Star Trek: Theurgy

Star Trek: Theurgy Anthologies => Director's Cut => Topic started by: stardust on July 02, 2020, 11:01:00 PM

Title: [2374] Operation 'Spark' - Betazed
Post by: stardust on July 02, 2020, 11:01:00 PM
[ Cmdr. Brody Miller (https://uss-theurgy.com/w/index.php?title=Brody_Miller) | Codename: Mason | Type-11 Shuttlecraft ‘Areion’ | 3rd Moon of Betazed | Betazed System ] Attn: @Swift
[Show/Hide]

Brody had sworn two years ago, that he was done with this life. The life of espionage, deceit and isolation. Even before he had met Sam, he had wanted to have a family, and that lifestyle had not been conducive to healthy relationships of any kind. It was a sacrifice, he was willing to make when he was younger, when his idealism outweighed his needs and wants as a human being. The three pips, that were resting on the dresser in the back of the shuttle, next to his neatly folded command uniform, at the mere age of twenty-seven, a stark reminder of the man he had been. There hadn’t been any opportunity, any mission, too dangerous or too difficult for him not to take it and excel at it. And while it had been about the grander good too, most importantly, it had been about proving and improving himself. Because he could feel that void inside of him that demanded … something. But he had not known, until growing older and wiser, what that really was.

So, even though he had said goodbye to that life, that man, a while ago, here he was now: In the cockpit of a Type-11 shuttle, the quietest in the fleet, watching his fifth Raktajino materialising, while the warp field distortions cast rays of blue light through the viewport. It would be his last replicated beverage for a while, he assumed. Sitting down in the pilot’s seat once more, resting the mug on the side of the console, the commander briefly checked the navigational readout. Samantha hated Klingon coffee … she always said a drink shouldn’t have to be a ritual of courage and virility. It made him smile. It was exactly why he was practically addicted to it. Ah … his beautiful wife. Left behind on the USS Poseidon, their home, together with the rest of the second fleet, a few lightyears outside the Betazed system.

It had been two days since the second attempt to take the planet back from the Dominion, to no avail. Their fleet had been diminished to a skeleton that was merely held together by the courage and perseverance of the Starfleet officers serving in it. Starfleet command had resumed strategising, building their last offence on a guerrilla campaign, that was brewing among the Betazoid citizens themselves. Hoping it would serve as a planetside backup for an orbital attack. But communication with the resistance cells was difficult. That was what he had known, as the XO of the Poseidon. That was until he had gotten an encoded communiqué from his mentor and former boss: Admiral Anderson.

As it had turned out, he hadn’t been able to shake Starfleet intelligence as easily, certainly not the part in him that had been groomed and forged into the perfect operative. They had apparently shared his worries about letting the Betazoid rebels fend for themselves and the struggles they faced getting into contact with them. They had sent an agent to the planet to make contact with the Rena Resistance Cell. To train and support them as well as coordinate back with Starfleet intelligence. But the contact had gone cold for 2 weeks now. Which was about the time since the first attempt at recapturing the system had failed. So anything could’ve happened. They could’ve been found out, executed or made prisoners of war. They could’ve perished as collateral damage in the bombardments. Among other possibilities there wasn’t really much hope. But even just a glimmer had always been enough for Brody.

Officially he’d joined the admiralty on the USS Hood, the second fleet’s flagship, to strategize and plan out their third and final attempt at liberating Betazed. It was the story he had also told his wife. Those four years at Starfleet intelligence were something he didn’t often talk about, so it almost felt second nature not to be open about this assignment as well. He had even missed the solitude for a while, alone in a shuttle with nothing but the sound of the warp engines and the electrical humming of the rest of the equipment. Hell, since he was alone, he could put his feet up on the adjacent seat and no one complained! Over time he’d even learned to distinguish the different components and their unique pitch of sound. The air conditioning, the capacitors in the consoles, the gravity generator, the warp coils … there was a lot to focus on. That was until the considerable silence was cut sharply by an audio alert. Pulling his feet back, downing the last of the Raktajino, the tall man leaned forward, studying the screen.

He was approaching his jump point and the auto pilot was about to disengage. Placing the mug aside, Brody erected himself fully in the seat and let his fingers dance skillfully across the controls. The shuttle came out of warp at the edge of the Betazoid system, in the shadow of its outermost planet. From here he had time to track Dominion movements within the system. As soon as he had their scout routes figured out, he charted a new course into low orbit of the third moon of Betazed, full warp. A tricky maneuver, but one that never failed to elude unsuspecting patrols. Plotting that last correction by hand, he engaged the engines and within a split second jumped across several millions of kilometers. Almost in an instance the viewport was filled with the dark, rugged surface of the uninhabited moon, as he had gotten out of warp so close, Jem’Hadar sensors could not possibly distinguish him at this distance.

Shifting to impulse engines, the commander steered the shuttle to the surface and set it down in a high rimmed crater, that would shield it even from visual inspections. Running his fingers further across the illuminated buttons, he shut one system after the other off, until only enough power for life-support and the transporter would emanate from the ship. This was it then … it was go-time. Rising from the chair in a swift move, Brody threw a jacket over his civilian attire, slipping his com-badge into an inside pocket. Shouldering the pre-packed backpack with small sidearms, med-kits, rations and additional communication devices, he stepped onto the transporter pad. Lastly grabbing a phaser rifle, painted in matt black, from the shelf and readying it. Prepared for whatever he could find at the beam-in point.

“Computer, energize.”

OUTFIT (https://i.pinimg.com/originals/14/6b/b9/146bb9623d21b5d5d5249556623bdccb.jpg)
Title: Re: [2374] Operation 'Spark' - Betazed
Post by: Swift on July 03, 2020, 07:26:44 AM
(http://uss-theurgy.com/w/images/1/11/DalariaCity2374n.png)

[ Lt. Andrew Fisher (http://uss-theurgy.com/w/index.php?title=Andrew_Fisher) | Codename: Bishop | Jem’Hadar Outpost Bravo-32 | Dalaria City (https://uss-theurgy.com/w/images/thumb/1/11/DalariaCity2374n.png/1200px-DalariaCity2374n.png) | Betazed (https://memory-alpha.fandom.com/wiki/Betazed) ] Attn: @stardust

It was raining again. It was always raining on Betazed. At least, it had started to appear that way, as over the course of the previous ten days it had heavily downpour on all of them. Fisher’s native betazoid companions in the Rena Resistance movement had explained that the rains of Betazed were on average fifty-percent greater than those of Earth. Further compounding the issue was the fact that they were in the midst of the rainiest season of the Betazed calendar year. Regardless of the more scientific explanations, he’d found the dreary weather to be absurdly appropriate from a poetic stand-point. For across the planet, hundreds of tragic events were unfolding daily. It had only been three weeks since Dominion forces, with little effort, had swept in and conquered the ‘jewel of the outer crown’ in a battle that had lasted mere hours. All while the Federation’s Tenth Fleet, Betazed’s dedicated defenders, had been distracted by an ill-timed training exercise. It was a monumental embarrassment to Starfleet and had come at the immense cost of tens of thousands of lost lives at the hands of an initial orbital bombardment. Worse still, in the days since the initial attack, even more innocent lives had been ended as Jem’Hadar troops had begun patrolling city streets, arresting, and summarily executing any and all whom they suspected as guilty of insurrection.

And as Fisher stepped out into the heavy rains at the behest of a Jem’Hadar disruptor rifle pressed against his back, his fellow prisoner and co-conspirator, Ebirone Elos (https://uss-theurgy.com/w/images/c/c3/EbironeElos001.png), offered a somewhat spiritual observation. “The four deities are sobbing at what has happened to my home.” And as if it were divine punctuation, a sudden flash of lightning momentarily illuminated their surroundings, revealing that the courtyard they were being led to had lay at the base of a towering skyscraper devoid of all light. The power grid had yet to be restored in the wake of the initial attack, and save for a few fires that refused to surrender to the rains, and the occasional pinkish-purple hue of Dominion ships passing overhead, there was little ambient light.

“Quiet!” barked one of their guards, as it jabbed a rifle into the big Betazoid’s side in an effort to silence him, just as a cacophony of thunder erupted overhead. Rebounding against the cavernous city skyline, it had sounded like the beating of a dozen massive drums being struck in succession.

Fisher had only known Ebirone a few days now, but he’d come to respect, and even like him. He was quiet, most of the time at least, but there was a stoic charm and classic sense of bravery to him. Fisher suspected that this demeanor had come from years of service as a Starfleet Marine; a career Ebirone had since left behind in order to pursue a life as an agriculturalist here on his native home world. To anyone else, it might have seemed an odd choice for someone who had seen as much violent combat as Ebirone had, but Fisher figured the big man desired a more peaceful existence. Something he’d now been denied by the Dominion, and by all likelihood would never live to experience. He and Fisher had been caught in an act of sabotage; well, caught *AFTER* having committed their act of sabotage. A fact that had greatly annoyed the First in charge of the retinue of Jem’Hadar that had apprehended them.

“Vorta!” the disdain in the voice of the First was clear, as he called out to his overseer, his deep voice nearly drowned out entirely by the pitter-patter of rain cascading all around them. “I have two insurrectionists for judgement!” he declared. In fact, there had been three of them that had planted the explosives used to disable the industrial replicators, but said third co-conspirator, had managed to allude capture.

The Vorta, sheltered from the rain by a makeshift lean-to made of scraps of corrugated aluminum, looked up from whatever report he’d been reading on a Dominion computer tablet. With narrowed purple irises the leader of this contingent appraised both the prisoners, and the guards who had brought them before him. There was an obvious sense of disproval in the Vorta’s eyes, not just for Fisher and Ebirone. “State their crimes.” The apathy in the Vorta’s voice betrayed the reality of these judgements. The verdict was guilty. It was always guilty, and the sentence was always death. It didn’t matter what the infraction was, but for some reason, they still stuck to this strange tradition. Likely, that was one of the many reasons the First had disliked his overseer.

“They destroyed the isolinear banks of five industrial replicators.”

“Six.” Fisher corrected, grinning broadly.

“I said quiet!” barked the same guard that had warned them a moment earlier, and he stepped over to bash Fisher in the back of his skull with the butt of a rifle stock. The blow momentarily dropped the Intelligence Operative to his hands and knees, as a faint dizzying sense consumed his consciousness, and a dull ache began to emanate out from the back of his head. “Get up!” the guarded yelled as he grabbed Fisher’s arm, and violently hoisted him up until he was on his feet again. Shaking his head, Fisher felt throbbing and a faint wetness run down the back of his neck as blood began to seep from the bludgeoned wound.

The Vorta hadn’t seemed impressed by Fisher’s attempt at snarky bravado, though Ebirone grinned widely in approval.

With a sigh, the Vorta began to speak again. “Very well. In the name of the Founders, I find you both guilty of sabotage and insurrection. The penalty for your crimes against the Dominion is death.” With a simple wave of his hand, the Vorta turned away from Fisher and Ebirone as their guards stepped forward, once more taking a grasp of their arms in order to lead them over to a nearby wall at the base of the tower. As they grew nearer, Fisher could see that the face of the wall had been scorched by weapons blasts, as well as splattered with various hues of old dried blood that hadn’t yet entirely washed away. Just a few meters along the length of the wall, he observed a stack of rotting corpses that had been shot to a pulp by the Jem’Hadar. The faces of the victims were twisted and mutilated; they’d been left nearly unrecognizable from having been blasted so many times. Were it not for the rain keeping the stench somewhat at bay, he might’ve vomited.

As he and Ebirone were turned, their backs pressed against the wall, the big betazoid offered a token of solemn comradeship when their guards had moved out of an arms-reach. “Stirring shit up at your side, has been a pleasure.”

“Pleasure’s been mine.” Fisher responded.

The Jem’Hadar moved slowly away to about twenty paces distance, turning to face their prisoners. Three other Jem’Hadar who had been observing the summary sentencing also came to join the firing line, their wanton lust for the blood of the founders enemies coursing through their veins in conjunction with the ketrecel white that kept them alive.

“Make ready!” ordered the First.

Though faced with what was sure to be his end, a strange calmness came over Fisher as he stared into the faces of his executioners. For as much as he had complained about the ceaseless rain during his time planet side, he suddenly felt grateful for the torrential downpour, as he remembered the inspiringly beautiful words of a poet, that had been relayed to him by someone he’d profoundly loved. ‘Let the rain kiss you,’ The memory of her voice ran through his mind, as though she were standing just beside him. ‘Let the rain beat upon your head with silver liquid drops.’ Her words reverberating on as he gazed up into the darkness above. ‘Let the rain sing you a lullaby.’ He saw her graceful face, punctuated by teal eyes that pierced through the very depths of his being into his soul, and he felt every ounce of tension in his body ease at once.

He was ready and willing to surrender to death.
Title: Re: [2374] Operation 'Spark' - Betazed
Post by: stardust on July 03, 2020, 12:28:25 PM
[ Cmdr. Brody Miller (https://uss-theurgy.com/w/index.php?title=Brody_Miller) | Codename: Mason | Jem'Hadar Outpost Bravo-32 | Dalaria City | Betazed] Attn: @Swift 
[Show/Hide]

The contrast was a stark one. The gentle, comforting humming, making space for the rushing wind and the torrential splatter of rain. The dry, comfortable confines of the shuttlecraft switching to a cold and immediately wet environment. The bright, warm lighting turning into a darkness, only occasionally illuminated by lightning. It was only as his eyes slowly accustomed, that Brody could discern the gentle orange hues, radiating from the edges of the structures, as reflections of countless fires and explosions, scattered across the city like leaves from a bioluminescent tree.

He had beamed to the rooftop of a skyscraper in the district where the Rena Resistance Cell was established, according to the intel package he’d gotten. And he’d chosen higher ground as an entry point to get a quick lay of the land. Surrounded by sunchairs, tables and umbrellas. Some turned over, some scorched, the overflow of the pool cascading down the edge of the terrace and the side of the building. This was certainly not the Betazed he remembered. Furrowing his brows starkly, the droplets channeled through the pleads forming on his forehead, the officer swiftly moved under a nesting of chairs and umbrellas, by the edge of the building, evading a beam of investigative light from a Jem’Hadar scout ship, casually crossing the rooftop.

Pulling multi-spectral binoculars from a side pocket in his backpack, the man listened to the sounds of the city. The explosions, the engine noises, the gunfire. It was a warzone alright, not the first one he’d seen, but he had hoped not to once more. Confirming his position with a quick scan of nearby landmarks, Brody quickly devised his first approach in his mind. The Dominion didn’t have a great presence in the streets, their units were scattered in pockets throughout the district to provide strength in numbers. Which made it easy to plot a concealed course through the dark urban canyons. But as he scanned the area he stumbled upon something peculiar.

A courtyard to the south of his building, which was illuminated by mobile light emitters, a seemingly makeshift command post erected to its side. Originally he had no intent to smoke out a couple of Vorta commanders, even though the pleasure would’ve been all his. It would’ve been nothing but a barely noticeable sting in the side of the Dominion and he didn’t really do things small. But then a group of Jem’Hadar entered, driving forth two Betazoids, or Humans, seemingly. It was close enough to the path he had scouted out for himself, towards where the lair of the rebels was suspected. Worst case scenario he’d lose an hour and rescue a bunch of unfortunate civilians who wouldn’t be able to tell him anything about the Rena cell. But it was unlikely for civilians to scamper around on the streets, to be picked up by an occupation force. People were smarter than that, rebels, usually not.

Bagging his binoculars once more, the officer scrambled from his perch and crossed the roof in a crouched jog, towards the entrance into the stairwell. Since the power was out, turbolifts were obviously not an option, and he was much more inclined to rush down the 70 stories, rather than up. It took him a moment to get to street level, but not as long as one might’ve thought. Stepping out into the rain once more, after checking the length of the block, Brody made his way quickly and quietly through the next back alleys, towards the perimeter of the courtyard. He could see the lights illuminate the strings of rain, as they came down upon them, and the faint vapour that rose from the splatter.

Finding a half broken ladder on the side of the wall nearby, he managed to climb up to the first floor of the building, that the ramshackle command post was leaning against. Taking up position behind a windowsill, shards of glass barely crackling against his combat boots, the sound of rain covered everything. Still, he could hear the muffled voices of the two men, the Jem’Hadar and the disinterested lullaby of the Vorta. Well, he wouldn’t be so smug anymore minutes from now. Sizing up the situation carefully, the operative took down his backpack and leant it against the wall. Opening it up he pulled a fragmentation grenade and a carbon blade which he slipped into his boot. Leaving the rest of his stuff here for now, the man, dressed in all black, smoothly transitioned out onto the small ledge above the Vorta’s hideout. Even though he couldn’t see him, he could easily audio-locate his movements like a bat.

There were two groups of enemies, Brody had ascertained, not including the Vorta – who wasn’t really a threat unless he’d decided to lull him to death with his monotone voice. And as if by some sort of blessing of fate, the two groups of soldiers joined, as they took up firing positions a good safety distance away from the prisoners. How many Jem'Hadar did you need, to hit two guys, a mere  twenty paces away?! “You simple minded little armadillos.” he breathed to himself, moving to the side of the roof in a low crouch. Watching the shadow of the Vorta move beneath him, he used the opportunity to lower himself from the edge and right behind the commander, without a noise. Coming up behind him, Brody took a minute to soak in the sensation of superiority, if even just for a moment. He waited, a gambit, of sorts. Waited for a flash of light in the sky. Twenty-one, twenty-two …

Not wasting any more time, the only sound the Vorta could hear was the metallic swoosh of a blade being pulled from its sheath, as the Starfleet officer swiftly moved it to his neck from behind his back. Having the alien in a threatening grip now he manhandled him around, to face the firing squad. “You can squeal, if you want.” he hissed into the pointy, ornamental ear, before using his other hand to toss the grenade skillfully behind the feet of the Jem’Hadar. A short moment of perplexity and a bright flash later, muffled by the perfectly timed, deafening rolling of thunder, it was not only raining water for a moment, but also more or less disintegrated corpses. As the smoke cleared and the bodies came to a rest, the only ones left standing were the two men across the quad as well as the Vorta and Brody.

