Jaru Rel

Personnel File
Name:	Jaru Rel (Bajoran) Garel Seratt (Cardassian)
Rank:	Lieutenant Commander
Position:	Squadron Commanding Officer
Callsign:	Janus
Species:	Bajoran / Cardassian
Age:	37
Gender:	Male
Orientation:	Heterosexual
Birthplace:	Yelaru Labor Camp, Eastern Province, Bajor
Height:	6ft 1in / 1.85m
Weight:	183lbs / 83kg
Hair:	Black
Eye color:	Green
Played by:	Ben Barnes
Writer:	rae
Interests
Flying Partying Pool / Crud Card games Action holodeck programs Strategy games Board games Bajoran Religion
Education
2349-2358: Cardassian Union Distance Learning, Standard Curriculum 2362-2365: Archer High School, Albuquerque, New Mexico, Earth 2365-2369: Starfleet Academy
Service Record
2369-2371: Ensign, Tactical Officer - Peregrine Pilot, USS Horus 2371-2374: Lt. JG, Tactical Officer - Element Leader, USS Horus 3374: Lt. JG, Tactical Officer - Flight Leader, USS Horus 2374-2375: Lieutenant, Starfleet Intelligence, Classified 2375-2378: Lieutenant, Flight Leader, USS Atlas 2378-2381: Lieutenant Commander, Squadron Commanding Officer, USS Theurgy 2381-Present: Lieutenant Commander, Squadron Commanding Officer, USS Theurgy
Decorations
2375: Starfleet Medal of Valor 2376: Top Gun

Lt. Cmdr. Jaru “Janus” Rel was the Squadron Commanding Officer during the USS Theurgy’s escape from Earth. Fatally injured and placed into stasis, the Wolf Leader was eventually woken while the ship orbited Qo’noS. Janus then took command of the Lone Wolves again to aid in the opposition against the parasites that compromised Starfleet Command at the end of the 24th century.

Biography

Bajor [2345-2351]

The day her son was born, Jaru Ejan seriously considered killing him. It would have been, in her opinion, a mercy killing. Ejan was a member of the Rhala Resistance Cell, though she had spent the past year as a spy in the Yelaru Labor Camp after she’d caught the eye of the Cardassian in charge, Gul Seratt. The Gul was notorious for keeping his plans close to his chest - except when in bed. Ejan had been willing to sacrifice her dignity to the cause until the sneezing had begun. Five months later, holding the squalling baby in her arms and confronting the tangible proof of her choices, she no longer thought it was worth it. She could barely even look at the child she’d created, barely believe this had come from her body. There were the small nose ridges that all Bajorans claimed as their heritage, but they were overshadowed by the gray pallor of the infant’s skin, the scales circling his eyes and continuing down his body, and the little rounded spoon dominating his forehead. Despite months of proof, Ejan’s heart was in rebellion. This could not be her child. And if she could barely look, how would anyone else? Surely a Cardassian Bajoran hybrid was a cursed combination. What life would he have, this son of two worlds, unwelcome in either? It would be better to send him to the Prophets now, unburdened by the world and innocent of both his parents’ sins.

Before Ejan could psych herself up for the unthinkable, Gul Seratt arrived. He was enamored by his new son, though aware enough to know that he could never bring him home to Cardassia, where he already had a wife and children. Like most high ranking Cardassian officers on Bajor, he saw no reason why he couldn’t have separate families on both worlds. He quickly declared the child’s name to be Garel Seratt, neglecting to give Ejan a vote. Quietly seething, Ejan shortened the Cardassian name into something suitably Bajoran, secretly giving the baby another name. Jaru Rel.

Ejan was not the best mother, but she did her best. She felt beholden to Rel, and protected the boy as best she could as a result. She gave as much love as she could muster, mostly shown in her secret lessons on the Prophets and the Celestial Temple. As the mistress and child of the Labor Camp’s commander, they were always fed, clothed, and housed, and Ejan did her best to shield Rel from the glares and whispers of the laborers. Ejan didn’t mind the way they looked at her, buoyed by frequent rendez-vous with members of the resistance cell. None of them knew it, but the information she passed on helped the entire province. They could hate her as long as they lived - because they were going to live. But Rel didn’t choose her lot in life. He didn’t deserve their enmity.

