“Sir,” was all she said by way of greeting.
“Have a seat,” he said as he motioned to the empty chair waiting there for her. He had a padd on the desk in front of him, but he didn’t seem to be reading it at the moment as it was powered down. Walker watched her sit down, gathering his thoughts for the moment before finally speaking, “How are you doing?”
Sara couldn’t help a soft sigh, knowing full well how a simple ‘fine’ would be interpreted.
“Tired,” she replied. “Tired, but resolute.”
He took this response in with a slow, thoughtful nod, “And how do you think this mission went?”
Here it was. Here’s where Sara was supposed to equivocate and say they did the best they could with the resources they had, or at least this was the point she’d been ruminating on for the last several days. She took a moment to settle her thoughts before continuing.
“I don’t think there was any way for that mission to go well,” she answered. “We were asked to do something outside of our expertise, with the expectation that we would at least push the boundaries of the law to surveil Federation citizens. I was not willing to do that, so I ordered my crew to take a different approach.”
He studied her silently, taking in the defensive demeanor. It felt a lot like fighting with a rebellious teenager; she had come in expecting a fight. He leaned forward and slid the padd across to her, “Have you had a chance to look over the information Mr. Bechard gave us?”
Sara picked up the PADD and glanced at the contents. It seemed more or less the same summary she’d read after Bechard had written down what he knew.
“Yes,” she answered, setting the PADD on the desk. “Simon Leroux seems to have recruited Elise and others to research a drive of unknown origin. As best we can tell, New France isn’t exactly a True Federation sympathizer world. There are some elements of the population who are unhappy with the Federation, but I figure that’s generally true of all member worlds.”
“Right. According to the Aether, LeRoux seems to have left the planet shortly after the little shootout in Bechard’s bar. He gave us a couple other names, they’re still looking into the location of those individuals but we believe they’re likely with LeRoux. So, whatever advantage we were hoping to gain here has been lost.”
His shoulders sagged a bit even as he thought about it. “If this were a normal war, we would just be fighting another military force. Unfortunately it’s not a normal war. We aren’t just fighting physical battles against another army, we’re also fighting for the faith of our citizens. Even though we have won some strategic victories, every smaller loss erodes that faith a little more.”
He rubbed his forehead, the stress evident on his face as he continued, “The Cardassians are up in arms, it seems they are questioning if it’s us or the Teffies who are responsible for these raids. This whole episode only gives credibility to their propaganda about the ineffectiveness of the UFP to maintain stability in the quadrant. We are stretched too thin to fight with our Captains as well.”
Walker finally leveled an unwavering gaze on her again, “You’re right, it was outside your crew’s expertise. Unfortunately, you were the only ones there and we needed to move on the information right away.”
Part of Sara wanted to cry, feeling like she was a little girl again getting yelled at by her dad. Another part wanted to rage, to tear off her badge and throw it at him and tell him all the ways she believed he was wrong. Mostly, though, she was as said: tired. This was probably why a small chuckle spilled from her lips as she ran a hand through her stripe of longer hair.
“Yes, this is a war about faith,” said Sara, her words measured. “As Ell said, this is a fight for the soul of the Federation. That’s going to mean different things to different people - it clearly means different things to you and I, for instance. You seem to think that the faith we’re fighting for is faith in our ability to win a strategic conflict. Our ability to be the superior force.
“I believe that the faith we’re fighting for is faith in our ideals. Ideals like not spying on our citizenry. Ideals like peaceful cooperation where possible, instead of relying on posturing and leveraging strength vs. weakness. Ideals like not using the death of an angry young woman as a means to pry information from her friends and family.”
Sara took a deep, shaky breath, her eyes finally finding Martin’s as she sat forward just slightly.
“Now, I understand that isn’t an either-or thing. I understand that strategic considerations are functionally necessary, and believe it or not I’m very sorry that I couldn’t get you the information you wanted. I understand that I sit at an extreme on a spectrum, but I dearly hope you understand that in my view, everyone in charge seems to be sitting at the other. Everyone seems so focused on winning, and so few of us seem to be concerned with how we win that I physically cannot bring myself to compromise.