Pushing the man forward, away from him, but not without leaving a painful gash across his cheek as he pulled the knife back, the operative briefly brushed it against his thigh, before pushing it back into his boot, now cocking the black phaser rifle as added incentive. He had no intention of letting the sleazy little goon walk away to warn someone. But he also wanted to find out what had happened here first. Since he’d timed the explosion to the thunder, they would not have to worry about reinforcements just yet, not until they realized that one of their squads had gone silent. Which in his book was all the time in the world. Ushering the Vorta forward further, towards the other two men and into the smoldering midst of the courtyard, Brody made sure he also had a good aim at the other two, if things went sideways.

“Did these stragglers give you any trouble?!” he called out, his baritone voice carrying easy across the torrential rain. “We’re not all Betazoids here, I see.” His own, dark brown eyes, not giving his humanity away, but the murky green hue in the bearded man’s, was unmistakable. “Bishop, I presume.”

OUTFIT (https://i.pinimg.com/originals/14/6b/b9/146bb9623d21b5d5d5249556623bdccb.jpg)
Title: Re: [2374] Operation 'Spark' - Betazed
Post by: Swift on July 05, 2020, 10:23:54 PM
[ Lt. Andrew Fisher (http://uss-theurgy.com/w/index.php?title=Andrew_Fisher) | Codename: Bishop | Jem’Hadar Outpost Bravo-32 | Dalaria City (https://uss-theurgy.com/w/images/thumb/1/11/DalariaCity2374n.png/1200px-DalariaCity2374n.png) | Betazed (https://memory-alpha.fandom.com/wiki/Betazed) ] Attn: @stardust

Fisher had been expecting everything to fade away, giving heed to the eternal darkness that awaits everyone, and everything. He’d regarded it as a chance to finally escape the near-crippling emotional pain that had been with him ever since she’d died in his arms. No longer would his dreams be haunted by the visage of her beautiful face, eyes fixed wide in abject terror at the realization of her impending death. He would soon forget the memory of her precious life spilling out uncontrollably against his hands as they’d been pressed to the wound on her neck, a memory that had subsequently burdened him each and every time he’d run those hands under warm water. This was to be the release that he rather shamefully had been desiring, though was unwilling to admit. A release that had actually prompted his volunteering for this suicide mission when the call had been put out.

But that release was to be denied. He would not die today.

Years of arduous training and honing of the tradecraft of a spy had conditioned Fisher to react almost subconsciously to situations as they were unfolding around him, a sort of instinctual ability to make ready for any and all possible outcomes. And as something tumbled with a slightly audible clatter against wet pavement, he recognized by sound alone that someone had thrown a grenade to the feet of the Jem’Hadar. “Cover!” he barked out, as he was rather abruptly torn from the distracting anticipation of death by this instinctual ability. Grabbing the shoulder of his big betazoid comrade, they spun around so that their backs were to the explosion as it went off, lowering and shielding their heads from any potential shrapnel. Grenades could still be lethal at distances well beyond the twenty or so paces between him and their executioners, but the mysterious assailant had correctly gauged that the gathered Jem’Hadar would absorb most, if not all pieces of dangerous fragmentation with their bodies.

As the loud thump erupted behind him, immediately followed by the sound of six bodies crumpling to the water-socked ground in a series of splashes loud enough to be heard over the cascading rain, Fisher and Ebirone turned back to examine the strewn about bodies from afar. Together they watched their savior emerge from the improvised lean-to, standing behind the Vorta overseer. Gradually, as the ringing in their ears began to die down, the clatter of heavy rain re-staked its dominant claim over what was immediately audible. The man called out to them, his voice clear enough to be discerned, and cautiously they began to close the distance between them. While Ebirone’s black-irises focused on an immediate appraisal of him, Fisher’s own gaze strayed for a moment to take stock of the weapons that had just been discarded by their previous owners. Certain of the functionality of one disruptor rifle in particular, he made note in the back of his mind to grab it if necessary.

“Thanks, pal!” acknowledged Ebirone.

Fisher however, having dealt with the devious nature of Changelings in the past, was less willing to offer an immediate appreciation. He knew it wasn’t beyond the liquid beings to sacrifice a handful of their subservient solids in order to infiltrate a terror cell like the Rena Resistance movement, working to undo it from within. Sure, the man had seemingly known Fisher’s codename, but that could have been gleaned from intercepted progress reports, or misfiled documents that had been recovered or stolen by spies within Starfleet. Verification of the kind that he needed in order to trust this person, at least for the moment, demanded a practice that had been instilled in him, and anyone who might have been sent after him.

“Remember those who led you, who spoke the word of [the almighty] to you...” Fisher’s words would have appeared random to those without understanding of what he was doing, and indeed Ebirone regarded him with a slightly cocked eyebrow. But to those who did understand, and Fisher was betting this person did, it would have signaled the beginning of a pass phrase meant to establish trust. A pass phrase that would have been relayed to anyone that had been sent to find him. The phrase itself had been a deliberately mis-quoted text from an ancient religious book, speaking of the role in which Fisher’s codename had been derived. Either this newcomer would finish the phrase in similarly mis-quoted fashion, demonstrating his trustworthiness, or he would finish it exactly as it appeared in that book, revealing his deceitful nature.

All the while, Fisher continued to move ever so carefully toward the bodies, ready to retrieve a weapon and take aim at Brody if he failed.

A moment later, and with a somewhat relaxed sigh, Fisher felt his tension ease as the man had responded in accordance with the practice established by Admiral Anderson. Offering a simple nod to Ebirone, he then knelt down to retrieve a disruptor pistol from the waistline holster of one of the slumped over executioners. “Clean’em up.” He instructed simply as he stood again, stepping over the bodies in the direction of the Vorta and the man that had indeed just saved his life. “I wasn’t expecting anyone else. I take it my mission updates haven’t been getting through all of the Dominion signal jammers?” his gaze regarded the Vorta for a moment, as behind him there were a series of flashes accompanying the sound of energy dispersal as the big betazoid had started the process of double-tapping each of the Jem’Hadar. There simply wasn’t room to allow survivors the chance of relaying information about either of them to their superiors.

“We’ll take this one back with us. Try and squeeze what we can out of him.” Ebirone taunted grimly as he moved over to the Vorta, who threw up his hands in fright as the big betazoid slugged him with a single heavy right hook, knocking him cold.

Returning to the now confirmed lifeless Jem’Hadar, Fisher retrieved a disruptor rifle after pocketing the pistol in his jacket. Over his shoulder he tried to take a stock of the man who’d appeared just in time to halt their summary execution. He clearly had the bearing of a man who knew what he was doing, and given the fact that he’d answered in accordance with Anderson’s practices, it was likely he was just as skilled, if not even more so than Fisher. It was also an interesting thing about Intelligence services, where rank didn’t necessarily always demand announcing, or acknowledgment. Other Starfleet departments would have probably tried to establish a chain of command, but Intelligence operatives often understood that in the field, rank was a secondary matter, what was most important was who had the most relevant information to the situation. In this case, Fisher was betting he’d had the better immediate understanding.

“C’mon, we’re situated not too far from here. We can fill you in on the details as we move.” he explained as he began making his way toward the south-end of the courtyard, while in the back of his mind he tried to forget how much he'd truly been looking forward to death just moments earlier.
Title: Re: [2374] Operation 'Spark' - Betazed
Post by: stardust on July 06, 2020, 07:42:44 PM
[ Cmdr. Brody Miller (https://uss-theurgy.com/w/index.php?title=Brody_Miller) | Codename: Mason | Jem'Hadar Outpost Bravo-32 | Dalaria City | Betazed] Attn: @Swift 
[Show/Hide]

Frankly, Brody thought yelling out for 'cover' was a bit excessive, and potentially would’ve been quite disruptive to the whole surprise element of his attack, had he himself shouted the order. The blast radius had been taken well into consideration, as had the shielding effects of a lineup of Jem’Hadar warriors. But even with the chance element of miscalculation, a little shrapnel had never hurt anyone. He had one in his upper thigh for the better time of a year, which had sung a little serenade every time the Rhode Island had gone to warp. Of course, his nonchalance was not shared by many, which was why he’d been put on solitary missions more than not. There was a unique element of brashness to his approach that melded well with his former occupation and even lent a powerful motivator to his XO engagement. But it was in no means anywhere near the books it was supposed to go by.

Nodding casually, betrothing the assumed Betazoid with his own dark eyes, the officer could very easily discern the other man’s sizing glances just within the periphery of his own vision. He was holding them at gunpoint for now so it was only fair they would try to level the playing field in their advantage. There was no shame in that. He still had a drop on them and unless they had superhuman reflexes, they’d both hit the ground before getting their hands on any of the weapons. Yes, he would not give them the possibility to claim ignorance over the actions of the other. Cling together, swing together.

Looking over at whom he presumed to be Bishop, Brody furrowed a brow as the man started to speak. Dark brown eyes ultimately rolling to the low ridge of his brows, as his head dipped back into a half circle motion, broad shoulders dropping. “Do we really have to do this dance?!” he grunted reluctantly, sucking in a deep breath at the omnipotent revelation that the answer would be a resounding yes. Truth be told, he’d rather have slit his palm to show them his blood was still blood once it dripped to the floor and blended into the puddles of rain. But somehow, he believed it wouldn’t suffice, because it did not adhere to what the bearded man had been taught. Which now made him wonder how involved Anderson had been in grooming him and how much the different approaches between the two of them had varied. Or if it had merely been the recipients that had adopted the teachings differently.

„… and considering the result of their conduct, imitate their ..." he replied slightly disgruntled, taking in another deep and audible breath, looking around for a way to distort the rest of the quotation in a similarly deliberate fashion. Eyes crossing over the Jem’Hadar bodies, some heaping over one another, he looked back at Bishop with unwavering determination and seriousness. “… fall.” Raising his brows for assurance, ascertaining whether this would’ve satisfied the man, he gratified Bishop’s acceptance with a reassured and definitive nod. Admittedly, the commander had served intelligence in a different time, when they weren’t at war with shapeshifting impostors, who seemed to know more than they should’ve. So, he had been adept at taking people at face value and deducting their veracity from gut feelings, comprised of experiences and an innate perceptiveness. He, however, meant no ill-will or judgment on Bishop by scrutinising his conduct. He had a good deal of respect for him, if only for the sheer fact that he had still been alive when he'd found him - no matter how barely.

Ushering the Vorta over to the Betazoid, Brody lowered his rifle and let it hang loosely from his gloved grip, the tip a few inches off the ground still. The neat little rehearsed phrase didn’t do much in dissuading him of the potential that the bearded operative could've been a shapeshifter himself. But the way he conducted himself so formally, transmitting the chapters of his training paragraph by paragraph as he moved, there was no way for a shapeshifter to imitate that. No, this was the man Anderson had sent him to find. Irking a brow at the question, however, he wasn’t sure if it had been sarcastic, at first. But the missing switch in the man’s expression to a lighter tone, suggested he’d been serious.

Narrowing his eyes slightly at the revelation, shifting his pate slightly as he stared at Bishop, Brody swallowed some thick lump of spit … and indicator that he hadn’t hydrated in a while. Plus, the five Klingon coffees probably hadn’t helped. “You’re saying I caught you under the impression that everything was still going well?” Spreading his arms out to indicate the slew of Jem’Hadar body parts and scorched earth around them, Brody shook his head lightly. “Your communications seized two weeks ago. So, obviously, you had some people worried.” Feeling a little bit misplaced, unwarranted even, the commander had to admit he could feel his patience wearing thin and his reluctance bubbling up to even take this mission in the first place. He may not have been visibly the highest-ranking officer around, but he still held the same innate sense of entitlement. No matter how undeserved, given that he was on someone-else's professional turf. He hadn’t just flown lightyears from his wife to listen to a recent almost executee that everything had felt 'alright'.

Shaking his head once more, as Bishop invited him to tag along, Brody hadn’t moved a single inch, since letting go of the Vorta. “I did not come for a cup of hot tea, Bishop, my orders are to find and extract you.” Shifting his attention to the Betazoid without waiting for a reply he nodded at the man. “Didn’t catch your name, by the way.” He stated, nodding appreciatively as he got let in on that last mystery, demanding to be solved. Raising a hand for a greeting wave only slightly above his waist. “Ebirone, I like you, you’re not as tightly wound as this one.” A slight, knowing side-nod to Bishop, Brody took one step back, half turning towards the building he had come from. “He can take the Vorta back to the camp, I’m sure he’ll be cooperative. Now, come on, I’ve established a short-range subspace tether through the jammers to my shuttle, so we can beam up as long as the moon is in visual range.” Pointing at Betazed’s third moon, a mere finger above the horizon of the cityscape, the officer waited for Bishop to catch up, expectantly.

OUTFIT (https://i.pinimg.com/originals/14/6b/b9/146bb9623d21b5d5d5249556623bdccb.jpg)
Title: Re: [2374] Operation 'Spark' - Betazed
Post by: Swift on July 06, 2020, 11:33:54 PM
[ Lt. Andrew Fisher (http://uss-theurgy.com/w/index.php?title=Andrew_Fisher) | Codename: Bishop | Jem’Hadar Outpost Bravo-32 | Dalaria City (https://uss-theurgy.com/w/images/thumb/1/11/DalariaCity2374n.png/1200px-DalariaCity2374n.png) | Betazed (https://memory-alpha.fandom.com/wiki/Betazed) ] Attn: @stardust

The truth was, Fisher had himself also grown weary of the pass phrases and coded terminologies that he’d been forced to implement. Especially so, during the Dominion War, as ensuring trust in others had grown increasingly difficult thanks to changeling infiltrators. But there simply wasn’t any other mostly fool-proof way of verifying who someone was. Even the blood tests that had once proven to be effective, were now misleading at best, as the changelings had started to contain packets of blood within themselves. Blood they’d syphoned from the bodies of victims, whose identities they’d then assumed. Unfortunately for Fisher, and a lot of other Intelligence operatives, learning of that little changeling trick had come at a great cost. Though in retrospect, it should’ve been far more predictable in terms of a counter-measure. Arrogance had blinded Starfleet into thinking they’d gained an upper-hand over their adversary, but in reality, they’d only slightly inconvenienced them.

Plus, simpler methods of detection were often times far more difficult to fake your way through.

But as Brody stalled out of annoyance for even the briefest of moments, Fisher felt his nerves tense up in preparation of making a move against him. Likely he, or Ebirone would die in an exchange of fire, but he knew if it came to it, they’d take this newcomer with them in the process, and if he were indeed a changeling spy, then it almost made it worthwhile. Instead however, the man gave in, and answered in requisite manner, demonstrating at least in cursory, that he could be trusted by Fisher. That had prompted him enough to ease up and turn his back to the man as a sign of his own trust in order to retrieve one of the Jem’Hadar’s holstered weapons. In the back of Fisher’s mind however, he felt no small amount of annoyance in regard to the momentary hesitation of this person. As far as he was concerned, in an active warzone, it was beyond foolish for spies to play unnecessary games with one another, and he’d just initiated one because of the minor inconvenience of having to verify trust.

In those instances, one of, if not both parties often wound up dead.

As Ebirone went through the somewhat tedious process of double-tapping each of the fallen Jem’Hadar, Fisher had explained how he hadn’t been expecting anyone else from SFI, and that seemed to frustrate this new man immensely. Cocking an eyebrow of his own, Fisher regarded the other Intelligence operative with an air of confusion, as surely, he would’ve understood the reality of the situation. Fisher was cut off from Starfleet. He’d been sent here on a suicide mission in order to rally resistance movements for the day when Starfleet tried to retake the planet. He’d sent his progress reports, but heard nothing back, and could only assume that either the reports were being blocked by said jammers, or that Starfleet had gone quiet, and the war was unfolding in an even worse manner. If it had been the former, rather than the latter, then he just as well as figured that SFI would assume him dead, as it had likely done for those other operatives that had been eliminated or captured.

“Starfleet doesn’t generally make a habit of tracking down missing or overdue agents. Especially when those agents are on an enemy occupied world in the midst of a resistance campaign.” He explained to the other operative, surprised that he’d had to do it at all.

Stepping between him and Brody, Ebirone then one-punched the vorta unconscious, only to heft him up from where he’d slumped, throwing him over his left shoulder. Clearly, the big betazoid wanted nothing to do with the squabble unfolding between these two, as he stepped away with his unconscious prisoner hanging from him. He kept eyes on the raining sky, watching as in the distance, some five or so kilometers away, a flight of three Jem’Hadar attack craft flew in a patrolling pattern along the northern most edge of the city. Likely, they’d circle around over this position in a matter of minutes. Shaking his head as he could empathically sense the frustration in Brody, and the mounting confusion in Fisher, he knew the argument would likely continue to intensify in scope.

“Uhh... fellas?” he tried to interrupt.

“Extract with me?” Fisher said incredulously as he stopped moving toward the south-end of the courtyard, turning back to look the man over. The idea he was being pulled from this assignment lit a match in his mind, and he lost a bit of control. No doubt, the frustrations over having been pulled from Farius Prime in the wake of what happened with him, Hurley, and Nassyra still fresh in his mind. “Hate to break it to you, but I’m not done here yet.” He took a step to close the distance between them and pointed up into the sky at the hovering Jem’Hadar Battlecruiser in the way off distance. It had been there ever since the occupation began, as a sort of overbearing and oppressive threat to the population of Dalaria City. “That fucking thing is still there, which means this planet is still under Dominion control. My mission isn’t over until it, and they are all gone.” He regarded the strewn about Jem’Hadar bodies.

“It’s uhh... Ebirone Elos... but uhh... guys, can we continue this elsewh-” he had been about to plead for the two of them to continue this discussion some place less open, and less easy to be spotted by the trio of patrol ships that began to swoop around in their direction, but Brody cut him off to make a point about Fisher. A point that only further provoked Fisher, who wasn’t having any of it, and Ebirone could see the flash of anger starting to settle in the green-eyes of his resistance comrade. He knew just by the look, without having to empathically sense it, that Fisher was going to make things worse in a surprisingly short amount of time. Sometimes he hated being betazoid, with the ability to understand the emotions of those around him. For both Fisher and Brody seemed to have a somewhat righteous conviction to complete their respective missions. It made it difficult for him to just side with the man he’d been fighting with for the past ten days.