They lived in this uneasy manner for six years, until the Cardassians captured a member of the Rhala Resistance and tortured him until he gave up the name of the spy who had leaked confidential intelligence for so long. Upon learning the depths of her betrayal, Gul Seratt’s love for his mistress turned to hatred with remarkable speed. Ejan was defiant, somehow relieved that her ruse was finally over, even though she knew how it was going to end. She told him how much he disgusted her, how it made her physically ill to share his bed and bear his child, how she prayed every night for the Prophets to punish every single one of the scaled reptilian bastards who had taken over their homes. Across the room, crouched and hidden behind a chair, Rel was shaking, one small finger running over the slightly raised scales adoring his brow. He was half Cardassian. Did his mother mean that the Prophets would punish him too?

The child never got a chance to ask. He only saw his mother one more time, as Ejan stood on a platform in the middle of the camp, surrounded by silent laborers who were forced to watch. She wore prison grab, hair tangled and skin smeared with dirt from her stay in the cells. But her eyes flashed with a fire that drew Rel’s gaze. Rel desperately wanted Ejan to look at him, but she only had eyes for Seratt, glaring as though she could strike him down through will alone. Unfortunately, that power belonged to his father. With one softly spoken word, he made sure that the fire left Ejan’s eyes forever.

Cardassia [2351-2358]

After the public humiliation caused by his mistress’s loyalties, Gul Seratt found himself on the bad side of Cardassian Central Command. Thankfully he had powerful friends who made sure he would keep his head, but he was recalled to Cardassia Prime, no longer considered fit for a Bajoran posting. That left him with a conundrum. What to do with his child? While others would have left their half Bajoran children behind without a second glance, Ghorran Seratt considered himself an honorable man, and Cardassians valued family above all else. Garel was his blood, innocent of his mother’s failings. He could not in good conscience abandon him here. So despite the chaos it would cause, he brought him home.

Rel - or Garel, as everyone on this new planet called him by his Cardassian name - was miserable from the moment they arrived. Seratt managed to convince his wife not to leave him for his indiscretions, but Ladine Seratt didn’t bother to hide her hatred of the boy. His new half siblings were equally cruel. His status in the household was made clear on every possible occasion, the lowest of the low. Seratt might have protected him had he been there, but he worked long hours at Central Command, coming home late into the night if he came home at all, trying to rebuild his damaged reputation.

He was homeschooled, since every school had denied him entry, and Ladine didn’t care enough to argue the point. Garel preferred it that way, spending as much time in his room as possible. When he did see other children, on the streets while running his stepmother’s errands or when his siblings brought home friends, they always mocked him. The ridges on his nose, scales so thin they could barely be called scales at all, and did they see a hint of pink staining the gray of his skin? Lacking anything else, Garel threw himself into his studies, passing every course with flying colors and gaining consistently high rankings. At night, he would climb out his window and onto the roof of the house, staring at the stars and dreaming of returning to Bajor.

On the rare occasions he did see his father, he was the only person in his life who was kind to him. Garel repaid that kindness by constantly lashing out at him. He had brought him here. This was all his fault.

As he got older, Garel got braver, ranging farther and farther afield from home. As long as he kept his head down and kicked a good amount of dust into his face, most people wouldn’t notice his nose at a passing glance. Eventually he found the spaceport, and that’s when he started planning his escape. For months he watched, learning how the port - specifically the cargo area - worked. Until one day he snuck onto an automated ship bringing supplies to Bajor. He should have known better, but at 13, with only vague memories of his mother to provide warmth, Garel thought the Bajorans might accept him.

Resistance [2358-2362]

It took time to sneak back into the Eastern Province, but Garel was determined. For once, his Cardassian blood seemed to help. The soldiers didn’t want to hurt him, nor did they want anything to do with him. They were often quite happy to let him pass, sending the young hybrid along to be someone else’s problem.

After a month of searching, Garel found his mother’s resistance cell. They nearly killed him, but realized how young he was at the final moment and locked him up instead, debating what to do with him. Garel begged them to let him stay and fight. Somewhere along the way he’d decided it was what his mother would have wanted. Eventually they let him out, and grudgingly allowed him to join, assigning him the work no one else wanted. They called him Cardassian, maybe Garel (with a sneer) when feeling generous, but they let him stay. Garel was determined to prove himself in their eyes, working hard without complaint at whatever he was told. He showed quite a talent for repairing the old suborbital fighters the rebels had on hand. Eventually they taught him how to fly one.

