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[2381] Nysarisiza zh'Eziarath, Personal Logs

April 19, 2381
2027 hrs.

[ Lt. JG Nysarisiza “Nysari” zh’Eziarath | Personal Quarters | UFP Embassy Qo’noS ]

"Personal Log: Stardate 57657.77

"I quit creating personal logs the moment I separated from Starfleet. I had thought the habit well drilled into me, but it turned out to be easy to stop. I was too busy living in the moment to spend time recording it. That’s what I told myself anyway. To be honest, I never liked personal logs. In spite of the name, they have always felt very impersonal to me. Telling my story to a computer, most likely never to be heard by anyone else. But I have to start logging again now. I made my decision - very quickly, by my standards. I am returning to Starfleet. With the danger I am willingly entering, I find there is finally a reason for these logs. When I reach the Theurgy and download this log into the database, I will request that they be transferred to my family in the event of my death. Even if you don’t understand now, my loves, it is my hope that these logs can one day serve as an explanation as to why I left.

“So, to begin:

“Dear Rysha, Khov, and Vyta,

 “The Embassy spent the entirety of last night on lockdown, and I did not learn why until this morning when a Klingon ordered me from my quarters to the atrium. There I found, not more Klingons, but Captain Jien Ives of the USS Theurgy. A ship that needs no introduction, as it has gained such notoriety in these past months that I’m sure even Rysha has heard of it in her icy caverns. The Captain and their crew were not under arrest, nor attacking us under the control of some artificial intelligence. They were guests of the Ambassador, along with another Starfleet Captain whose ship had entered orbit. The Ambassador had struck me as a thoughtful and even tempered man during our short acquaintance, so the fact that he’d invited them in led to an instant curiosity. Working in Paris, I know quite well that there is always more to a story than the news reports. Oh. Paris. For a moment I’d actually forgotten…

“In time, I hope, I will write to you about Paris. For now that pain is too new to put into words. Even here alone in my quarters, speaking the name aloud shrouds even the lights in darkness.

“For now, back to Ives. The story they told. I wish I could say it was unbelievable, because then it would have been all too easy to turn my back and return home to you. The truth is harsh, painful, and cuts right to the soul of what I believe in. But how could I not believe, when that truth was laid bare right before my eyes, streamed live from a scant few floors beneath us.

“There is a parasite, a creature that infests a living body and takes it over, mind and soul. It is nearly impossible to detect, and it plays the part of its host flawlessly. In the event that it is detected, I assure you that it’s very hard to kill. It is not alone, this creature. They have reached the highest levels of Starfleet, the Romulans, the Klingons, and possibly the Federation itself. Starfleet isn’t hunting the Theurgy because they went rogue. They went rogue because Starfleet started hunting them. Because they learned the truth. By accident, a stray transmission. A minor mistake by the enemy, but a mistake that would change the fate of nations.

“In an epic tale, the heroes would do their duty without question, running to do battle without thinking of what they left behind. And why would they need to? Their loved ones are always waiting when they return. I am not a hero. I wish I could forget. Forget the facts and statistics. Forget the videos. Forget the sight of the parasite being pulled out of the officer it consumed. But I cannot. I have sat here all day trying to think of a way to come home and play blind. There isn’t one. I have an offer to join the band of renegades, and duty compels me to take it. For the Federation, for Paris, and for the child you all will one day have. Andoria fights so hard for a future, but it cannot be one controlled by this faceless malice.

“I’m sure you all noticed the lack of a possessive article. I do not expect you to wait for me. Soon you will be told that I am a traitor, and you have a duty of your own to perform.

“End log.”

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