“I don’t give a damn about your orders. I’m alive. I’m still working. That should be good enough for Command!” Fisher snapped back at him with a dismissive wave as Brody attempted to steer him toward a nearby building, explaining that he’d had a shuttle ready to beam them out on command. “You can take your shuttle home safely back across the line. I’m staying here until my job is done.” There was an implicit and wholly unfair accusation that Fisher made in the first part of his comment; that Brody was only interested in running from the fight. It was further example of his misdirected anger and frustrations, but it only emphasized how adamant he was at staying the course on Betazed. That intention made clear, as he resumed moving south out of the courtyard, not in the direction that Brody had wanted.

Ebirone looked back and forth between the two of them, then up at the encroaching attack-ships. He had no real qualms with Brody, and in fact was very thankful to have been saved by him, but Fisher was heading in the direction that led to the Rena’s base of operations. So, with a rather apologetic shrug of his shoulders to Brody, he turned and followed after Fisher.

“Sorry pal. Welcome to Betazed, by the way.”
Title: Re: [2374] Operation 'Spark' - Betazed
Post by: stardust on July 07, 2020, 11:47:33 AM
[ Cmdr. Brody Miller (https://uss-theurgy.com/w/index.php?title=Brody_Miller) | Codename: Mason | Jem'Hadar Outpost Bravo-32 | Dalaria City | Betazed] Attn: @Swift 
[Show/Hide]

Obviously Brody was aware of the common sentiment among Starfleet Intelligence that operatives were expendable and even disposable if falling into the wrong hands. It was the common nature of the business, it seemed. But he had never been one to simply accept a state of things over what it was but rather drew an almost sadistic delight over ignoring or even opposing it. It was probably something Admiral Anderson and he shared, if even only in a fraction. For the simple fact that the man had sought the commander out, of all people, to mount this seemingly more and more pointless ‘rescue’ mission. They had both thought that Bishop could’ve been in trouble and had both put themselves in considerable risk, be it to life or reputation, to come to Betazed and figure out what had gone awry.

So, for the bearded man to turn downright prissy, over Brody not adhering to the standard operative code of conduct with the utmost enthusiasm, after kissing this life of sacrifice and torment goodbye almost 2 years ago, was surprising, to say the least. Even more so since the man seemed to double down on the sentiment, with his recitation of the general modus operandi, when a light went dark on the giant intel switchboard. At this point, he had half a mind to ask the guy straight out, if he had rather wanted to die right then, but he was also more than certain he would not appreciate the answer, so he did not make that query. A tool to personal peace of mind he had learned from his wife.

Letting the numb Vorta fall from his grip into the rough embrace of the burly Betazoid, Brody did not take his dark eyes off Bishop for one second. In due time he was privy to witnessing the best martyr act he had seen in a long time. So good, as a matter off act, he was hard pressed not to clap, as it seemed over. He had no use for such sentiments. A dead operative was one less asset in this war, no matter how significant their sacrifice would have been, it could never alleviate the loss of a lifetime of contribution to the cause. To put it in factual rather than emotional terms. But he too did not comment on it just yet. Obviously, he was still getting the tail end of what else was going on beneath the surface that had nothing to do with the current situation. The commander had slayed enough personal daemons in his time to recognize the struggle. Besides, he was more a man of action than debate and persuasion.

The flat out insubordination, however, made the hairs on the back of Brody’s neck stand alert. And he only ignored the urge to shoot Bishop just then and there because his back was turned toward him. He understood that the battlefield ran on different rules, no matter how much the mawkish notions of Starfleet and the Federation wanted everyone to believe otherwise. There had to be room for alternate approaches and quick decisions that did not always conform with the grander orders. But this wasn’t about that, this was about some kind of personal vendetta. And if he hadn’t even the smallest sense of respect – or even sympathy – for the man, he would’ve left him on the ground with a smoking hole in his back.

Eyes temporarily switching towards Ebirone as he tried one last time to defuse the tension and gave him an apologetic shrug, Brody validated it with a small nod. But he wasn’t done yet. Watching the Jem’Hadar fighters close in against the backdrop of a moon touching a skyscraper on the horizon he understood that he was running out of time. On more than one front. Pulling out a silver and red colored, little cylindrical device from his cargo pants, the commander pulled his arm back and skillfully threw the little ‘dart’ against Bishop’s back where it attached itself to the fabric of his clothes.

“Stop!” he yelled out, loud enough to convey a sense of urgency but with the emotional vigor of someone who was tired of this bullshit. Waiting just a second for the duo the pause in their tracks the man ultimately elaborated. “It’s an isolinear tag … so I could beam you up any time. Don’t be a fool trying to take it off. You’ll be on the shuttle before you can even reach it.” Brody explained calmly, waiting for the revelation to buy him a moment of the man’s attention. He couldn’t quite belief himself, that he was ready to make this concession, as was evident in the long sigh that followed. “Tell me you have a plan … a good one, that doesn't result in everyone dying … and make it quick.” He inquired, pointing his rifle casually at the nearing fighter crafts. He was ready to stay and see this through if he knew Bishop wasn’t just winging it. He had no intention to become an accessory to an ill-planned suicide run.

But, if he didn’t like what he’d hear, he was also prepared to use the last moments of his transport window to beam the man up against his will, stunning him if necessary. He hoped it wouldn’t come to that, for both their sakes. And the sake of this planet’s fate. Potentially the quadrant as a whole.

OUTFIT (https://i.pinimg.com/originals/14/6b/b9/146bb9623d21b5d5d5249556623bdccb.jpg)
Title: Re: [2374] Operation 'Spark' - Betazed
Post by: Swift on July 09, 2020, 06:40:43 AM
[ Lt. Andrew Fisher (http://uss-theurgy.com/w/index.php?title=Andrew_Fisher) | Codename: Bishop | Jem’Hadar Outpost Bravo-32 | Dalaria City (https://uss-theurgy.com/w/images/thumb/1/11/DalariaCity2374n.png/1200px-DalariaCity2374n.png) | Betazed (https://memory-alpha.fandom.com/wiki/Betazed) ] Attn: @stardust

While Ebirone might have been wary of the encroaching Jem’Hadar attack ships, Fisher seemed less motivated by them, than he was out of sheer defiance of the orders this unknown operative had just relayed to him. His progress reports had stopped ten days earlier, and in that time the brass at Starfleet Intelligence had apparently decided it prudent to pull him from the operation. It annoyed him immensely. The very fact that he’d managed to make it planet side alive, was in itself a miracle, as he’d heard rumors of at least a half-dozen of his fellows having been captured, and or killed within hours of their landing. He, and they all had volunteered to come to Betazed after it had fallen to the Dominion, with the understanding that most wouldn’t survive. The only reason he hadn’t joined them in death, was that he’d first been found by a rag-tag group of locals, already calling themselves a movement.

Fisher wondered; was his recall in response to how poorly the first few attempts to retake the planet had gone, or was there some other motivation at play?

Regardless, he had no intention of relenting before the completion this operation. After what happened on Farius Prime, he would either see this one all the way through or die trying. If anyone had known just how okay he was with either prospect, they likely would’ve ordered an immediate and mandatory evaluation of his mental stability.

As Fisher approached a large hole that had been blasted into the side of the retaining wall that ran along the southern-edge of the courtyard, he felt a strong gust of wind blowing in through it, kicking up heavy droplets of rain that stung his face. It was something of a tempering sensation, as he stopped moving and sunk his head low. He realized in the moment how unfairly he’d treated a man who had saved his life minutes earlier. Brody was just like Fisher, an operative sent on a mission, determined to complete said mission. Likely, he’d experienced his own failures during the war; his own losses too and had simply wanted to do what he thought was the right thing. In this case, it meant bringing out Fisher alive. But that sobering empathy he felt didn’t override his determination to succeed here on Betazed.

A slight grin began to cross his face as he heard his big betazoid companion offer a slightly sarcastic greeting, that was no doubt meant to alleviate the tension of the situation, but also in keeping with his sometimes-quirky sense of humor.

That grin vanished a split-second later.

“Are you fucking kidding me!?” he glanced back over his left shoulder, past Ebirone who had gone wide-eyed in surprise; a look which soon morphed into an apparent face of cautious pleading. Fisher had felt the ‘pluck’ of the dart strike him clean between his shoulder blades, attaching itself to the black fabric of his rain-soaked and torn jacket. It’d been years since he’d heard last the almost imperceptible yet unmistakable little chirp of an isolinear tag striking a target, and transfixing coordinates back to a transceiver of some kind, usually a tricorder or long-range sensor. In this case, his shuttlecraft’s sensor suite. Intelligence officers liked to use them as a means of abducting suspects from afar, and Fisher himself had used them plenty of times for that very purpose. Now, he had one planted firmly against his back, and was threatened with immediate beam-out if he tried to remove it.

“Easy partner! Take it easy.” Ebirone cautioned, as he’d seen his friend lose his temper on several occasions and as result was more than a little frightened by how methodically deadly he could be, when in the right frame of mind. Or wrong frame of mind, for that matter. Empathically he could feel the same sense of indignant rage building in his bearded companion, that he’d felt during prior violent episodes and feared what might come next.

With a deep breath, Fisher clenched the grip of his rifle even tighter, but he stifled the mounting urge to shoot the other man in his face, however pleasing the thought had seemed in the moment. Soon however, that thought faded into distant memory as he recognized the questioning tone in Brody’s voice; he was seeking a good reason to let Fisher indeed stay. Again, it bothered Fisher how much he had unfairly misjudged this new man. He wasn’t about to follow orders, simply for the sake of following orders. That was a commonality between them, and it immediately went a long way to turning Fisher away from making another mistake with regards to him. Easing off of the grip on his rifle, he deliberately, and very slowly adjusted so as to look back at Brody. He could see the Jem’Hadar fighters closing and knew he had little time to make a convincing argument.

“The isolinear banks we destroyed tonight.” Fisher was forced to yell in order to be heard as the rain again began to pick up, turning into an even heavier constant downpour. “The control banks for six industrial replicators located in the manufacturing district. The attack was a diversionary tactic, so that the other part of our group could break into another outpost and recover the locations of their signal jammers. With their locations in hand, we plan to implant a carrier recipient of our own, which would allow us to communicate with outside and also planet side sources.” Lowering his rifle, so as to reassure Brody of his cooperation, at least for now, Fisher watched as Ebirone turned back, the Vorta still slung over his shoulder in an unconscious state. “Our signal would piggy-back off of theirs. They’d think we’re still unable to communicate, when in reality, they’re literally delivering our messages for us.”

“Signal jammers become signal boosters. All without the Dominion ever realizing it.” Ebirone outlined, grinning in an obvious sign of pride in the plan.
Title: Re: [2374] Operation 'Spark' - Betazed
Post by: stardust on July 09, 2020, 09:58:22 PM
[ Cmdr. Brody Miller (https://uss-theurgy.com/w/index.php?title=Brody_Miller) | Codename: Mason | Jem'Hadar Outpost Bravo-32 | Dalaria City | Betazed] Attn: @Swift 
[Show/Hide]

Throughout his entire life, Brody had always been aware where every piece of the puzzle was, that pertained to the current situation. He had learned early on, as a child even, that the key to mastering a situation was to keep every eventuality in mind. And doing so, he found, had always given him a clarity of mind, unrivalled by much. For every eventuality you needed a plan, and a backup plan, and then a backup for that. Even before he was drafted into intelligence, he had been a master at gauging his surroundings to his advantage. It was, however, a skill that didn’t work well when he had to consider other players on his own side. Which hadn’t been a problem as a teen, fending for his own foot in the door to adulthood. But as a Starfleet officer, many times, he had been tasked to work together as a team. And while it had never been his strong suit, he had endured it, excelled at it even, to get to a level where that wasn’t really necessary anymore.

Now he was the first officer of one of the finest, newest Starships in the fleet, married to the hottest officer in all of the Federation. He didn’t have to play nice with the other kids in the sandbox anymore. Certainly not after traveling 50 lightyears to rescue this little spoilsport. But surely, a certain level of immaturity, still persistent at his young age of twenty-seven, the man was also not entirely prepared for the responsibilities, his posting entailed too. But he was astutely aware of the consequences a show of weakness could wield. So, he wasn’t backing down as Bishop spun around, fist gripped tightly to his weapon. He didn’t waver a single inch, even as Ebirone tried to intervene. What was he going to do?! Wrap insubordination and murder in one neat little package? A man couldn’t be lost in rage that entirely.

But as he remained, steady as a rock, his perseverance and calm demeanor ultimately prevailed. Okay, the Betazoid’s intervention also seemed to have gone a short way in defusing the tension, a little. He could see Bishop recollecting himself and wondered if there would be a pattern here. He certainly had no intention to follow a walking powder keg around. Often times ignoring his own temper, the officer was sometimes all too quick to find his own flaws in someone else much more easily than within himself. At this point, honestly, he could not tell, if he had gone through what Bishop had gone through, whatever traumatic experience that seemed to have been, that he would not be in the same dark place. Current surroundings included.

Letting the ‘plan’ wash over him, Brody refrained from digging into the small holes and prying them open with the crowbar of his inquisitive brashness. Narrowing his dark eyes slightly, he shifted his gaze to Ebirone as he … tried to give him the reader’s digest version? Nodding slowly, the man looked back at Bishop, letting one last contemplative breath heave his broad shoulders, followed by a conceding sigh. Tilting his head to the side slightly, watching the horizon through the rainy haze, water drops dangling from his brows, he could see the last shred of luminous white, vanishing behind the cityscape. That was their escape, for a while. Even if he still had lasting doubt at this point, it was entirely pointless.

“Looks like you bought yourself 32 hours.” for that was the rotational period of Betazed’s third moon. Probably a little less, since they didn’t need for it to complete a full orbit before coming back into view. Pulling the shoulder strap from his rifle he slipped it diagonally across his torso, before looking at the men again. They should probably get to cover. “I have some supplies left in that building. I’ll catch up with you around the side of the courtyard.” He explained, waiting for nothing more but a simple nod of compliance. Mirroring the sentiment, the tall man turned on his heel in a swift motion that seemed entirely uncharacteristic, now that he had been standing in the same place like a pillar, for what seemed like the entirety of their encounter. Jogging to the opposite side of the courtyard, with the ramshackle command post, he ran up one of the columns with two quick steps before jumping to the ledge. Pulling himself up shortly after.

Slipping into the building once more, finding familiar ground again, Brody clipped his backpack shut once more. Slipping the rifle off, laying it flat on the floor, he replaced it with the bag on his back, before picking I up again. Moving to the opposite end of the floor, away from the courtyard, he too found the broken ladder again. Giving the alley below a quick inspection from cover, he quickly swung onto the rungs and slid down the handholds. Ultimately landing in a freshly formed puddle he coked the rifle to his side before quickly moving down to the next corner. Clearing the area beyond, sprinting down the long wall to the diagonal exit the other men had taken, he quickly rounded also that corner to meet them. Ebirone seemed startled.

“Seriously?” he gave the man an expression caught between hidden amusement and truthful perplexity. Something probably hard to discern for someone that didn’t know him well. “Alright, lead the way, ranger.” As the small squad started to sneak down the next alley, they ducked under an overpass that muffled the torrential rain sound a little. "So, how long have you been having this plan?" Brody asked, in a slow minute. More precisely wanting to ask why the hell they hadn't been able to see it through yet, thus sparing him this entire ordeal.
Title: Re: [2374] Operation 'Spark' - Betazed
Post by: Swift on July 10, 2020, 09:02:28 AM
[ Lt. Andrew Fisher (http://uss-theurgy.com/w/index.php?title=Andrew_Fisher) | Codename: Bishop | Bayside District | Dalaria City (https://uss-theurgy.com/w/images/thumb/1/11/DalariaCity2374n.png/1200px-DalariaCity2374n.png) | Betazed (https://memory-alpha.fandom.com/wiki/Betazed) ] Attn: @stardust

There was a mounting reluctance in Fisher’s mind as he watched the unknown man consider the plan he’d just relayed to him. Although there was a still lingering remnant of the momentary intense rage he’d felt just seconds ago, Fisher had no real desire to fight one of his own. After all, that’s what this man was. He wasn’t just some Jem’Hadar sent to kill him. He was an SFI operative, just like Fisher; and he had risked his life to come here in the midst of an occupation to try and rescue him. He also recognized the likelihood that he’d been through the same training as Fisher, and as such wouldn’t back down in the event of a fight. That if pushed to it, they’d default to their respective instinctual skills and abilities, and be forced into trying to kill one another. Fisher didn’t want that and knew this man didn’t deserve it either. So, when an accord seemed to have been made, Fisher felt himself ease up tremendously. He’d managed to convince him, if even temporarily, that he wasn’t entirely reckless, and that there was a noble motivation to his deeds. If only he could convince himself of that same thing, he thought.

“Thank you.” Fisher offered as a simple conciliatory acknowledgement of the sacrifice made.

An additional nod followed as the man ran off to retrieve his supplies, Fisher turning back to the hole in the wall as it continued to spray up and into his face, and even against his narrowed green eyes. But he fought the urge to shield himself. There were likely other patrols within the vicinity, that would be moving back to the outpost now that it’d gone silent, thanks to a rather timely grenade.

“Hang on.” Ebirone stepped up behind Fisher, and with a swat of his hand, smacked the isolinear tag from his back.

Once through the hole, Fisher kept his disruptor rifle trained up the length of the street that led away from the courtyard. Behind him he heard the big betazoid grumble and grunt as he squeezed through, the Vorta still slung over his shoulder like a heavy sack of potatoes. With rapt attention Fisher moved down from the wall along a sidewalk that ran parallel with the street, approaching a series of massive jagged piles of debris. When the Dominion had invaded, they’d first bombarded the planet from orbit, and had severely scarred the skyline as a result. Great chunks of the buildings had been blasted free, falling down to the streets below, winding up as massive twisted piles of steel and concrete. They acted as boulders in a way, providing cover to anyone who knelt down beside or behind them. Though, some bore a gruesome surprise upon closer inspection, as the mutilated and rotting bodies of betazoids that had been crushed by the debris had yet to be reclaimed or removed.