His years on Cardassia had given him a healthy dislike of that half of his heritage, but now Garel learned to hate them. He heard the stories, saw the horrors, felt the rage burning in the eyes of everyone who looked at him. The teenager would have gladly given his life for the cause. He volunteered for every mission, especially the dangerous ones. In the beginning, they let him go because he was expendable. The resistance was in the business of killing Cardassians, after all. Soon, he had earned a grudging respect. The boy had quick reflexes and had been taught to have no regard for his own life. It made for an excellent attack pilot.

But it didn’t last. Their cell was captured after a mission gone wrong. His blood - and the Cardassian citizenship record created by his father - saved his life. Rather than risk an incident, the authorities decided to ship him back to Cardassia for trial. His plan was to escape and return to Bajor immediately, but it took him far longer to abscond with a shuttle than he’d planned, and while he could fly it ok, he had no idea how the nav systems worked. Eventually Garel was picked up by a Starfleet ship, having crossed the border while mistakenly thinking he was on route home.

Asylum [2362-2365]

On his first few days on the USS Asteria, Garel experienced something he’d never experienced before. People were nice to him. At first he thought it was fake, and his responses were rude, varying between insults and demands to be taken to Bajor. However, the captain, a human man named Everett Fletcher, was reluctant. He assured Garel every day that they were en route to Bajor, while in fact on a meandering route to Starbase 41. No one on the ship particularly wanted to send this emotionally scarred young man back to the fight. They hoped that by giving him enough time on the Asteria, he would eventually make another choice. Captain Fletcher sat with him every day, taking the time to convince the boy to remain in the Federation, though he was too tactful to say it outright.

He talked about Earth, Starfleet, and the Federation, and how a bright youth could succeed there regardless of his heritage. They latched onto flying after a while, once Fletcher saw how much Garel enjoyed it. After a stern warning about how Starfleet shuttles were harder to steal than Cardassian ones, he even took Garel out for a few training flights, eventually handing him off to the ship’s CONN officer for some rudimentary navigation lessons. It took a few weeks to convince him. Though if Garel had been honest with himself, they’d managed it in days. He’d spent his whole life craving the feeling of belonging, and he’d finally found a place where it was offered with no strings attached. They ended up dropping him off at the Starbase, starting the process for Asylum.

That was not a pleasant experience. First he was questioned by Starfleet security, then counseling, then intelligence, then diplomacy, then a JAG officer, and finally a judge. They all asked the same stupid questions, and pried far too deep into parts of his life he’d rather forget about. He desperately wished the Asteria had stayed, or that he’d been allowed to remain on the ship instead. Seeming to sense this, Fletcher sent him messages daily, bolstering his resolve to stick it out.

The hardest question was one that should have been simple. What was his name? He longed to use the full Bajoran name his mother had once whispered to him in secret, the name neither Cardassians nor Bajorans had ever permitted him to use. But when he said it out loud before a mirror, the sounds felt wrong, the name alien against gray skin and scales. But he didn’t want to use his Cardassian name either, haunted by whispers of his fellow resistance fighters, the pure hatred dripping from their tongues if they dared say Garel. Eventually, he unhappily settled on a combination of the two. Rel Seratt. It sounded strange, the flow of words was wrong. In that at least, it matched his conflicted nature.

Once his asylum claim was accepted, they sent him to Earth, setting him up in New Mexico, where Captain Fletcher’s family had offered to look after him. At this point, Rel was behind in school, since that wasn’t something empathized in the Bajoran resistance. But he had always been bright, and Rel was relentless when he had a goal in mind. He had liked his few weeks on a Starfleet ship. He wanted to go back. Three years later, Fletcher sponsored his application to Starfleet Academy, and Rel blew through the entrance exam.

Academy [2365-2369]

Though he’d always been a good student, Rel faltered during his first year at the Academy. He hadn’t done much socializing during his few years in the Federation, isolating himself but for the family who had taken him in, who he’d learned to love fiercely. He’d never had friends before, so it took him a long time to make them, and even longer to recognize what they were.

He drifted to piloting naturally, since he’d enjoyed it during his time with the resistance cell. But Rel had been a fighter for too long, and he was a bit too eager to jump into combat during flight simulations. His saving grace during those initial sims was that he acquitted himself well and actually beat the computer a few times, since he possessed real world combat experience that the other cadets lacked. His teachers started pushing him towards tactical instead, interested to see what he could accomplish with formal training. Rel found that he didn’t mind the switch, enjoying the strategy and tactics that his resistance cell had never allowed him to partake in.