“Our ideals are all we have, Martin. They are the only thing that distinguishes the Federation from any other militaristic power, including the Cardassians. Including Section 31. The moment we decide to sacrifice them for the sake of victory, we are Section 31.”
The young Captain’s jaw clenched, having to fight mightily to keep that angrier side from spilling out.
“Do you understand that? Do you understand that every decision I have to make out there hangs on that principle? I’m not gonna sit here and tell you I don’t fuck up, but I can only act as my conscience guides me when we’re locked in a life-or-death struggle of conscience. I believe that’s all any of us can do, and it honestly terrifies me that I seem to get in trouble for acting like it.”
“Damn it, Sara! This is what I’m talking about!” He pushed himself away from the desk in frustration and practically jumped out of the chair, pacing his office, “We are fighting an enemy that looks just like us. Hell, they were us. Our friends, our colleagues, our family! Our people are seeing the death toll, scouring the lists of the dead and missing to find names of people they love lost on both sides. And everyday they lose a little faith that what we are doing is worth it. Those ideals you are throwing in my face are the very thing we are fighting for. And if our own officers, our ships’ Commanding Officers even, don’t trust our decisions anymore then how can we possibly expect our civilians to? You’ve been at the center of everything for too long. You see an enemy in everyone. Your orders weren’t to break the law, they were to stay low and keep your mission secret. Because we didn’t want to scare them off. And instead you walked into her family’s home in a Starfleet uniform and told them what happened and why you were here. Your people got in a phaser fight in her uncle’s bar for god sake!”
He leaned on the side of his desk, palms gripping the edge and dropped his head, trying to calm down. Everything felt like such a struggle, and he was so tired of fighting. When he finally spoke again, his voice was measured, “You have lost sight of the enemy here. I didn’t bring you in because you’re in trouble. I brought you and your crew in because I’m concerned how you all might be handling everything that’s happened. You’ve witnessed some horrific deaths at the hands of the True Federation.”
The chair groaned in protest as he dropped heavily back into his seat, all energy now gone.
Tears rimmed Sara's eyes, her jaw clenched as she absorbed Martin's admonitions. Yes, she felt like a little girl again, but she was tired of wallowing in that. She was tired of letting her insecurities see her cowed just because someone she admired had an unkind thing to say to her. Mostly, however, she was tired of feeling like she was incompetent when she knew she wasn't. So she took a moment to digest his words, to review how she'd approached the mission and why she'd been so certain of ill intent.
"You're not wrong," she murmured. "I've had a hard time taking my orders at face value. I admit I fucked this mission up because of it, and I'm sorry."
Sara forced herself to look at Martin.
"Now let's talk about why I have such a hard time trusting those orders. For starters, as a matter of procedure, we can't really be sure that we've rooted out all Section 31 elements within Starfleet. Even if we could, as you pointed out, Section 31 was born from Starfleet. It's not hard to imagine that some similar sickness could potentially form if we're not mindful of how we conduct ourselves.
"So, when I learned that Starfleet Intelligence - your Starfleet Intelligence - was blackmailing Tony Adalberto into working with them by threatening my career, the careers of his comrades? Maybe you can understand why I might be concerned."
Martin drew a deep breath, exhaling slowly, “Fair enough. I’m not prepared to discuss anything regarding Adalberto, but yes I can see your point.” He spun slightly in the chair, his eyes looking out the view port as he considered the position they found themselves in now. “Regardless of the past, we need to be on the same team. There won’t be anything left to defend if we aren’t.” Casting a tired glance over his shoulder at her as he concluded, “You’re dismissed.”