Thankfully, the one Fisher knelt next to was devoid of any overt displays of gratuitous gore.

“That went better than I thought it would.” Ebirone commented as he dropped to a knee next to Fisher, taking a moment to gauge their surroundings, and catch his breath at the same time. In the time he’d gotten to know his high-strung companion, he’d empathically felt the surging overflow of rage within him. A rage that was fueled by deep loss, and guilt over something. On numerous occasions, he’d considered asking the man about it, but the right opportunity hadn’t presented itself just yet. Not to mention, Ebirone himself wasn’t exactly your typical example of a betazoid in harmony with their innate ability to understand and counsel others on their emotions. Sure, he could sense those emotions in others, and in Fisher’s case anyone with a functioning pair of eyes could make out the heaviness of the burden weighing down his heart; but he never knew the right things to say, and that would’ve been doubly as so with regard to him.

“Yeah. I guess so.” Fisher plainly admitted.

An instant later the streets became aglow with pinkish-purple light as the Jem’Hadar craft flew overhead at relative speed, spitting out an absolutely thunderous roar as they were powered on by atmospheric thrusters. It was utterly and completely deafening, drowning out even the loudest of noises made by the rain, wind, or lightning in the skies above. The commotion didn’t last long however, as the trio of ships moved off, patrolling further south along the shoreline of the bay. With haste, Fisher recognized the opportunity to advance a little more aggressively under the cover of the immense clamor. Taking cover by another large chunk of debris about the size of an average home, he peered about their surroundings for any signs of movement, other than that which was being caused by the gusting winds of the storm.

Prompted onward by a nod, Ebirone soon followed suit, moving along the opposite side of the street until he came at rest at the corner. Had he been able to hear, he would’ve recognized the sound of footsteps approaching, but instead he peeked around the corner just as Brody rounded it, and nearly raised his weapon to open fire due to the surprise. The big betazoid shook his head in apologetic fashion as he realized how closely he’d come to shooting an ally, and all he could hear in the back of his head was the screaming voice of his old Marine drill instructor at basic. ‘Always be mindful of friendlies, you jackasses!’ With a deep exhale in self-admonishment, Ebirone nodded to Brody. “Sorry, pal.”

Another minute later, and Fisher began moving up the street again, approaching the underpass of a skywalk that connected two buildings. Even being sheltered of the rain for even the briefest of moments was something to be thankful for, though Fisher used the opportunity to gauge the wound at the back of his head. It throbbed mightily so, but the bleeding had evidently subsided as he examined his hand for any traces of crimson. From over his shoulder he heard their new companion speak up again, raising a question in regard to the plan he’d been regaled with, and it moderately annoyed Fisher. Not the question itself, mind you, but rather the overt tone it conveyed. “We’ve been at it a few days now. Four maybe.” He admitted, moving cautiously over to examine a nearby adjacent alleyway.

“But hey... I guess there’s no good excuse for not having completed it thus far. I mean, we’re only in the middle of an active warzone, occupied, surrounded and hunted by thousands of soldiers, that’re literally bred only to kill; who I might add, have a serious penchant for attacking at any and all hours of the day, all while a kilometer long battlecruiser hovers menacingly overhead.” Fisher stopped a moment, looking sarcastically back at the man. “But yeah, I get your point.” He shook his head. Of course, he and the others had wanted to carry out their plan to hi-jack the signal jammers, the very instant they’d figured out the finer logistics of it. But plans under such conditions rarely went off without a hitch, or delays. Fisher reasoned that his newest companion likely understood all of that already but had simply used the opportunity to fulfill his need to bitch about the situation.

Taking a step back into the rain, Fisher resumed moving again, followed closely by Ebirone a second or so after. The big betazoid dropping to a knee next to a pile of debris, waiting for Brody to catch him up another second or so later. “Y’know... I used to eat lunch every day, right over there.” He pointed with his rifle out to a nearby café at the base of one of the grandiose buildings. “Pretty good noodles.” He added. “Damn shame.”

“Hey!” Fisher hissed out a caution to both of them for silence, as he looked back from the cover he’d settled behind, an index finger going to his lips to further emphasize the importance of quiet. As they regrouped, Fisher motioned down the street to a group of Jem’Hadar that were some two-hundred meters distance, making their way down the street toward them. They hadn’t yet been spotted. “No way around them.” Fisher quietly stated as a matter of fact, looking back up the street they’d come down. It would’ve added another three-kilometers distance to cover if they doubled back. “Can’t afford the time to double-back either. We’ll have to go through them.” He reasoned, taking a tactical appraisal of their surroundings. To the left he could see a high embankment that ran along the side of the street. It was high enough, and wide enough that one of them could traverse it, lay in ambush, and stay relatively obscured from detection.

At the same time, there was a second large pile of debris directly adjacent to the one they were behind now. If all three men could control all three positions, and let the patrol move deep enough toward them, they’d have the Jem’Hadar in a triangulated turkey-shoot.

“Eb... you’re staying put here. Drop that piece of shit for a moment.” He instructed, and carefully the betazoid lowered the unconscious vorta to the ground, so as to avoid stirring him from his state. Fisher looked to the other man and cocked his head for a moment.

“What do you want... left, or right?”
Title: Re: [2374] Operation 'Spark' - Betazed
Post by: stardust on July 10, 2020, 04:26:59 PM
[ Cmdr. Brody Miller (https://uss-theurgy.com/w/index.php?title=Brody_Miller) | Codename: Mason | Jem'Hadar Outpost Bravo-32 | Dalaria City | Betazed] Attn: @Swift 
[Show/Hide]

Brody had never been to Betazed before, something he felt regretful about now, watching it in such a dilapidated, violated state. The irony did not elude him one second, that Samantha and he had planned their honeymoon here. She had sought out this really cute, traditional hotel by the beach, not far from here, in the old part of town. It hadn’t really mattered to him, having been used to sleeping under makeshift tents, or alien accommodations of all kinds and comfort levels. But he had enjoyed her delight and some of that had rubbed off on him for certain. Now, he was glad she didn’t have to see this. None of it looked cute or placid. Much more gruesome and dark, truth be told. It would be a long time for the planet to recover, if ever. Her place was on a beautiful starship, up in the skies. Now more than ever, if he had anything to say about it.

As the group stopped under the skybridge, shielded from the rain for a moment, the commander noticed the red hue in the wet dark of Bishop’s head for the first time. It had just looked like water in the streaming rain until now. Frowning slightly, as long as he remained out of perceptive range of the man’s vision, he tried to ascertain the damage without seeming too concerned. He could obviously walk, wasn’t dizzy or showing any signs of extensive blood loss. So, a concussion was unlikely. And as he had posed his seemingly innocent question he was also greeted with the full force of the man’s astute sense of snippy comebacks. He was fine.

Giving him a curt nod, Brody contemplated the information. He didn’t yet manage to put together the ten days of radio silence and the mere four days of effort, that had gone into circumventing it. But he was also not going to make an effort to interrogate a fellow intelligence officer – former fellow, he supposed – to prolong the ultimate execution of the mission and their stay in the streets. The sooner they would get to the rebel compound the sooner Bishop would relax, hopefully. For the officer himself, he wasn’t so sure. That would entirely depend on whether he’d judge the other rebels to be trustworthy or not. There had been cases of collaborators throughout the entirety of this ongoing war, among all species. Betazoids would surely not be exempt.

So, it felt only natural, to give Ebirone a firm once over too, as he started to talk about the noodle place. It made his intentions a lot more real, though, as his words lined with the subtlety of painful memory. Least there was an angle Brody could readily understand. He was distraught by the fate of his home world, his people, intent on ridding them from the occupation. And while something similar could’ve been true for the bearded man at his side, there was something much deeper at play there. He hadn’t gotten the same idea of reckless sacrifice from the Betazoid, that he’d gotten from the human. Being drawn from the moment of tactical contemplation, the commander instinctively crouched lower at the tone of urgency, much more than the meaning of the word.

Following Bishop’s motions, dark brown eyes fixed on the squad of armadillos, loitering in the street ahead. Obviously just another small scout detachment. Gaze snapping back to the other officer with silent interjection, Brody shook his pate quietly at the – in his mind – hasty judgment. He wasn’t sure if it was a martyr thing or if he truly thought that conflict was always the best way. But he didn’t say anything because he did not have a lay of the land, not as these two had. When they said there was no way around then he’d have to take that at face value. A little trust, right? A little trust that was, however, weighed down by the leading man’s previous display of emotional instability. But if Ebirone was fine with this, then that was two for two and he’d concede, for now.

“I’ll take the high road.” Brody acknowledged, an unintentional pun ringing from his reply, that had not been intended. Slipping the backpack from his body, he settled it at the Vorta’s side, it would be better preserved here and not impair his agility up on the embankment. Flipping the lid up he pulled the additional drawstring open, revealing a small selection of stun and frag grenades, as well as the rest of his communications and supply equipment. “Go crazy.” He patted the Betazoid on the shoulder with a courteous nod and appreciative smile, before quietly crouch-running out of the rubble to the left side of the street. Quickly strapping the rifle back onto his back, the man skillfully climbed up a few pieces of a broken building to crouch down on the embankment, making his way low to the middle of it where the Jem’Hadar would ultimately walk into their ambush. Dropping down onto the dusty ground, pulling the black phaser rifle to his front, the former operative adjusted the scope to mark all individuals. They couldn’t let a single one escape.

Raising his hand for Bishop to see, out of eyesight of the scouts, he signaled readiness.
Title: Re: [2374] Operation 'Spark' - Betazed
Post by: Swift on July 11, 2020, 09:02:16 AM
[ Lt. Andrew Fisher (http://uss-theurgy.com/w/index.php?title=Andrew_Fisher) | Codename: Bishop | Bayside District | Dalaria City (https://uss-theurgy.com/w/images/thumb/1/11/DalariaCity2374n.png/1200px-DalariaCity2374n.png) | Betazed (https://memory-alpha.fandom.com/wiki/Betazed) ] Attn: @stardust

Just up the street, the Jem’Hadar patrol was encroaching ever closer to the duo of resistance fighters and their most recent friend. It was clear that the patrol was making its own way toward the same outpost that the trio had just come from a few minutes earlier. It was also exceedingly likely there were other patrols, spread throughout the immediate area of the Bayside District, each making their way back in order to check in. The reality was, the streets were a treacherous prospect to navigate safely, though it was the only option available to the resistance, as the Jem’Hadar had rather successfully mined entrances to the sewer system, in addition to locking down any and all entry points into the surrounding buildings. There were only a few relatively safe points for the resistance fighters to make use of, and the closest one to them was still another half-kilometer distance to go. Fortunately, detecting patrols like the one ahead of them had been made substantially easier by the intensity of the storm raging over head, as it prevented the Jem’Hadar from making use of their shrouds.

At least, that had been the case for Dalaria City, where they were in the midst of the rainy season. Fisher imagined other parts of Betazed were likely struggling with respect to those damnable personal cloaks.

“Copy.” Fisher acknowledged the man without further elaboration as he chose the embankment. He’d assumed the brash younger man would jump at the opportunity to put himself in the moderately difficult to get to position, and honestly Fisher appreciated that willingness. The relatively high vantage of the embankment left whoever chose it in the most exposed position, and also likely offered the most difficult shooting window in terms of laying down effective fire on the Jem’Hadar patrol. As that window was essentially split in two by a massive pile of debris in the middle of the street, giving the Jem’Hadar a modest amount of cover to their backs if they were smart enough, or fast enough to get into it. Either the man would have to make a series of incredible shots at almost the perfect moment, or he’d be forced into laying down a blanket of suppressive fire until Fisher or Ebirone could move in and finish them off. His selection of the position also meant Fisher could take the best shooting point available, as he could at least vouch for the steadiness of his own aim with a disruptor rifle.

“Oooh... you spoil me.” Ebirone amusingly remarked as Brody made the offering of explosives, the big betazoid opting for a fragmentation grenade after his high-strung comrade had taken one of the stun variety. It’d been at least a few years since Ebirone had been given access to ordinance of this caliber, and it brought back the same pleasant tingling sensations to the base of his neck as it always had before. Anticipation mounted, and he made ready to throw the deadly frag.

“Wait for my signal.” Fisher reminded the big betazoid as he patted his back scurrying by him, headed to take up position at the pile of debris laying at the far side of the street. Keeping his head low, Fisher slid up against an exposed steel buttress, and peaked out to see just how far the Jem’Hadar had managed to come. With a little surprise that they managed to close almost three-quarters of the distance between them in such a short time, Fisher primed the stun-grenade in his hands, ready to announce their ambush. Whatever skill the Jem’Hadar had demonstrated in the ability to move and clear the path down the street with such speed meant little in the moment, as they were all lined up perfectly within the trio’s kill-zone. It’d been of paramount importance to let the quintet in as deeply as possible before springing the trap, so that they had the best opportunity at eliminating them in short order. When he could confirm that the other man was in position with the raising of a hand, Fisher tossed the stun, and made ready his disruptor rifle to open fire.

Jem’Hadar had been bred to serve and die at the will of the Founders, and in a few hasty seconds, they’d live up to that purpose.

Almost in sync with a poetic flash of lightning overhead that illuminated the faces of the scaly warriors, Fisher heard an instantaneous high-pitched whine signify the detonation of the stun-grenade, and the combination of an ear-shattering bang and even brighter flash temporarily blinded and deafened the members of the patrol. Leaning out of his cover, Fisher started firing rapidly into the group of startled and disoriented Jem’Hadar; a series of the white-hot disruptor pulses flash-boiling rain drops into steam on their way to splashing against the abdomen of one of the Jem’Hadar, sending it in a tumble down to the soaked pavement. Fisher’s aim then shifted, and he fired at the next in line of the five.

Sprung into action by the burst of the stun-grenade, Ebirone threw his fragmentation offering into the fray before he started firing in rapid succession at the foremost Jem’Hadar. The grenade exploded an instant later, showering his target with deadly shrapnel that ripped and clawed away flesh, tearing fatal gashes into its abdomen that were soon accompanied by a series of disruptor bolts from his, and Fisher’s trained rifles.

In one fell swoop, Fisher and Ebirone had claimed three of five Jem’Hadar.
Title: Re: [2374] Operation 'Spark' - Betazed
Post by: stardust on July 12, 2020, 10:59:42 PM
[ Cmdr. Brody Miller (https://uss-theurgy.com/w/index.php?title=Brody_Miller) | Codename: Mason | Jem'Hadar Outpost Bravo-32 | Dalaria City | Betazed] Attn: @Swift
[Show/Hide]

Sure, Brody enjoyed the thrill, the adventure, the indulging of his ego with seemingly unmanageable tasks. Testing his luck and the skills of his guardian angel to the limits. Did that make him reckless? Maybe, a little bit, but even through his young years, he felt like he could skillfully gauge the potential of a situation to go south. That being said, he was hardly ever seen going the safe route, choosing the easiest, most obvious path. But he also had to admit, that he was lighting a fire in himself, that he hadn’t felt for a long time. Because in all honesty, that man which he’d just described to himself, had been a far cry, from a distant memory. Well, had been, until very recently.

The minute he had found himself alone in that shuttle, the former operative had felt like an amphibious life-form, dropped back into water. Like this was the element he’d been born into, but had subsequently grown out of. It was something he hadn’t know, or hadn’t admitted to himself, that he’d missed. Not until ending up in the thick of it. Seeing the Jem’Hadar in the street, devising a plan to lure them into an ambush, so they could fulfill their grander scheme. It was just like the good old times. Or a romanticized notion of what it had been. Granted, the Commander knew what his life was now, and he loved every minute of it, but this was a peak into a past that wasn’t all bad. A melancholic dabble into the memory of a life that had turned him to the man he was now.

Hearing Bishop, instructing Ebirone to wait for his signal, as Brody himself was just moving out of earshot, the officer cringed with a small chuckle to himself. If he had been on the receiving end of that order, then the bearded man would’ve ended up on the receiving end of his fist. Which was the notion that amused him, not the interaction between the two boyfriends. 

Taking up his position and marking his targets, sending a ready to the rest of the team, the man had spent a lot of time lying in waiting. This was nothing. He had once spent three nights on a rooftop, peeing into a bottle, waiting for a target to leave their safe compound. They had said it couldn’t be breached. So, he had cut off power and water and had just lain there in waiting, until the snake popped out its head … and off it was. Didn’t matter if they knew someone was waiting, eventually they had no choice. He had loved the poetry of the inevitable. Just like these poor armadillo fuckers.

Listening to the characteristic whistle through the air and subsequently watching the familiar outline of a stun grenade, from his backpack, sliding across the ground, as it landed, Brody turned his head away momentarily, clenching his dark eyes shut, at the flash and the immediately following bang. Looking back up he saw a few remaining sparks, raining down around the disoriented Jem’Hadar. Then another grenade, less bright, mostly throwing up a good bit of dust and silvery shrapnel. Which was then instantly diluted by white beams of light.

Focusing through his enhanced scope again, he could easily make out the shapes of the enemy through the obstructive smoke screen, as some of them fell to the ground like puppets. One of the remaining two attempted to take cover behind a beam of concrete, but only against the fire from his front and left. One precise gust of orange light and he fell into the shadow of the rock. The last one, attempting to retreat to a better position, was quickly culled in mid run, falling, and sliding into a puff of dust.

Skimming the street for stragglers, letting the auto-detection matrix of the scope rule out any abnormal readings, Brody ultimately shut the device off, jumping back to his feet. Sliding the rifle onto his back again, he placed both hands to his hip, pleasantly observing the dust settling on the dead bodies beneath. This had gone as smooth as imaginable. Waiting for the other two guys to come out of their respective covers, the commander jumped down to street level with ease. Or at the very least, made it seem easy.