Eventually, he officially changed his focus to tactical, while maintaining a load of flight courses as a minor. He was far too reckless of a pilot to ever be trusted with the helm of starship, but with the Peregrine class fighters Starfleet began to roll out during 2367, there was a push for cross training between the tactical and CONN cadets.

His group of friends wasn’t large, but they were close, a group of tactical and CONN cadets looking for action. They worked hard and partied even harder, causing a ruckus in whatever Earth city they’d chosen to host that weekend’s party. They considered it a personal accomplishment to be banned from at least one bar on every continent - and often more than one. Rel relished having any friends at all, and was perhaps too loyal to them. Together they had a camaraderie he’d never experienced. He craved more of it.

As graduation neared, competition reared its ugly head before the cadets, all of them working hard for the few prized ship postings that had the Peregrine fighters. Their options were further slashed by a failure of bureaucracy. Since no one had ever really decided whether the fighters belonged to tactical or CONN, it had been left for ships to decide individually. That left Rel to fight for a ship that had given them to tactical, or risk being stuck as an ordinary tactical officer elsewhere. The Peregrines were too new and too exciting to miss out on.

The day after graduation, his assignment was posted. The USS Horus, one of the new Akira class ships soon to be launched from Utopia Planitia with its squadron of fighters on board.

But when he realized none of his friends had been assigned to the Horus with him, Rel nearly refused the prime assignment to request something else. When he told his friends the new plan, they all started shouting at him at once - a few of them even threw punches - and they were forced to finish the conversation outside the bar on a balmy evening in Munich. He was going to make new friends, and he was going to be on that ship if they had to go steal a shuttle right now and take him to Mars themselves.

Horus [2369-2374]

As reluctant as he was to go through the process of making friends again, Rel soon learned that the Peregrine flight squadron was almost too fun. They were all a bit nuts, reckless and overconfident, certain they were going to be the best pilots Starfleet ever produced. Most of their off time was spent on increasingly stupid stunts, assigning each other callsigns and seeing what stuck. They started off calling him Snake, which was incredibly obvious and boring.

Until one morning he woke up after a foggy night and they were calling him Janus. Apparently he had let slip his Bajoran family name, and some other drunk had thought up the new callsign, which ‘sounded similar.’ He must have been truly wasted, since besides the three letters in common, the names were pronounced nothing alike. Or Rel had been slurring so badly by that point that he’d mispronounced Jaru. No one quite remembered the details. Janus was an old human god who represented duality. A two faced god. At the moment, it had seemed appropriate for a tactical pilot with two worlds, two cultures, and two names. Enough people remembered it for the callsign to stick. Like the fighter pilots of old Earth history, their callsigns, once chosen, began to be used with such frequency that he was only called Ensign Seratt when in trouble. Janus preferred it that way.

Not even a year later, the Horus was sent to the edge of the Federation-Cardassian demilitarized zone, where the fighter pilots got their first real test against the Maquis, a so-called terrorist group who had Peregrines of their own. It was the closest he’d been to Cardassian space since accidentally entering the Federation, which was uncomfortable to say the least. And he vehemently opposed the Federation’s stance on the Maquis, since anyone who wanted to fight Cardassia was a friend of his. Not to mention, crewmen outside of tactical were starting to look at him funny, suddenly worried about having a Cardassian on board.

Janus owed every good thing in his life to Starfleet and the Federation, which was the only thing that stopped him from defecting to join the Maquis' cause. As a compromise, he started spending hours in the holodeck honing his skills. He wanted to become the absolute master of disabling enemy fighters. It was one thing to capture the Maquis, he could stomach that. But he wasn’t about to kill them for doing the right thing, treaty be damned. He worked such long hours that even the other pilots in the squadron started to question whether being this close to Cardassian space had caused Janus to go mad. In the cockpit, there was no doubt that the work had paid off, and it wasn’t long before he was promoted to Lieutenant JG and an Element Leader.

Unfortunately, the Maquis were just a warmup. The Horus was pulled from that front to join in on a brief war with the Klingons. Honestly, they were delightful opponents, appearing out of nowhere in reckless forceful attacks. It was a style of combat that matched a fighter pilot’s intensity perfectly. Unlike the Maquis - or the larger war looming on the horizon - this was an enemy that caused him no inner conflict and he could do his work with no crisis of conscience getting in the way.