Sara sat a moment more, thoroughly dissatisfied by that reply. ‘Not gonna talk about it. Trust me anyway.’ What anger she felt was tempered, however, by the creeping suspicion that he was right about the New France mission. Sara had assumed a great many things that weren’t there when it came to her orders. If she’d been more level-headed about it…
It didn’t do a lot of good to reassess there in Walker’s office. Sara stood and nodded to Martin, turning and walking quietly to the door. She paused as it opened - hesitated, really. More needed to be said, by one or both of them. She wanted to tell him she’d find a way to trust him, to trust Starfleet. She wanted to bargain and appeal and pontificate, but she knew Martin’s position. She knew the strain he was under. That he took any time for this at all…
Sara lowered her head and stepped out with a sigh of defeat.
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Post by Einar on Dec 30, 2019 21:29:47 GMT
what a fantastic log!
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Post by aoibheni on Jan 2, 2020 1:18:57 GMT
Annie, CJ, what a rollercoaster!
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Post by Nola on Feb 14, 2020 20:15:25 GMT
Rusty Razors
Sara had decided to lay upon the floor of her Ready Room for a while. She stared at the ceiling, the periphery of her vision assaulted by the swirling display of light form the slipstream outside her window. They were still a few hours from Ba'ku, from whatever reckoning might come between her obligations to Starfleet and her ethical standards.
Another reckoning, and so swift after the last one, so soon after an attempt to put a stop to them. How much more leash did Sara have? How much more was she willing to give Starfleet? Was she too young to be asking these questions? Was she only asking them because she was young?
Round and round, back and forth. Sara Sumner had lost anchor at some point, and was now awash in uncertain seas, and other various nautical metaphors.
Sara had trusted Martin Walker once. He'd been at the Academy when Henry had gone, and then her. He'd been sympathetic to their home situation, and while he didn't exactly show any favoritism, he'd always been a willing ear for their various struggles, always had a bit of advice.
What had changed, aside from the obvious? Why was she so unwilling, now, to trust him? What ground did she have to assume that he was being overzealous, that he was blinded by obsession?
Arrogance, she would accuse herself of. Self-righteousness. Vanity. Her father's words, to be sure, but ones she'd been unable to shake.
The other side of the coin was a simple refrain: she was only doing the best she could. Sara could only ever do what she felt was right, but that seemed hollow. How many people had done something horrible and claimed they were only doing what they thought was best?
Paths to hell and such.
The Captain picked herself up off the floor with a groan, resisting the urge to look towards her liquor stash. She'd have to move all that back to her quarters at some point; the temptation was simply too great.
The truth was this: Sara would have to muddle. Being strictly adherent to her ideals wouldn't work because she was not all-knowing, all-encompassing. For better or worse, she was a cog - a thinking cog, but a cog nonetheless. The machine wouldn't work if she didn't buy in, and as much as younger-her despised the thought, now-Sara wanted to buy in, at least to a degree. She wasn't willing to call it quits just yet, and she still believed in the Federation.
The idea of it, anyway.
There was more to it, surely, but this would have to be enough for now. Her paranoia was starting to influence the crew, which was a bud that needed to be nipped now, not after this same argument had gone through various psychic subcommittees and reached a floor vote.
Whether or not this was intended, Sara was starting to see Martin's point about trust. The whole system, at least as it pertained to her ship, could break down if she continued to be so defiant. If she wasn't willing to trust command, what cause would she have to ask her crew to trust her?
Yes, it was slightly different; the crew could often see her reasoning in real-time due to her lack of compartmentalization. Still, the principle remained. As much as she might despise the idea of doing what someone said just because they were a higher rank, she did know the chain of command was vital to a functional Starfleet. The whole point of her being so open with her crew wasn't to dismantle it, but in fact to reinforce it, hadn't it? It was about cohesion, and not defiance.
Sara slumped into her chair, unsatisfied, but having little choice in the matter.
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Post by Einar on Mar 13, 2020 16:38:27 GMT
Now that's Sara. Lovely log!
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Post by Nola on Apr 9, 2020 8:21:05 GMT
Footnote
Henry,
Please stop karmically sending me your sloppy seconds. Thank you.
Sara
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Post by aoibheni on Apr 9, 2020 8:24:40 GMT
FootnoteHenry, Please stop karmically sending me your sloppy seconds. Thank you. Sara Hahaha!
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