Meeting the two men in the middle of the road, where the stench of burnt meat was the thickest, he shook his head lightly, dryly, at them. “TWO grenades guys, seriously.” he chuckled to himself, but not without poking fun at the two, as he took his backpack from Ebirone with a thankful nod. In his mind, and more precisely his ego, they could’ve gotten them with one. “I assume you have an ordinance replicator, back at base? Or do we have to figure out a restitution plan of some sort?!”
Title: Re: [2374] Operation 'Spark' - Betazed
Post by: Swift on July 14, 2020, 11:10:38 AM
[ Lt. Andrew Fisher (http://uss-theurgy.com/w/index.php?title=Andrew_Fisher) | Codename: Bishop | Bayside District | Dalaria City (https://uss-theurgy.com/w/images/thumb/1/11/DalariaCity2374n.png/1200px-DalariaCity2374n.png) | Betazed (https://memory-alpha.fandom.com/wiki/Betazed) ] Attn: @stardust

As the last of the Jem’Hadar had been dispatched by their new ‘friend’, Fisher and Ebirone emerged from their cover and approached the bodies as they lay motionless. Without hesitation, the big betazoid went about the standard procedure of double-tapping each of them. It was absolutely a necessary tactic, and thankfully Ebirone hadn’t fought Fisher when he’d suggested implementing it days earlier. That hadn’t been the case for the other members of the Rena Resistance, who were less than enthusiastic about eliminating the Jem’Hadar, after they’d been rendered somewhat less dangerous. Specifically, the other Starfleet Officers of the group had outright lobbied against it, siting a number of regulations and accords that the practice broke. To a point, Fisher understood their concerns, and had even agreed with them. But this was an instance when he’d been willing to break with some of those more humane institutions.

“Hey! You said, go crazy, pal!” Ebirone retorted, though there was clearly a hint of teasing in his voice.

“Nothing quite as official as those Starfleet offerings, but we’ve got a half decent stash of improvised explosives.” Fisher answered the question, and though they had indeed at one-point garnered access to such an ordinance replicator, they’d since had to sabotage and leave it behind during a previous raid of their hideout. “In a pinch, they’ll do just as well.” He added, his attention turning back down the street, from where the Jem’Hadar patrol had originated. It was another three blocks before they were within relative distance of the Rena base, though thankfully there was still another three hours of darkness before the betazed sun would try to peak through the soot fueled storm clouds. It wouldn’t necessarily be bright, but they’d still be far easier to detect with the naked eye. “We’ve got another--” Fisher stopped as he’d started to explain where they were heading, his attention caught by a noise somehow heard over the loud raining. It had come from behind them.

As he spun on his heel, he approached Brody and Ebirone, his eyes narrowing.

“Shit!” he exclaimed. “They’re on to us!” he began backing up the street, his eyes going to Ebirone and Brody as if to state the dire nature of their situation. If the two hadn’t immediately understood or seen what Fisher had, it soon became impossible to not notice as white disruptor bolts began to sizzle through the air in their direction. Dozens of shots fired at them, no doubt meant to drive the three men further up the street into whatever trap lay in wait. It’d been an ambush, and a rather cleverly guised one at that. “They must’ve been tracking each patrol, waiting for one to go dark, so that they could know where to strike!” Fisher explained, turning back down the street, and already he could see a number of scaly figures rapidly advancing on their position. Any minute they’d be overrun, pincered between two large groups of Jem’Hadar.

“Fuck!” Ebirone exclaimed as he ducked behind some cover, unsure what to do.

Fisher scanned their surroundings, for anything. There were the buildings but, they would’ve likely been crawling with Jem’Hadar too. No, Fisher realized as his gaze fell upon the street, and he spotted a nearby manhole cover. “You got any HE, or Thermite Plasma in that party bag of yours?” Fisher asked Brody as he ran up to him, looking back at the sewer entrance. As he’d explained earlier, the Jem’Hadar had rather successfully mined the entrances to the sewers, but if that mine was destroyed, then they could potentially brave the underground tunnels that ran through the city. It would give them an immediate option better than getting gunned down by two encroaching squads of soldiers. Only issue was, there was really only one sort of safe way to destroy the mines placed at the sewer entrances, and that was with some kind of ordinance that could eat through the dura-steel of the manholes, destroying said mines before they could detonate.

Otherwise they could only hope to trigger said mine, and risk killing themselves in the process.

“Wait, you want to go through the sewers?!” Ebirone asked incredulously, his attention turning back to the approaching group from behind. “Do you have any idea how much of a mess those will be with all this rain!?” he screamed, realizing just how shitty their situation had suddenly gotten. Dreading what was likely to be their next move, for a rather personal reason he cared not to admit in the moment.
Title: Re: [2374] Operation 'Spark' - Betazed
Post by: stardust on July 15, 2020, 10:45:21 PM
[ Cmdr. Brody Miller (https://uss-theurgy.com/w/index.php?title=Brody_Miller) | Codename: Mason | Jem'Hadar Outpost Bravo-32 | Dalaria City | Betazed] Attn: @Swift
[Show/Hide]

The former operative hadn’t cracked a single smile since he’d gotten to this god forsaken place, not even a sly grin. But he did convey a certain sense of brash humor and egocentric sense of levity, that was mostly just a matter of slight overconfidence. As Ebirone reacted in kind, the commander let his hand drop on the Betazoid’s shoulder with full force, transmitting a sense of agreement and convergence. He appreciated the guy, and how their interactions meshed like two cogs in unison. Squeezing the man’s shoulder with brute force, like the jaws of life, he knew he could take it. Just like he could take that dry sense of misplaced humour, when all Bishop seemed to dance around, was the fire of serious duty and self-sacrifice. Not really an act worthy any applause.

Improvised explosives, Brody’s dark eyes shifted to the bearded man, that sounded like fun – until one blew your right hand off. Which was alright, he was married now, so he didn’t really need it. Nodding gently, regardless, the conversation was cut short as Bishop froze dead in his elaborations. Following the general direction, he had heard it too. A pebble skidding across dusty pavement. Cocking his head, a little higher, he could not immediately see anything in the street, but gladly followed the man’s urgent prompts to get down low. Slipping onto his ass a little painfully, back against a large boulder in the direction that soon weapon’s fire came from, Brody let out a disgruntled groan, turning the power cell of his scope back on. The device charged up with an audible hiss, growing in pitch, until it faded into the sound of the rain and the disruptor discharges.

Spinning around onto one knee, the commander found a crevice in the debris, through which he could see the approaching squad of Jem’Hadar with one eye. It was just wide enough for his rifle. There wasn’t much room in terms of aiming sideways, but he was fortunate enough to get one right into his scope. Sending a pulse of orange light up the street, against the barrage of white rays like a single kamikaze warrior, the head of a Jem’Hadar exploded in a burst of ambers and bloody discharge, before he dropped down backwards, body stiffened in nervous shock. Hearing Bishop’s explanation, Brody gritted his teeth together, shooting him a serious glare. Trying to figure out if this was really a new tactic the man had never seen before. It was at any rate, quite a specific theory, to jump to so quickly.

Moving out of his position in a crouch-run, the former operative weaved through the labyrinth of debris and wrecked vehicles skillfully, following his retreating partners away from the encroaching troops. He was quite comfortable not having to turn his back on the two of them right now. Eventually, however, they ran out of places to hide, as the street turned into a far more open space, that they would never be able to cross. Bishop hinted at one of the nearby manhole-covers. Which he had previously alluded to were all rigged with explosives by now. Letting dark brown eyes flicker from the guy to the circular plate of metal-rimmed concrete, Brody ultimately slipped his backpack off in a swift move. “Lay down some delaying fire, will you.” He instructed, flicking the lid open and pulling out a replacement energy cell.

Looking around for a jagged surface he ultimately hit the device against the corner of a broken pillar once. A small shrapnel of duraplast breaking off. “Come on.” he hissed under his breath, hitting down a second, a third time. Each marked with increased, more desperate force, until a salvific cracking sound cut through the silence among the men. “Gotcha …” he whispered, watching the top end of the power cell falling to the ground, leaving a few drops of glowing blue gel on the concrete pillar, which soon started to smoke and gargle, as it ate away at the material. Unfortunately, a small amount had also clung to his left-hand glove. Feeling the heat seep through the fabric, he only realised what had happened, shaking the droplet off, but not before it had revealed his index finger and a portion of his thumb. Causing slight skin irritation in the process.

“Fucking shit.” he cursed under his breath, hobbling over to his backpack again, slipping it over one shoulder, while balancing the capped power cell carefully, so no further accidents could occur.  Getting ready by the manhole, Brody ultimately poured the corrosive gel carefully along the perimeter. It wasn’t quite enough, but he figured the triggered explosives would do the rest. Slowly backing away, the luminous compound sunk into the metal slowly, puffing bubbles of vapor into the air. “Guys, take cover.” After all, he wasn’t sure what kind of ordinance the Jem’Hadar had put beneath the streets and what kind of explosion that would create. Last thing he intended was to be sprayed with the rest of the power gel.

Sliding behind a burnt out antigrav vehicle, the commander joined his companions in a few long seconds of wait, while the enemy troops continued to converge relentlessly. Resting their backs until the battered chassis, he was almost touched by the sentiment of doubt, when suddenly a loud BAMM reignited his confidence, and a flash of adrenaline. The shockwave of the explosion washed over them and pushed one side of the vehicle, they were hiding behind, back, bringing Bishop to his knees. Brody had obviously overestimated the weight of such an automotive. Looking over his shoulder, through the blown-out windows, he could see the steaming hole that had been created. Flares of black cinder radiating from the rim across the pavement. Narrowing his eyes, he took a split second to gauge the surroundings of the manhole.

“Where’s the damn cover …” he pondered quietly, a disheartening revelation soon dawning on him. Mahogany eyes darting up, he could see the black lid, flipping through the air, as it came rushing down to the surface. “Fuck!” he hissed out, pushing Bishop out of the way before pulling himself back against Ebirone, just as the heavy manhole cover slammed down into the ground between them, sending small pebbles like shrapnel against them. Luckily that pain was superficial, the lid on their heads, however, would not have been. Letting out an almost disbelieving chortle, eyes pinned on the cover, half stuck in the pavement now, Brody shook his head. He was only then realizing that he basically had backed into the Betazoid’s lap. Clearing his throat, he quickly moved back to his feet, shouldering the backpack entirely once more.

“Just your knife, I know.” he briefly winked at the man, in casually jest that seemed to die hard, before diverting his attention through the burnt-out vehicle once more, towards their salvation. The Jem’Hadar would certainly realise their escape route and follow them into the canals. Given that he wasn’t sure if his companions knew which paths to take down there, he would welcome any kind of head start. “Guys, help me with this.” He instructed both men, pushing both hands against the vehicle, to move it over the few feet towards the manhole. Now, the underestimated levity in its construction, truly came in handy. The three guys managed to move it half across the hole easily and quickly, leaving just enough space for them to slip inside. Ebirone went first, followed by Bishop and lastly Brody, though the bearded man waited at the top of the ladder to help drag the disguise the rest of the way across their escape route. Just as the first Jem’Hadar jumped over the piles of rubble, they had so skilfully laced through, moments earlier.

Brody took the time to wait for a moment, watching more of the aliens to follow, as their boots shuffled across the pavement, past the vehicle and the entrance it concealed. Good. Subsequently making his way down the ladder quietly, the commander lowered himself into the knee-deep water without making any noise. Pointing at bishop he silently beckoned him to lead the way, using cover ops hand-signs only. If anyone was to know his way around the sewers, it was this potential little rat. Yes, Brody was not yet over the doubt that kept cropping up at the odd behavior of the man with the beard. That trust would still have to be earned.
Title: Re: [2374] Operation 'Spark' - Betazed
Post by: Swift on July 16, 2020, 09:45:07 AM
[ Lt. Andrew Fisher (http://uss-theurgy.com/w/index.php?title=Andrew_Fisher) | Codename: Bishop | Main Sewer Line | Dalaria City (https://uss-theurgy.com/w/images/thumb/1/11/DalariaCity2374n.png/1200px-DalariaCity2374n.png) | Betazed (https://memory-alpha.fandom.com/wiki/Betazed) ] Attn: @stardust

Thus far, the Dominion hadn’t seemed overly interested in tracking down the fringe elements that had preyed on their patrols throughout the city, as there were always more Jem’Hadar to send out in replacement. However, the fact that they’d now shown such an interest, meant that resistance cells were getting to them; no doubt starting to irritate like an old splinter that had begun to fester. However, in the moment, with white hot disruptor bolts streaming in over their heads, fired from what must’ve been a rather sizeable group of the scaly soldiers, Fisher couldn’t really afford to dwell on the evidence of their successes. Not unless he wanted to wind up being blasted into oblivion; and though he had been somewhat resigned to death a few minutes earlier, when lined up against a wall, he’d since returned to his senses for the time being, and wished again to stave off death.

At least until this new son-of-a-bitch, and the Jem’Hadar were off Betazed.

“Do your thing, we’ve got this!” Fisher hollered, patting Ebirone on his back to pull the big betazoid along with him. They took up a position against a stack of twisted and burned out durasteel framing, only to then began firing randomly into the distance. They needed to give some semblance of cover. He might not have particularly like this new guy, but he wasn’t in the business of letting him get killed either.

“You’re coming around on the guy, I can tell!” Ebirone teased Fisher in between shots, striking one of the encroaching Jem’Hadar center-mass.

A dismissive grunt was all that Fisher mustered in return, firing a barrage of disruptor blasts that struck a targeted Jem’Hadar of his own, sending it sprawling into a heavy heap on the rain-socked pavement. He followed down range with another trio of shots, the bolts singeing through the air, past a few Jem’Hadar that were charging in, forcing them to drop into cover. The energized plasma blasts again leaving little vapor-trails as they struck droplets of rain, and instantly flashed them into puffs of steam. The effect served the benefit of giving the men an idea of how close their shots were to striking true, though it did the same for the Jem’Hadar, as several bursts of super-heated vapor stung at Fisher’s neck. It signified just how close one bolt had come to striking him. He couldn’t help but flinch retroactively, something that Ebirone noticed and chuckled at in amusement.

“That close, bud!” he grinned, then resumed firing.

Fisher shrugged off another blast that came close and pointed passed Ebirone. “Your baggage has had it!” he hollered, referring to the unconscious Vorta that Ebirone had left leant up against a pile of debris, its body bloodied and pock-marked by impacts from Jem’Hadar disruptors. Either they’d taken it as the body of one of the resistance members, or they saw an opportunity to justify a little personal satisfaction; after all, the dislike between the Jem’Hadar and their Vorta overseers had been well documented.

“Well shit!” Ebirone exclaimed.

Fisher looked back for a moment, and watched the man fiddling with something before he began flapping his hand in an ounce of pain, only to then run for cover away from the manhole.

There was a delay, long enough to wonder what he was supposed to take cover from, other than the streams of disruptor blasts soaring in overhead; in fact, he’d considered raising hell with the man over his failure, when a booming thump sounded up from the manhole, blowing rather sizeable chunks of durasphalt, mud, and other debris high into the air. The shape of the manhole had acted as a sort of mortar, and instinctively, Fisher held a hand up to deflect some of the larger chunks from hitting him in his face and head. An instant later, he was shoved rather abruptly backward as a mostly in tact durasteel manhole cover fell from the sky, landing with a jarring shudder where he’d been kneeling a millisecond earlier. Wincing at the loud reverberation of ringing, Fisher saw the man laying atop Ebirone, and genuinely felt relieved that neither of them had been crushed by the heavy disc. Though he regarded them with a somewhat amused glance, before looking back over his shoulder and firing into a duo of Jem’Hadar that had continued to advance, cutting them down.

Ebirone blinked in awkward silence for a moment as Brody pushed off of him, helping with a bit of his own forceful shove.

“It’s alright Ebb, lots of guys get one in a firefight!” teased Fisher, grinning as he ducked and dived under a disruptor bolt, before turning to follow the other man’s lead.

He then charged at the burnt-out vehicle, understanding immediately what the plan was, and laying into it with his shoulder he felt it move slowly. A second later, it moved far further as Ebirone had joined in on the effort, grunting and shoving with all of his substantial size and might. There was then a moment’s hesitation from Ebirone before he squeezed down into the half-covered manhole, truly not liking where this whole thing was leading them. After the other man went, Fisher slipped in last, careful not to make much of a noise as he climbed down, just barely avoiding detection by the Jem’Hadar as they stormed in over their previous position. The subterfuge wouldn’t last forever, as eventually they would double-back up the street and figure out what the trio of men had resorted to in the spur of the moment. But it would give them enough time to make their way through the sewers far enough, that they would likely avoid detection.

That is, if they could successfully avoid all the other mines.

With a quiet nod, Fisher turned to his right and began wading through the knee-deep water, moving against the current as it rushed around them on the way to where it let out at the bay. Though, as they began moving, it became clear that direction he’d chosen, albeit correct, also seemed to move at an almost imperceptible yet gradual declination. Meaning the water that had started at their knees, was soon up to their thighs, and steadily rising as they continued to move silently through the tunnels. Behind him, he could hear Ebirone breathing nervously through his nostrils, and Fisher couldn’t help but grin in amusement again.

“He’s nervous about sewer leaches.” Fisher whispered in explanation to Brody as they moved ahead of the big betazoid. “Big guy had one attach itself to his... well... the last time we waded through water.”

“Yeah, real funny! You wouldn’t laugh if you’d felt the teeth of those things chomping onto your dick, the way I had!” Ebirone retorted, maybe a little louder than he should have, to which Fisher hushed him quieter. “Bite me!”

“Shhhh!” Fisher hushed him again, struggling to stifle a laugh in response to Ebirones choice of words. The big betazoid could only clench his jaw tightly, and silently suffer through the indignity of it all.

For another half-kilometer, the three of them waded through the surging waters, which had now risen up to the armpits of the two similarly sized humans, and to their great fortune, they’d somehow managed to not happen across another mine the entire distance. The fact of which made Fisher question the accuracy of the reports that had been relayed to him by other resistance cells in and around Dalaria City. Stopping before a ladder that went up almost fifty meters, Fisher shined the light of his disruptor rifle up it and could see something blinking back at him. Their luck had evidently run out, as there indeed had been another mine attached to the underside of the manhole. With an exhausted sigh, Fisher looked between the three of them a moment as he knew that this was their only way to get topside without going back the way they came or wading further into ever deepening water. The problem with the latter, was that there were no guarantees of them reaching another manhole before they were completely submerged.