They missed the Borg, racing towards Earth at full speed only to arrive at a graveyard. The weeks after were spent on cleanup duty, the fighters sent through heavy debris fields to search for salvageable components, active Borg tech, and the bodies of the dead. It was a sobering experience for the young, ambitious pilots who were normally so eager for a fight.

It was a hint of wisdom that came just in time for the real war. The Jem’hadar were a challenge that made all of his past opponents feel like child play. Once, combat had been an adrenaline rush, a test of skills where he’d always been certain he would emerge victorious. But as Starfleet’s death toll mounted, morale on the Horus plummeted. Janus found himself promoted to flight leader with little fanfare. They were losing pilots too quickly for someone more experienced to be waiting in the wings. They held their own for a year, beaten down a little more each time. It was impressive for a ship in the midst of this violence, but even their luck didn’t hold out forever.

The fight started out much like all the others. The Jem’hadar appeared, a behemoth of a starship materializing in space. The peregrines scrambled, the Horus’ shields went up. Then a Cardassian ship dropped out of warp behind them, and everything went to shit. Flanked and unable to maneuver, the Horus’ shields took a beating, the fighters flirting in and out providing cover and taking out phaser banks as best they could. Janus had no idea how the squad leader died, hearing only the panicked shouts of the commander’s wingman before that too dissolved into static. What he did remember was the moment he took command, shouting for the pilots to form up as he watched the Horus’ shields flare - then fail completely.

Janus’ first test of command was a strategic retreat, the remaining fighter pilots protecting the ship’s escape pods as best they could as the Horus exploded behind them. They started calling him Peregrine Leader on coms, something he hardly thought he deserved. Sometime during the harrowing days it took them to regroup with another starship, they also told him that he was now the chief tactical officer. Janus had to turn his com off so they wouldn’t hear the hysterical laughter that followed. About 250 people - half of the ship’s complement - made it to safety. The captain and most of the senior staff weren’t among them. Of those few hundred, most of them credited Janus and his pilots for their survival. He protested this account loudly. The whole experience felt more like a nightmare. Some of it he couldn’t quite remember at all.

They promoted him to full lieutenant anyway.

Undercover [2374-2375]

They were all sent to a starbase for reassignment. But instead of a new ship, Janus received a visit from Starfleet Intelligence. They wanted to send a spy to Cardassia Prime. It was going to take a really good pilot to get there and someone with Cardassian DNA to remain undetected. Luckily for them, Janus was both of those things. Even luckier, they’d picked the right time to ask. Janus was grieving and angry. Returning to Cardassia didn’t seem any worse than the Federation right now. Using their genes to bring them down from the inside? That felt like justice.

The ‘ship’ they promised was more of a retrofitted torpedo. Big enough to squish inside with one measly console and some ration packs. Small enough to look like harmless debris on sensors. It was slow, careful work. Relying on an insufficient sensor package to ensure no one was looking at him before he fired the engines enough to drift through Cardassian space. They hadn’t needed a good pilot, Janus decided. Only a lucky one.

A few close calls later, he was descending to a rural area of Cardassia Prime, destroying the torpedo - his one way home - and burying the pieces beneath hard, cracked dirt. He was clean shaven for the first time in years, since Cardassians rarely grew facial hair, and Starfleet had done a quick bit of cosmetic surgery to remove his Bajoran ridges. Janus knew it was purely psychological, but he swore his nose itched horribly without them. He had to force himself not to rub his nose constantly. He stole some cheap laboror’s clothes, hid a few choice tools inside, then palmed the forged identification chip that Starfleet Intelligence had provided and started hitching rides into the capital city.

He got a few strange looks at first. Janus hadn’t spoken Cardassian since he’d lived with his father as a child, and he had the accent of a well off city dweller, which didn’t match his clothes. He stayed on the move for the first few weeks, getting his persona down before he dared to get a job and settle in one place. The menial labor he ended up doing was disgusting. The smell was often enough for his nose to wrinkle in disgust - a mockery of his missing ridges. The benefit was that people rarely noticed him, and he was often able to sneak off in pursuit of his real job. Janus and his small kit of intelligence tools spent the year siphoning off information from Cardassian Central Command and sneaking it back to Starfleet. Knowing that he was fucking them over actually made living on Cardassia Prime somewhat enjoyable. Otherwise, he hated it. He hated the people, afraid to speak a word of truth. He hated the history, the unearned superiority that rationalized grinding his mother’s people into the dirt. He even hated this planet, hot and dry and dusty. He hated his body most of all, for acclimating so easily to it all.