“Well... I guess I’ll give it the old college try...” Fisher mused, as he began climbing up the long ladder, his intent to disarm the mine clear. He knew of course that the trigger would only go off if the manhole was accessed from the other side. Or if he futzed with it in an improper way. Why he had volunteered, wasn’t out of a deathwish, though he figured the other man might assume as much. Truth was, Fisher had rather extensive experience dealing with bombs, even those employed by the Dominion, as he’d been mired in operations against them for nearly a year now, albeit on another planet entirely. Still, all of the explosive devices he’d encountered that had been set by the Dominion, shared some commonality he was anticipating now.

Down below, Ebirone sunk a hand into the water to check something, his face contorting a moment, only to then seem more relaxed afterward.

In the vertical tunnel, Fisher could see that the underside of the panel was simple enough, and only contained three colored input keys. Previous examples had demanded four inputs, with two colors represented once, and the third color represented twice. Problem was, if he put the code in incorrectly, it would detonate the mine. Instead, he needed to figure out which of the three colors needed to be input twice, as by disabling it, he could then completely circumvent the need to input it. Carefully, he popped off the cover of the mine’s panel, and immediately saw that the green input was his double command. Running a finger along its edge, he found where it connected to the main board, and pulled the lead loose until it was disabled. Now, only two colors remained, but he couldn’t disable them, as there was often a programmed fail safe that would cause the mine to detonate. So, it came down to a fifty/fifty proposition.

“Red or blue?” Fisher asked aloud, his voice echoing down the tunnel to his compatriots below.
Title: Re: [2374] Operation 'Spark' - Betazed
Post by: stardust on July 16, 2020, 11:58:18 AM
[ Cmdr. Brody Miller (https://uss-theurgy.com/w/index.php?title=Brody_Miller) | Codename: Mason | Jem'Hadar Outpost Bravo-32 | Dalaria City | Betazed] Attn: @Swift
[Show/Hide]

Slowly accustoming to the fowl scent of decades of moisture and dirt baking across concrete walls, Brody’s dark irises also started to refocus against the dark. Switching the AR flashlight on his spec-ops rifle’s scope on, it started to illuminate edges and corners with an AI driven laser, as to not alert potential stragglers like a full-on flashlight. Looking down both ways the tunnel went, the former operative waited on valuable input from the locals, before proceeding. Only to then realize that they used to be four. Quite the momentary lapse of attention. “Hold on … where’s your date?!” he asked Ebirone in an urgent whisper, after drawing his attention with another squeeze to the man’s impressive shoulder. A short explanation later the commander let out a heavy breath of disapproval, giving the both of them a wtf look. As much as could be conveyed in the considerable dark anyways, before they moved on. “I could’ve done that, back in the courtyard …” he mumbled, mostly to himself, carrying on between them.

As they proceeded, either the water started to rise, or they went down an imperceptible decline. Both well within the realm of the possible, it was raining like crazy up there, after all. Noticing the growing sense of discomfort behind him, even compared to his own, Brody gave the Betazoid a quizzical look over his shoulder, before Bishop offered an explanation. Raising a brow momentarily, the man shrugged, keeping his attention back to the various – better uninterpreted – debris floating in the water. “Seems like either way, someone will.” He mused quietly, at the admittedly humorous interaction between the two. Whoever was going to do the biting in Ebirone’s private area was not really any of his concern or business. Slowly but steadily a sense of comradery became noticeable between the bearded human and the Betazoid. Or maybe he had not yet let himself see it before. It told a story of two men who had been in the thick of it for a long time and trusted each other explicitly. He had been in the field long enough to know the kind of comradery it could produce out of sheer necessity and human sentimentality.

After what seemed like an endless track, through a labyrinth of sewers and storm drains, they now seemed to almost float, which was becoming worrying. His backpack and rifle were waterproof, but the cold liquid hugged his body through the fabric of his clothes, in an uncomfortable way. As the quiet had ensued for a while, he started to think of a hot bath. Or a shower maybe. Oh man, he seriously hoped they had one at the compound they were heading fore. His mood would certainly not improve, if he would have to smell like a swamp monster, for the rest of the mission. But he also wondered about the Dominion strategy, a little bit. Clearly, mining the sewer entrances was a smart move, as to keep people from getting in. And even though someone could always find a way, mining the entire system, would’ve been a colossal undertaking, alongside securing the surface. So, he didn’t really see there any immediate danger in their path. However, if there were to be a tread mine under the water, they’d not know until one of them stepped onto it. Thankfully Bishop was the lead.

Eventually it seemed, like they would not be able to go any further and stopped at the last manhole that seemed reachable, before they would have to dive. Brody wasn’t sure if this was due to changing circumstances, aka the water rising, or because Bishop had lead them into the wrong, or simply an unknown direction. Holding on to one of the rungs, with his free hand, he shone the AR flashlight up the shaft, revealing all its minute details, including the mines at the top. But before he could do anything, Sargent Suicide had already clambered up a good portion of the way. The college try?! What the hell, there were no more than one try, with any kind of explosive! Shaking his head at the apparent ill-consideration, Brody’s glance ultimately trailed over to Ebirone again. Furrowing his brows as he tried to gauge the look on the other man’s face, he ultimately glared. “Dude! Could you, like, not look at me, while you’re feeling up your dick?!” he barked in a hissed quiet, that certainly echoed up the vertical shaft a good way.

It was in that moment, as the Betazoid wanted to reply something, that a heavy metallic clank travelled through the tunnels, in a low grumble of echoes. Both men looking in the direction it had come from, there seemed no apparent source right away. That was until the water they were to their necks in, started to pick up momentum. Tightening his grip to the first rung, sticking from the murky liquid, Brody nodded at Ebirone to get a hold too. “Fuck this, I think they opened a flood gate.” he explained curtly to the burly man, before looking up at Bishop, feet starting to slip in the increasing current. It too seemed as if the water was rising as well. Fuck, he was not going to pick a stupid color right now! “The jig is up, Bishop, we're not doing this! You can blow your own damn head off!” Within seconds, the two men below found themselves swept off their feet, merely hanging on to the ladder, as the water rose to just below the ceiling. “Get down a bit, I’ll shoot the thing out from here!” he offered a backup solution, starting to pull his other arm with the rifle from the strong current.

“You! Get up there!” he quickly instructed Ebirone, as there would soon be no more air in the tunnel below. However, the entrance to the ladder was already tight enough, without him hanging on there for dear life and the burly Betazoid trying to get past. Ultimately, one misstep and a slip of a hand, and the two men got pulled away and under, in a knot of limbs and equipment. Fuck, this was just fucking dire. Brody’s only instinct right then, since getting air was not an option, was to cling to Ebirone. At the very least they shouldn’t have gotten separated, since they were already only two, for the moment. And he knew nothing about this planet and its sewer system. The two men got dragged along by the current, pulled around a few corners into an ever-quicker flow. Ultimately the tunnel seemed to widen, and they managed to resurface in the violent stream, just in time.

“You alright?” he yelled out to the Betazoid, voice strained with the burn of his lungs. Drifting past a few overhead openings, where eerie rays of light broke through, Brody tried to catch a long enough look up the passing vertical shafts, to see if there were ladders in them. But no, just drains from the street. The tunnel seemed to continue for a while, down into the dark. “Fuck.” he hissed to himself, somehow imagining a giant blender at the end of this, as their luck went. Soon enough the tunnel at the end, seemed to channel into a bigger chamber. But it was not until they were much closer, that they realized it extend far below. “Oh sheeeeet …” the commander exclaimed, as they got washed out of the pipe and down, about 30 feet into the roaring depth of a cistern. Crossing both arms to his chest, around the rifle, the man stiffened his body, as he dove into the violent water feet first, like a knife. Going under for a moment he kicked strongly, to get back to the surface immediately. Breaking through, the two men had already drifted a good bit away from the waterfall, and ahead to a walkway, a mere 2 feet above the water, on the opposite side.

Throwing his rifle and backpack up first, Brody got aided by Ebirone to reach the metal grating, pulling himself up with a discernible sense of fatigue. Spinning around onto his stomach, he then reached his arm down to pull the behemoth from the waters. A moment later, they just both lied next to one another on their backs, catching a breath. This had been fantastic, not. Rolling onto his side eventually, the commander looked up at where the tunnel spew a roaring fountain of water into the cavern, the sound almost deafening, as they got covered in spray, that did very little to their already heightened discomfort. He still had no intention to swallow any more than he already had. “You reckon we should wait? Or you think he’s already halfway to that hot shower with my name on it, by now?” he queried, giving the Betazoid a critical look.
Title: Re: [2374] Operation 'Spark' - Betazed
Post by: Swift on July 17, 2020, 08:46:50 AM
[ Lt. Andrew Fisher (http://uss-theurgy.com/w/index.php?title=Andrew_Fisher) | Codename: Bishop | Main Sewer Line | Dalaria City (https://uss-theurgy.com/w/images/thumb/1/11/DalariaCity2374n.png/1200px-DalariaCity2374n.png) | Betazed (https://memory-alpha.fandom.com/wiki/Betazed) ] Attn: @stardust

There was a consideration in the decision that Fisher was faced with, which brought an oddly timed sense of amusement to him. He realized that either he would make the right choices when disarming the bomb, or he wouldn’t, and as result would never get a chance to recognize the mistake. Out of that sense of amusement, he’d posed the dilemma to the men below him, his sardonic sense of humor no doubt seeming ill advised to the new man. But there was a hidden truth that Fisher kept hidden from them both, as it really wasn’t a fifty-fifty option. In his extended experience with the Jem’Hadar and the explosive devices they liked to use, there was absolutely a preference to choose ‘red’ inputs over other colors when setting disarmament codes. It hadn’t failed yet, in fact, as every time ‘red’ was an input option for disarming, it was the first one selected. Maybe there was a reason behind it. Maybe it was conditioned into the Jem’Hadar as part of their training. Maybe even it had been a result of biases in their genetic coding, having been shared among their master template. Or, maybe it was just an odd coincidence. If that were the case, then eventually that pattern had to break, right?

Still, given the dire situation they faced as water levels were steadily rising, he had to go with the assumption that thus far, had proved right.

“Sorry... sorry...” Ebirone apologized down below, the gaze of his black eyes shifting away from where they’d been focused.

Figuring it was high-time to re-test the fortune favoring him, Fisher had been about to punch in ‘red-blue’ in order to hopefully disarm the weapon, when among the chatter down below, he heard the intensity of the rushing water pick up. Looking down, he saw his companions starting to bob up into the water as it forced them to float, and also threatening to drag and pull them free. There was a panic in them, as there also was in Fisher to be honest, but he hadn’t even remotely considered what the new guy was thinking, as he began working to unsling his weapon, apparently about to shoot the mine.

“No! What are you, nuts?!” Fisher retorted, knowing that the sudden overpressure caused by the explosion would rupture every organ in their bodies given the tight confines. He held down a hand so as to wave him off. “I’ve got this! Just hang on--” and though it was perfectly timed by fate, the big Betazoid lost his footing of a ladder rung, and fell into the other man, knocking them both free as they were swept down the tunnel by the heavy current of water. Fisher’s own eyes went wide in shock, not at the two of them having been swept off, but by the water level shooting up at him with surprising force, and though he tried to move so as to disarm the mine first, the water level met him with incredible vigor. The surge nearly dislodged him from the ladder, thrusting his back up against the wall of the access tunnel, and were it not for the topside of his boot catching onto a rung, he likely would have been pushed up into the manhole cover, triggering the explosion.

A moment later, the rush had subsided, leaving him floating at the top of the now entirely flooded vertical tunnel. Concerned for the two men that had been swept off, he considered swimming down after them, but knew he’d drown way before that. No, if he was going to be of any help to them, he needed to get out of the tunnel, get help from the others, and figure out where the water would drain off.

His attention turned back to the exposed board again, and he was ready to input the disarm code. Even if he hadn’t been forced to by the water, he would have been holding his breath.

‘red-blue’ he thought.

- - - - -

Ebirone felt the world turning upside down, and then tumbling about as he’d been carried off by the current. The rushing waters pushed them down and around a few bends in a myriad of directions, following a path that he couldn’t make sense of in the pitch black. His lungs soon began to burn, and he yearned for oxygen until finally, he was allowed to surface into a pocket of air when the tunnel widened. Gasping heavily, he felt the dizziness of deprivation fade ever so slightly. “Yeah!” he coughed in response to Brody’s status inquiry, though a moment later he felt everything drop, and his stomach turn queasy as they were deposited into some kind of chamber. Falling like an uncoordinated brick dropped from a substantial height, the big man splashed loudly onto his back into a reservoir beside Brody, who had knifed in like an Olympic diver. As his back rather painfully absorbed the brunt of the drop, he hadn’t sunk nearly as deeply as the covert operative, and emerged from the water a second earlier, though his back stung mightily as a result.

The two men treaded the water for a short while, until their eyes adjusted to the darkness enough to see a gantry way leading out over the great pool in which they’d been dumped. It was just out of both of their reaches, but Ebirone knew he could give Brody a boost to reach it, and so he did. Given a hand later, they both lay atop the gantry way, coughing out the water that had seeped into their lungs and stomach.

“I’d never been on a waterslide before. I don’t think I’ll particularly like them.” He admitted as he slowly sat upright, looking about the massive underground chamber for some sign of where they might be. Off in one direction there was an old emergency light attached to the wall, which was somehow still emitting the faintest amount of illumination. Clambering to his feet, he began to approach said wall, on which another ladder was attached, leading up to the light, where he could see a faded decal underneath.

“Knowing him...” he began to answer Brody’s question. “...he’s likely already through the manhole.” His eyes strained in the dim light, but he could make out a faint word ‘Bayside’. It was definitely an identification marker for this room. He’d need to check it, but first he went back to Brody to offer him a strong hand as he began to stand, only to heft him up rather easily. Even as big as Ebirone was, he was still surprisingly strong. With a wink, he went back to the ladder and begrudgingly attached himself to it. “And Pal...” he said, looking over his right shoulder to Brody. “I know he’s a bit of a strong case, but he’s also saved my ass, and the asses of all my friends at least a dozen times since dropping in for this nightmare scenario.” With that, he began to ascend the rungs carefully. “Believe it or not, I actually know why that stick is shoved so far up his ass.” He stopped just beneath the box of the dim light, and with a hand began to rub away at all the grime that covered the decal.

“Took a good half-bottle of Aldeberan Whisky.” He recalled the events of a few nights earlier, when the two of them watched polaron blasts stream in across the sky, battering a particular part of Dalaria City, off to the west. It was quite a sight, and also rather harrowing to know what it meant. “But now that I know, I don’t take his attitude so personally anymore.” He admitted, leaning in closer to try and make out the rest of it. “Bayside District. Storm drain reservoir tank, one-twenty east.” He announced aloud, climbing back down, having a rough idea where they were. He wished for a moment that he’d memorized the tunnel network beneath the city as well as Bishop had. With a grin he patted Brody on the shoulder as he moved passed him, across to the other side of the gantry way. He could see an old seized door and motioned for Brody to try cutting through it with his phaser.

“Fellah lost his girl a few weeks ago. Pretty fucked up way too.” He continued to explain, the difficult details of the story racing through his memory, and he couldn’t help but look away in an attempt to forget them. “And he still volunteered to come here. To try and save all our asses.” He said, stepping away from the door to give a clearer shot to Brody.

“So, it’s up to you, Pally; but you might consider cutting the guy just a little bit of slack.”

With a resigned sigh, he waved off the subject, not wanting to push the issue any further than it had already gone. It wasn’t his place to spill the beans on what was motivating his friend. But he could at least get this new guy to climb down off his back a little. “Once we’re through this door, I think it’ll take us up into an access corridor, that will in turn lead back to the surface. Should wind up just inside the base of one of the towers.” He tried to fashion together an idea of where they were, by the fact that the wall decal placed them somewhere on the east side of the city in a collection reservoir, which were meant to be kept full in the event of massive fire. The water would then be pumped up into the suppression systems of the massive buildings as a failsafe in the event of power loss, or other such catastrophes. Still, he wasn’t as overly confident in what would come next, lacking the natural instincts of his fellow resistance fighter. In fact, before Bishop had come, the Rena were somewhat disjointed. But since he’d come, they’d gradually climbed to the top of the list of annoyances facing the Dominion occupation forces.

“Up we go?” he asked, looking for input from Brody.
Title: Re: [2374] Operation 'Spark' - Betazed
Post by: stardust on July 17, 2020, 08:43:48 PM
[ Cmdr. Brody Miller (https://uss-theurgy.com/w/index.php?title=Brody_Miller) | Codename: Mason | Jem'Hadar Outpost Bravo-32 | Dalaria City | Betazed] Attn: @swift
[Show/Hide]

Brody would’ve been very much content, just lying there for a while longer as no imminent danger seemed to loom. Not for them, anyways, and Bishop seemed to be able to hold his own. Or even if he wouldn’t, the former operative could still feel solace in knowing that death was not exactly punishment for the bearded man, but rather some sick salvation. So no, he was not worried. Giving the Betazoid a quizzical look at his comment, the man was oddly reminded that he could not even remember when he had last enjoyed some unadulterated fun like a waterslide. Life just had gotten way too serious for that, but he wondered now, how exactly. What did stop him to just take his wife to a holodeck and slide down a crazy waterslide, keeping her safely wedged between his thighs?! And would he eventually regret not having done all these things when it was too late? Just because he felt like it had never been the right time? He really didn’t need any more regrets.

Pulling himself up into a seating position, rifle beside him, the commander hugged his strong arms around his knees for casual support. Looking up at Ebirone as he stood, with squinted eyes, still blinking away remains of water caught in his lashes. Listening to the man’s first argument, he nodded contemplatively, slowly shaking drops of water from his gloved hands. “Haven’t heard a loud bang yet, so …” he retorted dryly, watching his hands. So Bishops had either chosen to follow them, or had safely disarmed the mine. And given the amount of time passing, as they conversed there, the former became more and more unlikely. Unless, of course, he met his much-desired demise somewhere. Looking up once more, as the towering man approached, Brody contemplated the hand extended for a second, before tossing his own into it, aiding in the pull to a stand. He could now feel the cold water, running down the valley of his spine, which made him shiver with disgust ever so slightly. Double taking the wink sent his way, which seemed kind of unwarranted, it certainly helped taking his mind off one uncomfortable sentiment in favor of another.

Looking straight up at Ebirone, as he made a case for Bishop during his short climb, the former operative had to admit all the colorful embellishment did make a valid point. But there was really no point in broadcasting the thought process it had kicked off. “A little bit 'ass' fixated, if you ask me.” he commented quietly, rubbing the side of his nose coyly, but at the mere delivery, rather than the message. The location information relayed to him didn’t mean anything. He had not memorized the whole damn layout of Dalaria. But the bay was a good bit off east, from where he’d beamed down to, in any case. “Does that mean you know where we are, or were expecting some kind of input from me?” the man replied, somewhat disgruntled, as the Betazoid came back down. He got the whole speech, Bishop was a swell guy, he would not contest someone’s opinion who had been through the thick of it with the man. But he also had no intention to humanize and understand an asset he was supposed to evacuate.

Following the man’s motion dutifully, regardless of his personal mood, Brody cocked his rifle against his shoulder, setting it to continuous burst. That was until the pep talk continued, leaving him somewhat dumfounded and incredulous. Spreading both his arms apart, from the elbow down, he gave Ebirone an indignant look. “You mean, as opposed to those of us who still have someone, but decided to go on a suicide rescue mission regardless?!” he glared at him. Anger deliberately overcasting the turmoil of emotions stirred by the revelation. He could feel with Bishop, but right now, he chose not to. “So get out of the fucking way, or I’ll cut YOU something!” Bringing the rifle back to his shoulder, he aimed through the scope at the hinges, searing the metal clean off the frame, causing the bulkhead to dislodge and ultimately topple to the floor with a loud clank. Welcoming the waving off of the subject, the commander simply pushed past the Betazoid, into the access shaft. Listening to the elaborations he wasted no time and swung up onto the rugs of the ladder to ascend in the direction given. The only direction, really.

It was a long climb, so halfway through, Brody hooked an arm into the ladder, resting for a moment, looking down at the much larger, burlier comrade, to catch up. “Did you ever think that what happened is why he is here? Why he doesn’t care whether he lives or dies? How long until he doesn’t care who else lives or dies?” he said, a certain sense of anger still ringing in his voice. “He could’ve come with me, regroup, and come back in a better mindset. But now, with a little luck, he might get someone else to feel the loss of a loved one.” Brody could feel how he was fueling his own anger, and that was never a good thing, so he decided to just slam his foot against the next rung a little harder, sprinkling a slight dusting of concrete down the shaft. Not to take himself too serious, but he assumed Samantha would feel a little bit downtrodden for a while, if he were not to come back. Before eventually ending up with some boring schmuck from Operations. As far as calming down went, this was not it. “How much fucking longer does this ladder go?!”

Pulling up the rifle from his back, against the darkness into which the ladder vanished, he switched the AR flashlight on to have each step accentuated by the colourful laser, indicating at a near end some few dozen feet up. Pushing it back, dangling against the side of his backpack, he continued the climb in a swift pace. Ultimately slipping through an access point into a utility corridor, lined with cables and pipes. Letting the scope do another brief assessment of the surroundings, he did not see any immediate threats. Waiting for Ebirone to climb out, he made some space, rolling his shoulders a bit to get the fabrics from sticking to his muscular frame. “So, which two towers were you talking about? The Gateway Plaza?!” he inquired, alluding to one of the landmarks of the city’s oceanfront. Yet still, he had no idea where that was in relation to the rebel encampment. “How about you take the lead.” He pointed down the corridor with his rifle. The mood between them having somewhat deteriorated, from the light and humorous, they had shared earlier. What he had initially liked about the man, immensely.
Title: Re: [2374] Operation 'Spark' - Betazed
Post by: Swift on July 22, 2020, 02:46:31 PM
[ Ebirone Elos (https://uss-theurgy.com/w/images/c/c3/EbironeElos001.png) | SDRT-120 | Dalaria City (http://uss-theurgy.com/w/images/1/11/DalariaCity2374n.png) | Betazed (https://memory-alpha.fandom.com/wiki/Betazed) ]

“Yeah. Roundabouts at least. We’re somewhere in the eastern most region of the main city. Probably just below a few of the bigger buildings. Most likely we’re just west of the shoreline that runs along the edge of the bay.” Granted, a lot of places he was describing covered some pretty large areas, meaning they could realistically be anywhere within a few square kilometers. But again, Ebirone wasn’t the planning guy when it came to the Rena Resistance, if anything he was the exact opposite most days. Usually it was Sariah, the founder of the movement, and whom it had been named for that had decided plans of action; often under the advisement of their resident SFI spook. With a sense of frustration, Ebirone had to accept the fact that there was only so much information that could be ascertained from the dark walls, and underground passages that ran under the city, especially if you hadn’t benefited from an eidetic memory as ‘Bishop’ seemed to.

Really though, all that mattered was getting to the surface first. Otherwise they might spend days, or weeks trying to trace some path back to the Rena base of operations.

As the big Betazoid side-stepped out of the way, giving the newcomer a clearer shot at the seized bulkhead door, he suddenly found himself a little surprised by a hesitance that followed. Though, he soon felt the frustrations of the man pouring out of him empathically, not that he couldn’t already see that frustration and anger evident in his face. He offered the man a somewhat skeptical gaze as he began to go-off on a tangent, venting about some of what was bothering him. He hadn’t necessarily expected the man to accede to a sense of sympathy at his urging, but he also hadn’t expected the man to react with such a vitriolic personal take on Bishop, a man he likely knew little of, given the nature of secrecy inherent with spies. It spoke to something deeper that was bothering the man, much like something had been bothering Bishop when he first arrived on Betazed. Of course, after a few days, and a bottle of some green whisky, Ebirone had managed to get that something out of him.

But now, here he was again with another headcase of a spy, who had harbored some other emotional baggage too. Were it not for the disrespectful threat that followed after the man’s need to bitch, something he’d clearly had a disposition toward, Ebirone might have let it go. But he could only take so much shit from someone before he returned fire. He was a Betazoid after all, but unlike most of his kind, he wasn’t as peacefully minded; hence why he’d enlisted with the Starfleet Marine Corps, instead of Counseling departments within the Academy, as was so common among Betazoids, As such, he wasn’t one to stand idly by and take abuse, even if that abuser held a phaser rifle. At least for the moment though, he stifled a need to retort; a deep breath serving as a hastily built damn to keep him in check. It simply wasn’t a good decision to correct this shitty attitude in the moment.

‘Are all Starfleet Intelligence Operatives this complicated?’ he wondered.

About to step through the whole in the bulkhead, after it had fallen with a loud metallic clank onto the gantry way, he was instead pushed aside rather rudely by the smaller man. If his eyes were lasers, they would have bore holes clean through the back of Brody’s head as he glared at him, clutching his rifle tightly so as to maintain composure. For the moment, he was done speaking. He could feel himself drifting closer to the brink of tolerance.

Yet as they began to climb the ladder, the smaller man pushed yet further, and that was it for Ebirone’s reserves of patience.

“You know what?” Ebirone spat back, his deep voice echoing up the vertical tunnel they were climbing as though it were the definitive voice of God, blaring out at Brody. “I’ve heard just about enough of you. I’ve had it with your constant bitching! What about you? Huh?” He prodded, letting his words echo just slightly before he continued, not giving the other man a chance to interject. “If you have someone waiting for you back home, then what are you even doing here on this suicide mission?” Ebirone kicked the rungs of the ladder himself, accentuating the anger in his words. “You could have gone a different way back there, pal! And you know it! You could have left. Could have taken Bishop with you. You chose to stay! I’m glad you did, and I’m grateful for what you’ve done so far to help my planet, but you are seriously pushing my patience! So, maybe shut up! Get over whatever mistakes you think you made and move forward already!” He urged as he climbed out of the tunnel after Brody, not giving him so much as a glance as he shoved past him in turn, returning the same rude sentiment that had been offered to him a minute earlier.

“I swear. Damn spies. All the same. They’re all assholes!” He blurted out, venting his own frustrations to no one in particular.

“Is it a result of the job? Or is it a requirement of it?” He further mused, remembering how annoying he found ‘Bishop’ to be over the first few days of working with the man. “Never could have made it in the Corps.” He added, as he started a series of stairs that led up into the base of one of the buildings. He didn’t know which of the two buildings they’d emerge into from the underground, but like the previous situation that had faced them, there was fifty/fifty chance of survival, depending on which one they did. If it were the Gateway, they were screwed, as it had become a stronghold of sorts for the Dominion. If it were the Orion Tower just adjacent, they were fine. But Ebirone was too pissed off to take even a moment to consider a slower approach, instead he kicked open a door with the heel of his boot, and made his way into the lobby of what was clearly the option that would allow them to keep on living. He was taking the lead, whether or not Brody had hinted at it now, as he had grown fed up with explaining, or even simply talking to the man.

Outside he could hear the loud clattering of rain as it continued to fall heavily from the skies, and Ebirone took just a moment to appraise his immediate surroundings. “Out into the crossroads, then west along the highway. If followed, it will lead right back to where Bishop emerged from. Maybe three or four kilometers.” He explained as he stepped over some broken and shattered glass, out from under the shelter of the building, he could feel the cold rain falling on his head and shoulders once more. Careful to watch for signs of activity from across the highway, Ebirone then descended a series of duracrete stairs that led down to the roadway. “I’m going this way.” He said simply, not really caring if Brody followed or not. At this point, and as far as he was concerned, he was on his own. If the new spy wished to follow, he could, but clearly the big Betazoid had heard enough of complaints, threats, and an unfair questioning of the character of a man that Ebirone had come to rely on, and even respect.

[ Lt. Andrew Fisher (https://uss-theurgy.com/w/index.php?title=Andrew_Fisher) | Rena Resistance Bivouac | Dalaria City (http://uss-theurgy.com/w/images/1/11/DalariaCity2374n.png) | Betazed (https://memory-alpha.fandom.com/wiki/Betazed) ] Attn: @stardust

Fisher was doubled over on his hands and knees just outside of the manhole, gasping heavily for air in between coughs that felt as though they might tear the lining of his esophagus. His lungs burned, his head pounded, and his vision throbbed. All about him water was bubbling up to the surface as it flowed from the now open manhole, and Fisher fought the desire to give into hypoxia. He’d only just managed to dislodge the heavy manhole, as it had apparently been pinned in place by a scattering of debris that only seemed to triple its already impressive weight. Fisher had wanted to just stay knelt there, catching his breath, but he knew he didn’t have the luxury of time, or rather Ebirone and the other SFI Operative didn’t. They’d been washed away by a surge of water, no doubt caused by an opened flood gate from somewhere, and in his mind, Fisher could see the memorized map of the underground sewer systems, realizing that the two men had likely wound up in one of two possible places; both were emergency storm drains on the east side of the city skyline. To a point, they would be relatively free of Jem’Hadar patrols, as they generally stuck to the interior of the skyline at this point in the occupation. But still, they needed to travel a good distance in order to meet back up, and if they were discovered, they would likely be severely out manned.

Struggling to stand on wobbly burning legs, he forced himself into moving forward, trying to get his bearings on where he was. A moment later, he recognized his surroundings, and knew which direction he needed to head in, in order to make it back to the Rena Resistance’s Bivouac.

He would find them and bring a few of them with him down the highway. He knew that Ebirone would follow the highway, as it offered the most direct route back. It was one of the simpler routes, which meant there was less likely a chance he’d get turned around and lost in the process. However, the chances of happening across Dominion soldiers was also much higher along it, as it served as a major artery road. As such, it wasn’t a matter of if, but rather when, the two separated men would come across another group of enemies.

Stammering toward a massive heap of debris, that vaguely appeared to have once been a building, Fisher recognized it, and began searching along it’s periphery for the hidden entrance that would take him inside. Given the heavy rains however, and the relative darkness, it was a task easier said than done.

“Stop moving!” came a voice through the rain from behind him, and Fisher stopped. Carefully, slowly, he began to reach for the Jem’Hadar pistol he’d pocketed earlier, as he’d lost his rifle in the escape from the tunnel. “Don’t!” the voice commanded, and Fisher could tell it came from a woman.

“Turn around! Slowly!” it now ordered, and Fisher recognized it as he held his hands at shoulder height in front of him.

“Eb’s in trouble. I need two, to come with me down the highway.” He pleaded, dispensing with pleasantries.

Her rifle trained on ‘Bishop’s chest, Sariah Rena (https://uss-theurgy.com/w/images/2/21/SariahRena001.png) didn’t move, as another figure approached him from his left side.

“Don’t move!” her little brother, Aatrah (https://uss-theurgy.com/w/images/6/6a/AatrahRena001.png) reiterated as he moved in closely, while overhead thunder roared.
Title: Re: [2374] Operation 'Spark' - Betazed
Post by: stardust on July 26, 2020, 09:44:07 PM
[ Cmdr. Brody Miller (https://uss-theurgy.com/w/index.php?title=Brody_Miller) | Codename: Mason | Jem'Hadar Outpost Bravo-32 | Dalaria City | Betazed] Attn: @Swift
[Show/Hide]

Being stuck in that vertical access tube with the burly Betazoid temporarily, the other man’s basso profundo voice echoed up the shaft, like a runaway steam train, catching Brody slightly off guard. Weren’t his people supposed to be calm and collected? Listeners, if anything?! Now he felt like he was dealing with a rebellious teenager, who had heard one to many orders barked at him by his parents. At least to a certain extent, he could understand the frustration. The commander hadn’t exactly made the best of the situation and had let his disapproval potentially shown one too many times, instead of sucking it up and bringing the mission to a swift end. That was his bad. But some of the stuff barked his way, was just unreasonable bitching. Something he himself apparently was an expert on. Shrugging his shoulders in a bout of incredulousness and defiance, the man soon eased into a sense of acceptance towards the more reasonable accusations. Conceding with a quiet grunt, as he resumed to climb the ladder.

Being shoved aside, however, no matter whether he’d done the same, did spark another surge of adrenaline in the ex-spy, which threatened to break down all the silent agreements, he’d made towards Ebirone’s accusations, seconds ago. Dark eyes narrowing at the broad back of the man, as they passed out into a large entrance hall and the steps to the street beyond, every word further heated the pot that was already whistling with rage. Ultimately, it blew. Dashing forward with a quiet rush, Brody jumped into the Betazoid’s back and toppled him forward, onto the stairs. Intertwined in a bundle of limbs and bodies, the two men toppled down the flight of steps, onto the wide sidewalk below. Having come out on top, for the moment, the commander slung his arm around the larger man’s neck, squeezing, while trying to keep one of the other strong arms down, that threatened to constrict him too, like a boa. They struggled for dominance a good minute or so, the Betazoid simply exercising his right for self-defense, probably, while Brody’s intent was simply to teach him a lesson. And get some of his pent-up aggression out as well.

But ultimately, no matter the skill of the smaller man, the much larger and stronger prevailed. Ultimately pushing the officer against the pavement, face down. One arm pinned behind his back by the other man’s knee, the other held in place against the sidewalk by a strong grip. All the while Ebirone’s hand against Brody’s head threatened to crush him like a watermelon, potentially. “Alright, Mango … MANGO!” the commander blared out, using the term as a newly invented safe word. He knew the man wasn’t going to off him. That would’ve been a mistake of colossal proportions. Hell, it had been the only reason why he’d launched himself at the bigger guy in the first place! He knew he couldn’t lose, not really, even though now, pebbles were piercing into his cheek. Ultimately feeling the grip and weight on his back easing up, Brody pushed himself off the ground, a few small droplets of blood on the concrete, where his cheek had gotten punctured. Nothing he hadn’t deserved.

“Can we call a truth now?!” he asked, his voice still carrying quite a sense of agitation, as he went about to pick up his backpack and rifle once more, that had gotten thrown out of the little squabble. He was really in no position to negotiate an absolution, after just having pushed the man into a fight. The only leverage being, that he could become an even bigger ass – which wasn’t a strong position to bargain with. Running the back of his hand past his cheek, to ascertain how hard it was bleeding, the man was relieved it didn’t need any sort of immediate attention. A little bit of disinfectant at the compound would do and by the time he got back to his shuttle he’d simply regenerate the skin so his wife would be none the wiser. The fact that Ebirone than continued to narrate the directions to take to meet up with either Bishop or the rest of the cell was an indication at some sort of concession, or at least ignorance. He could live with ignorance. It would be like it never happened.

“Wait, if you’re going that way, does that mean it’s the way you just described? Or do you want me to follow your instructions, while you take another route?!” he inquired, while remaining standing where he’d just reattached all of his gear. However, there was no immediate confirmation or denial, from the burly Betazoid. “Dude, come on!” Brody called after Ebirone, a satisfying, pleading quality to his voice. Cursing to himself once more, the commander finally iced off the spot he stood on and jogged after his comrade, falling into the same pace, slightly behind him, to the side. For another few minutes, they walked on, in uncomfortable silence. The rain continuing to pelt down on them since they’d stepped from the building. At the very least, on the highway, they had a good field of vision and were able to secure the path ahead easily, As long as they didn’t encounter any hidden snipers. But the Jem’Hadar weren’t really known for such guerrilla tactics. They relied on their strength and brute force, rather choosing the frontal assault over good strategy. Probably more times than not, ignoring their Vorta superiors, who actually had a semblance of a plan.