When the final battle of the Dominion War came, Janus had always believed he’d be in a fighter, right in the middle of the action. Instead, he was cowering underground like the rest of the lucky few who had a place to hide, cornered like a rat as the Dominion turned on its own.

Afterwards, as he looked around at the devastation, he felt pity for the Cardassians. Funny, here he’d always thought he’d be dancing on their graves. For the first time in his life, Janus felt like he belonged here. The Cardassian people had finally been brought as low as their blood brought him. He traveled to Lakarian City, using vehicles when he could, often forced to travel on foot through the devastated countryside. Once there, he spent two days digging through the rubble of his father’s house, the location vaguely remembered from his time there as a child. It was hard to tell, the city was so thoroughly flattened that the identifying landmarks were gone. The eerie quiet of the rubble was broken only by the muffled sobs and rare screams of the searchers, coming from across Cardassia Prime to bury the dead.

Janus was ready to give up when he finally found him. Gone was the imposing figure of his youth, eyes perpetually darkened by thick ridges. Gone was the calculating look in his eyes, the scowl when he looked at the Bajorans he deemed beneath him. Gone was the slight softening of brows when he looked at him, the child just Cardassian enough for him to love. Ghorran Seratt was smaller than he remembered, face frozen in fear as reality hit him in that final second. Janus didn’t pity him like he did the others, but he didn’t hate him either. The monster he’d pinned all his hatred on was revealed to be just a man. He’d planned to spit on his face, but once uncovered, Janus’ throat was dry. He just stared. And stared. And finally picked him up and carried him away. Janus buried him, giving his father the one gift he’d denied her mother. He found perek flowers to put on his grave and cut his hand and let the blood drip to the ground. He followed Cardassian burial rites to the letter, except for one thing. He didn’t recite the names of the dead. If there was anything Bajoran in his blood, Janus hoped it would sink through the dirt and burn what was left of his father’s skin. A final punishment from the planet he tortured. Garel Seratt carved their family’s name into a stone, then he left the name with him.

He remained on Cardassia for a few more weeks, searching ruined buildings for more bodies, which were then taken to mass graves at the edge of the city. Until one day Janus decided he’d had enough, finding a group of Starfleet officers who’d come as part of the relief effort, introducing himself, and demanding they get him the hell off this planet.

They gave him a medal afterwards. There was no ceremony, no announcement, no presentation. More secretive intelligence bullshit, a Medal of Valor listed on his record with no reason except ‘classified.’ It took everything Janus had not to throw it in the closest body of water. He didn’t thank them for it, demanding instead that they fix his damn nose already. They suggested counseling and a leave of absence. Instead, he went to the nearest Federation court, legally changed his name to his mother’s surname, and again demanded they put him back in a cockpit. Starfleet threatened to discharge him. Eventually he caved, and the newly named Jaru Rel found himself in front of a counselor.

Therapy sucked. He hated every second.

Atlas [2375-2378]

When he was finally cleared for duty again, Janus found himself putting on a new color, white instead of red. He had a sinking thought that it was some sort of symbolic bullshit, then decided that he’d spent far too long in therapy. When he arrived on the USS Atlas, Janus found that some things had changed. They called the department Tactical CONN now, finally ending the tug of war between the two and letting the fighter pilots loose with their own command structure. The trusty old peregrines were gone, and everyone was being retrained on the new class of fighters, Valkyries. But when he got into the ready room? That was the same. Fighter pilots were fighter pilots, no matter what color they wore, no matter what ship they flew.

He was assigned as a flight leader again. Which made sense, since his short stint as squadron commander had been disastrous and over a year ago. Janus would have taken any position. Being back on a ship was more soothing than years of therapy. He finally had the controls to right his world again.

He worked his flight hard, ensuring they mastered the Valkyrie as he’d once mastered the Peregrine. Now in peacetime again, they spend more time training than fighting, and the most excitement to be had was in competing with other squadrons. He’d been to a Top Gun competition once on the Horus as a green ensign, and his performance had been less than impressive. Now back as a lieutenant, he was determined to blow the competition away, and he did just that.

All and all, if he had to describe those years, he would have used the word boring. Janus worked as hard as he ever had, had to get a new RIO because the first one was too exhausted to work with him anymore, got himself sent back to therapy, then kicked out of therapy for sleeping with the counselor, partied hard, and flew harder. He was often assigned to train new pilots, endlessly patient with them in a way he could never be with himself. His success ratio was flawless for the few missions they had, and he always made sure that his pilots came home. But there was part of him that missed the war, and he hated himself for that. Janus had been born in war, and that was where he thrived. Without a threat to focus on, he went full throttle on everything that touched his interest.

A few years later, the squadron commander recommended him for promotion, and he was assigned to the USS Theurgy.

Theurgy [2378-Present]

Unlike his last ill fated command, a few more years of experience under his belt left Janus feeling confident this time around. They had a new version of Valkyrie yet again, the Mark III now, and he couldn’t help but be amused at how quickly the ships were progressing after the Peregrines had stayed stagnant for so long. For all he shook his head at the new ships, Janus was very impressed with the Valkyrie Mk III. They were faster, stronger, and he liked that they'd removed the RIO. Thea was the first partner he ever had who never once insisted that they stop training in order to sleep. Command had wanted Janus in charge because he brought the same relentless testing to the Mark III as he had to ever other fighter he'd flown. He tested the Valkyrie until he knew everything about how it handled, worked with Thea to calibrate the interface to exacting standards - then worked with the rest of his pilots to make sure they put the ship through it's paces too. For the first time, Janus was in contact with a fighters designer, Rennan Cooper, which meant they were able to resolve problems and perfect the system, instead of the pilots dealing with it or finding workarounds. He spent the rest of his time training the younger pilots, who had come out of the Academy after the Dominion War and lacked that real experience. He developed training simulations where the whole squad worked together, pitched each flight against each other in war games, and planned events to build camaraderie outside the cockpit. The job was a lot of work, but he enjoyed having something to focus his energy on.

The trip to Romulus was stifling. A diplomatic mission with a not so friendly neighbor meant that the Wolves didn’t get out much. Launching warp fighters, even for training, wasn’t so diplomatic. Janus was relieved when they finally returned to Federation space - and how wrong he was.

What should have been a run of the mill senior staff meeting, farewelling the captain before they all left on shore leave, quickly became something else as the transmission came through. For a moment, Janus thought he was back on Cardassia again, eavesdropping on something that wasn’t meant for his ears, knowing it had the potential to change the world. It was like what he’d always imagined the Obsidian Order to be, faced with a silent presence that he couldn’t get in his Valkyrie and shoot out of the sky. They tried to investigate, but were discovered in record time, forced to run for their lives as Starfleet ships were sent to capture them.

The following two months felt like the Dominion War again, but this time there was no fleet to back them up. They were at war, and they were on their own. They had nowhere to turn and the death toll was mounting. Sixteen wolves reduced to twelve, the pack reduced further by injuries. Janus had been so proud of his flawless record for the last years, but now he realized what an idiot he'd been. Of course it was easy to keep everyone alive during peacetime.

It was ironic that he would fall when they finally found somewhere safe. Janus had been in a lounge, relaxing for the first time in months, when ThanIda zh'Wann came up to him. The deputy was beautiful, they were off duty - he wouldn't deny having been interested. He wouldn’t remember the events that followed, being infected by Niga, a carnal race through the ship that ended on the Bridge, and finally caught fornicating in the captain's chair with one of his young pilots, Ens. Hannah Slaverton. He probably would have thanked Thea for knocking him out, but that engineer shooting his leg off was too fucking far. The injury was more extensive than even that, as he lost far too much blood before they were able to get him to sickbay. Replacing his leg would have been easy enough with current medical technology, but Janus' hybrid blood was unique. He had inherited a rare blood type from his Cardassian side, mixed with certain Bajoran proteins as well. They'd have to synthesize blood from what he had left, and Janus would have been dead long before that task was completed. They had no choice but to place him in stasis.

Four months later, his file was passed onto the Savi android V-Nine, whose knowledge of intra-stasis cloning and blood synthetization was more than adequate to get Janus back on his feet again. Or the one foot he had left, anyway.

Personality Profile

He preferred to go by his callsign, Janus, rather than any of his given names, since it was the only name he’d ever been given that described both halves of him.

Janus was loud, sarcastic, and generally told it like it is. People tended to think of Cardassians as secretive and suspicious, so Janus had always deliberately chosen to be the opposite. He was not concerned with what people thought of him, because his default assumption was that no one liked him anyway. He gave 100% to everything he did, from flying to partying. It was great for his career, but rather exhausting when he went hardcore on everything. He expected perfection from himself and would work himself to the bone to meet that goal, but was more patient and understanding when it came to other people.

He could be extremely reckless. Born of two races who hated each other, and always looked down on for one half of his biology, he was raised with a very low opinion of his own life. Despite Starfleet’s efforts to drill some sense into him as he rose up the ranks, he had a reputation as a risk taker. He didn’t care if he died completing a mission or not. But that mindset only applied to himself. One of his main goals was ensuring that his pilots all made it home.

He loved flying, because it was the one place he had never been judged. It had always been his escape from bad situations. Space didn’t care whether one was Cardassian, Bajoran, Human, Jem’hadar, or some hybrid. Space would kill you either way, so you’d better respect it.

Janus was a devout believer in the Bajoran faith, but did not wear an earring, because he did not believe someone with Cardassian blood had the right to wear one. He never went to any services, preferring to pray alone in his quarters, where an altar was set up. It wasn’t something Janus ever talked about, preferring to keep his belief to himself.

He drank a lot, but like most fighter pilots, he tended to view that as normal instead of a flaw.

His quarters were neat and plain, since Janus had never had much in the way of personal possessions. Aside from sleep and work, he didn’t spend much time there anyway, preferring the squadron mess hall or lounge.

His prosthetic leg hurt sometimes, but he refused to believe that it could be a phantom limb, insisting that there was something wrong with the artificial bioconnections instead. No tests or troubleshooting would ever find anything. He would also blame it on a side effect of whatever had cut his leg off, but this was mainly just in the hopes that someone would tell him what had happened. Everyone’s memories of Niga had been erased, and Janus hated not knowing. Whatever he’d done - they’d all done - it must have been bad.

Janus was very close to his foster family on Earth, which consisted of the sister of the Captain who’d originally found him drifting through Federation space, and her husband and children. It had been years since he’d lived with them, and they still treated him like a son. The Fletchers were all the family he had. His Cardassian family was dead, not that he’d ever liked them anyway. He didn’t know if he had any living Bajoran family or not, but Janus didn’t see the point in searching for them, sure that they wouldn’t want him around. He loved his mother fiercely, and always had, but that was the love of a child orphaned too soon. He had never seen her through the eyes of a man. As much as he loved his human family, he wasn’t worried about what would happen to them now that he was a declared traitor. People would blame it on him being Obsidian Order or a Bajoran terrorist. Or both, because people were stupid. Either way, the Fletchers would be safe.

Physical Profile

As a hybrid, Janus’ features were a mixture of both his Bajoran and Cardassian heritage. He had the gray skin and scales of a Cardassian, though they weren’t as raised and distinct as they would be on a full blooded Cardassian. Bajoran ridges stood out plainly on his nose. His hair was black, typically slicked towards the back. Unlike most Cardassians, he was able to grow a beard, and nearly always had some sort of scruff, which he was determined to keep because it made him look less like a hybrid. His eyes were green, almost overly bright against the gray of his skin. He was tall and kept himself fit. However, he’d never been overly muscular, preferring exercises that kept his reflexes sharp. He felt like too much bulk slowed him down.

He was almost always in uniform or the wolves flight jacket or hoodie. If he needed different clothes for specific events, he would replicate them, then recycle them afterwards.

Janus had a number of small scars across his body, which were mainly hidden by his clothes. They were all from small wounds incurred during his time with the Bajoran resistance. They could be easily healed with a dermal regenerator, but he wanted to keep them. His leg was synthetic below the right knee, but aside from a nearly straight circular line, white like a scar, where the prosthetic met flesh, it was indistinguishable from the original.

Special Notes

Personal Quarters: Deck 10, Vector 2

In ancient Roman religion and myth, Janus was the god of beginnings, gates, transitions, time, duality, doorways, passages, frames, and endings. He was usually depicted as having two faces. Janus presided over the beginning and ending of conflict, and hence war and peace. The gates of a building in Rome named after him (not a temple, as it is often called, but an open enclosure with gates at each end) were opened in time of war, and closed to mark the arrival of peace.