As the path they were going seemed moderately safe, Brody found it was his duty to address another problem: The deafening silence. It wasn’t that he had the incessant need to socialise, but he was a little bit worried that, if they would get into another precarious situation, the big guy wouldn’t even let him know. “Listen, a truth usually implies moving on from the bad stuff …” he let out, in an exhaled huff. “So, tell me, in your other life, you run a noddle business?” the commander started off on a seemingly safe topic, making idle conversation. Which ran more or less smoothly, until they moved onto the last leg of their journey, towards the hideout. But at some point, he thought he heard voices, crackling through the splatter of rain drops, from a side street that would’ve been roughly in the direction of where they had originally come from, if he had retained any sense of direction. Jogging away from Ebirone, a few feet into the alley, the man held up his fist as a way of stopping the other man from calling after him. And as he stood there, for a few seconds, he could ultimately clearly discern at least two voices, talking to one another, in Federation standard.

Twirling his index finger around in a circular motion above his head, Brody slowly moved forward, cocking his rifle but not aiming through the scope yet. Slowly making his way in the direction of the voices, Ebirone in tow, he soon found himself behind a jagged wall of debris from a former building, easily seeing a woman and a young man, through some of the larger cracks. Adjusting his position and field of view slightly ... well bingo; there was their lost sheep. Waving his hand for the Betazoid’s attention, he vigorously pointed through one of the cracks at Bishop, for confirmation. Stepping back a little, so the bigger guy could get a clearer view of the situation, the commander quickly appraised the situation and their surroundings, they didn’t have much time. Things seemed tense on the other side of the wall.

Dark eyes falling onto a small restaurant to their right, which seemed to form the side of the little plaza beyond, that was cut off by the toppled building in their way, Brody tapped Ebirone on the shoulder, beckoning for him to follow him through the lower level of the business. Ironically, a noodle place. Crouch shuffling through the backdoor, into the kitchen and subsequently the bar area, both guys could quickly see the trio out in front of the place, their backs turned towards them. Taking another appraisal of the situation, the officer then pointed at Ebirone and the little guy, even though the Betazoid seemed to already have a different plan, at that point. “Woah, dude!” Brody hissed, as Ebirone skipped out of his cover. Following him in a crouched jog, lacing through the tables and chairs skillfully, he finally came up behind a boulder in front of the restaurant, aiming at the woman, who seemed a little more imposing. But from his position he’d be able to off the kid too, if necessary. Now, what the hell was the big guy up to?!
Title: Re: [2374] Operation 'Spark' - Betazed
Post by: Swift on July 29, 2020, 04:57:21 PM
[ Ebirone Elos (https://uss-theurgy.com/w/images/c/c3/EbironeElos001.png) | Eastern Highway | Dalaria City (http://uss-theurgy.com/w/images/1/11/DalariaCity2374n.png) | Betazed (https://memory-alpha.fandom.com/wiki/Betazed) ]

Admittedly, Ebirone had been more or less content with leaving Brody behind, but he knew that when faced with no other options, the spy would conceivably fall in behind him, acquiescent to follow. Needless to say, he could empathically sense the mounting rage held within the smaller man but hadn’t figured it would erupt in the manner that it had. So, when something, or rather someone had lunged atop of his back, sending him scrawling forward down a set of duracrete stairs, he’d for the briefest of moments considered that perhaps a Jem’Hadar had found them. But as he heard the unmistakable grunts and groans of an angered human male, naturally mixing with his own grunts and groans, it all fit together and led to the realization that he’d struck a chord in Brody. Immediately, old bootcamp training and instincts kicked in for the brute of a Betazoid, and he lurched with all his considerable strength against the now furious Intelligence operative attached to his back. He was honestly surprised by how much of a fight there was being put up by Brody, as he was clearly stronger in ways that a man his size probably shouldn’t have been. It was as if he had an absolute mountain of rage suddenly coursing through his veins, feeding him with a stockpile of adrenaline.

Still, in the end, it didn’t matter, because Ebirone wasn’t just some random native of Betazed. No, he’d had training. He’d been through his own wars. He’d proven himself in the trenches time, and time again. He could well-enough handle one pissed-off spy.

An old human comrade of his had once used the term ‘Jarhead’ in reference to Starfleet Marines, and to an extent, Ebirone had appreciate the term, and subsequently adopted it for himself. There was even a tattoo of the word in native-batazed somewhere on his body, though he hadn’t been bold enough to reveal its location to anyone just yet.

His arms entangled with Brody’s own as they fought for control, Ebirone had to struggle mightily until he was just in a better, more leveraged position than Brody. And as he rose to his feet, Brody hung around his neck trying to apply a rear chokehold, he tossed the man up and over him with a loud grunt that honestly felt like it’d injured his voice box. As Brody flipped over and landed on his feet in front of Ebirone, the bigger man seized the immediate initiative, and took firm grasp of Brody’s left arm, levering it back behind him in an armbar, before then wrapping his own right arm under and around the smaller man’s right armpit, slipping behind his neck in a sleeper hold. At the same time, Ebirone jab-kicked at the back of Brody’s right knee, putting him down onto it as he pushed forward, and then the two of them fell into a heap on the wet-socked pavement. Ebirone couldn’t resist shoving Brody’s prettier face into the duracrete ground as a little sign of dominance. It’d been a long time since the big Betazoid had wrestled anyone; somewhat a tradition in the old corps, and in the moment, he was exhilarated at the development, grinning from ear to ear in a sense of aggressive satisfaction.

He then shoved his knee into the small of Brody’s back, and held a firm grasp against his head, letting a little chuckle echo out of him in appreciation of how this had all gone down.

And at the insistence of what he could only assume was some sort of safe word, he offered a little grunt before he torqued a little on the man’s still pinned left arm, just to emphasize who won the competition before he ultimately released him. Towering over Brody for a moment as the rains continued to cascade down over his head and shoulders, he breathed raggedly before reaching down to heft the smaller man back up to his feet by the scruff of his jacket. He even regarded the man with a somewhat approving glance before he scooped up his disruptor from where it had clattered to the pavement and began moving back down and around the corner. He would make for the Eastern Highway that would circle up and around the periphery of the city, which in turn would lead them back to the Rena’s temporary bivouac. It was an old blown out building that from the outside, appeared to be nothing more than a condensed toppled mass of debris, jagged steel and duracrete scorched by fire. But in actuality, contained within it were a surprising number of intact spaces and rooms.

There was a call for a truce from Brody who followed after, and rather strangely enough, Ebirone had already accepted their little scrum as one of sorts. But he hadn’t really offered much in the way of words, if any at all since deciding that he’d had enough of the smaller man’s need to bitch. But Ebirone was a social creature, and soon found himself swayed by Brody’s attempts to win him back.

“You’re strong for your size. Damn strong.” He admitted aloud, stopping beside a pile of debris along the highway, his face grinning as he couldn’t help but offer a hearty laugh at the absurdity of their fight a few minutes earlier as Brody settled in next to him. “If I were even a little smaller, you’d have had me dead to rights.” He shook his head as he peered about their position for a minute, affording them both a moment to catch their breath. Squinting a little, Ebirone observed what was a long stretch of unprotected roadway that was mostly exposed to the elements, and the surrounding buildings. There wasn’t much in the way of cover at all. “All the same, I appreciate that kind of pissed off. Not at all as quiet and brooding as Bishop, are ya? Guy’s wound up like a coil most of the time. Used to hate him way worse than you do.” But as he could sense a desire to switch topics from their wayward companion, Ebirone so indulged Brody in some lighter personal banter.

“Nah, I’m retired. Spend most of my days hounding the ladies down at the bay. It’s a killer beach when the weather’s right. And when there’s not a damned Dominion Battle Cruiser hovering overhead.” Standing from where he’d knelt, he jogged a little way up the highway again, covering the open distance with a little more haste. Of course, as he did this, the skies only seemed to open even further as big heavy globules of rain droplets began splashing down from above them. It was almost like walking through a steady waterfall, only the waterfall was everywhere you went. It was absolutely and utterly invading in terms of how deeply it soaked you through, and he stopped in his jog, realizing that he could barely see even two-meters ahead of him. As it was, it made it very unlikely that anyone else would see them from an even modest distance. Out in the open as they were, thanks to the incessant storm that never seemed to let up, they were surprisingly obscured from everyone, and everything.

“Though...” He hollered out a little louder in order to be heard through the cacophony of monsoon like rain, looking back over his right shoulder to ensure that Brody was still keeping up. “...you know you ask that, and the thought had crossed my mind recently. Chris; she’s one of the other Starfleeters in our group. Well anyway, I took her to the place I like to eat, before all this. She liked it. But later, I made her some ‘Rah-Man’ noodles from a recipe I found in an old data-log from Earth, and she said it was better. So good, she suggested I open a little place in town and sell it.” He slowed up a little so that Brody could settle in beside him as they continued to make up the distance along the road, and so he wouldn’t have to holler as loudly in order to be heard. “Anyways, I was thinking it might even be a good way to get her to stay on Betazed, when this whole shitting mess is over. Ask her to be my hostess, or something.” He shrugged his shoulders as he genuinely relished in the chance to speak of something other than the resistance, and it was clear that he had harbored some sort of personal sentiment for this woman he referred to. Though it was equally as clear he didn’t necessarily seem to know the key words or means of turning her into something more than just a friend, or casual romantic acquaintance.

“What about you, pally?” he probed, figuring it was time to get a bit out of Brody. “What do I even call you, for that matter?”

[ Lt. Andrew Fisher (https://uss-theurgy.com/w/index.php?title=Andrew_Fisher) | Rena Resistance Bivouac | Dalaria City (http://uss-theurgy.com/w/images/1/11/DalariaCity2374n.png) | Betazed (https://memory-alpha.fandom.com/wiki/Betazed) ] Attn: @stardust

“Where are the others?”

With an exasperated sigh, Fisher’s green gaze swept from Aatrah to that of Sariah, who gradually began to close the distance between herself, and where Fisher was being held at by Aatrah’s disruptor-rifle. “I told you, they’re down the eastern highway probably. Making their way here by now!” he hollered out at her as globules of rain began to fall for them, splashing heavily against his already soaked through shoulders and head. He could barely even see the intense woman that served as the leader of the Rena Resistance Cell, even as she drew nearer, her rifle at the ready. Fisher had respected her greatly, as he’d seen the way she could lead, and inspire those around her to fight with bravery and courage. It almost seemed supernatural on her part, especially given the fact that prior to the invasion, she’d been nothing more than a school-teacher. Maybe that was why she was so good at this. She could lead children in learning, maybe that skill lent itself in leading adults in other ways. However, as much as he’d respected her, he didn’t necessarily get along with her particularly well. For as crazy as it sounded, Ebirone had rather succinctly, and colorfully pointed out that if there was one person on the entire planet with a stick shoved even further up their ass than Fisher, it was her.

“Sar... maybe he’s telling the truth?” her younger brother offered up pleadingly, his attention turning away just enough that if Fisher really wanted to, he could have easily disarmed him. “I mean, I know you tell me that we shouldn’t trust him. That he’s a spy. That spies shouldn’t be trusted, and all that. But maybe we should trust him just a little?” This had been an ongoing dispute between Aatrah and Sariah, as the younger Rena had somehow grown to appreciate Fisher. He assumed it was a result of the ‘allure’ of being a spy, that seemed to propagate among impressionable young-adults. The ‘James Bond’ complex, he’d heard it referred to once. But thus far, at his sister’s insistence, the kid had continued to treat him with a heavy dose of overt suspicion. It was all the result of distrust that had been bred in the Rena, some days earlier, when their previous Bivouac had been raided by Jem’Hadar forces. A raid which had resulted in the deaths of some twenty-three people within the group. In the aftermath of having fended off the attack, the Vorta that had been assigned as oversight was questioned while he bled out. And with abject scorn and an obvious taste for sewing discord, the Vorta had claimed that one of the Rena had betrayed them from within. That they had given the Dominion their location in exchange for considerations. As Sariah then tried to press on for which member of the group had betrayed them, the Vorta pointed out Fisher just before succumbing to his wounds.

In the moment, Sariah reacted with blind rage, almost killing Fisher then and there, but Ebirone had thankfully interceded on his behalf. The big Betazoid had seen through the Vorta’s game, just as Fisher and the others had. But anger, violence, and sorrow had blinded Sariah from that same rationale.

“Forget all that shit. I’m telling you where Ebirone is! I don’t know where Chris is, she got separated when Ebb and I got swarmed by Jem’Hadar. I’m certain she at least made it back to the canal.” Fisher tried to explain the whereabouts of their third party member, and in truth he was relatively certain that the small lithe red-head had managed to avoid capture. If so, she’d have recovered their canoe and was making her way back to the bivouac. The Jem’Hadar had been so focused on the fight with him and Ebirone, that they had simply ignored her. “Ebb then got washed out in the sewers, probably down to one of the emergency storm drains! If anything, he’s working his way up the highway right now!” Fisher kept his hands held at shoulder height as Sariah took another step toward him, her black eyes narrowed tightly as she appraised him with nothing but distrust, and distaste. Even before the events of a few days ago, she’d been critical of him and the way he’d approached the resistance. Fisher had figured she simply didn’t take to outsiders dictating how things were unfolding on Betazoid, especially humans, and especially if they were males.

“I should just shoot you!” she threatened, seeing the lack of reaction in Fisher’s face as a confession of guilt. “You sold us out! I can sense your guilt! The others might not be able to, but I can! And now you’ve sold out Ebb and Chris!”

Gritting his teeth as he felt betrayed by the accusation, Fisher let his eyes close for just an instant, and in that moment, he could still see the haunting images that were triggering that feeling of guilt within him. A feeling that she had then, and even now still mistook as guilt associated with betrayal. If the world around them weren’t so tense, and the pressure of the situation weren’t so high, she might’ve been able to feel more clearly with her empathic abilities. She might have been able to tell that his guilt came from a different emotional association. But as it was, given the condition of her surroundings, and the reality that had been imposed on her, it was easy to understand how she too had been compromised by emotion. How irrationality had so easily set up a foothold within her mind.

“Hey!” came a burly distant voice, and Fisher felt himself ease up in relief at the recognition of it.

“Would you two knock the shit out!” Ebirone called out aloud as he emerged from over a wall, grinning brightly at having reconnected with their lost companion, and having managed to make it back to the Bivouac unaccosted by the enemy. Looking back down over the wall, he made a ‘come-on’ motion with his head to Brody and clambered down until he stood on the pavement again. Immediately, Sariah and Aatrah eased up, the younger Rena even running over excitedly to welcome back his big friend with a friendly pat on the shoulder, to which Ebirone ruffled the young-man’s soaked hair, as though he were a faithful puppy. “When are you going to get it, that the Vorta was full of shit?” his words contained a substantially profound wisdom, and though it was clear that Sariah was happy to see him again, she still wasn’t ready to drop her suspicions of the man she knew only as ‘Bishop’.

“Chris made it back yet?” he asked, a sense of genuine concern evident in his voice.

“Not yet. Bishop was just telling us that he thinks she made to the canal.”

“If she did, then she should be due back soon. Hey!” Ebirone called out as he watched Brody climb over the wall. “Our pal’s still with us too. This is Mason.” He threw up a thumb back over his shoulder at Brody before continuing. “We got washed out into SDRT-120. Made our way up along the highway, just like Bishop told us to do if we ever got separated.” He nodded to the bearded man, before turning his attention back to Sariah. “I’m gonna take the runt down to the spillway, wait for Chris to arrive with the canoe. Give her a hand tying it off.” He shoved Aatrah ahead of him as they began to walk down a nearby road, away from Sariah before she had a chance to voice her protestation. With a broad grin that she couldn’t see, Ebirone knew he’d just ended whatever squabble was going on with a surprisingly deft approach, sensing the easing of tension in the high-strung Rena leader. It was a gift that had paid off in end some for the Rena Resistance Cell, time and time again. Whenever things seemed to get their lowest, the big Betazoid knew just the right thing to say, or do in order to lift their spirits, and break the tension.

“Fine. C’mon. Let’s get out of this rain.” She said as she regarded ‘Bishop’ and ‘Mason’ with narrowed eyes, though she at least lowered her rifle.

With that, Fisher appraised Brody for a brief moment, offering a single nod, before he began following after Sariah.

She led them down into the rubble, which soon gave way to an access corridor that had run the entire length of the building’s basement. There were rooms on either side of the long hallway, four on each to be exact, and at the end of the corridor there was a larger anteroom that contained what little supplies and weaponry the Rena Resistance had managed to get their hands on. There were close to a hundred or so civilians of all ages and genders, mostly Betazoids scattered throughout the tight confines, huddling into groups around small fires in an effort to stay warm. Some conversed verbally, while others were clearly engaged in telepathic conversations. There were children too, playing idly with each other with whatever toys they had managed to scrounge from the destroyed city scape. As Sariah led further onward to the anteroom which served as the main staging area, Fisher passed by the makeshift medical unit where there were still roughly two-dozen injured civilians in various states of distress. It was the very vision of every urban war that spilled out into the general civilian populace, and it sickened anyone with a heart who saw it.

“The other team hasn’t made it back yet.” She began to explain.
Title: Re: [2374] Operation 'Spark' - Betazed
Post by: stardust on August 03, 2020, 05:17:02 PM
[ Cmdr. Brody Miller (https://uss-theurgy.com/w/index.php?title=Brody_Miller) | Codename: Mason | Jem'Hadar Outpost Bravo-32 | Dalaria City | Betazed] Attn: @Swift
[Show/Hide]

Brody wasn’t sure if Ebirone merely intended to stroke his ego, out of a weird sense of compliance after their argument and subsequent scuffle, or if he truly meant his words. Either way, the smaller man could not deny himself that comfortable, honeylike sensation, covering his affectations towards superiority and power. It was a dangerous beast to stroke, certainly. But as he was compared to Bishop in an almost reverent light, the commander was convinced he was indeed being readily appraised. Still, he didn’t fully trust it. Thus, was simply his nature. “Well, if you want to spar again, just give me a head start.” he quipped quietly, raising a brow as a solitary indication of his covert, comedic nature. He certainly wasn’t going to ever defeat the burly Betazoid head on, with enough time for him to even mount a defense. Hell, even under the guise of surprise, he hadn’t managed to get a handle on him in the end. But now that he knew what brute force he was dealing with, maybe next time he could adjust his fighting style accordingly.

The mention of his former feelings towards the other operative, however, did not pass the man unnoticed, even though he chose not to react on it. The fact drew a better picture of the relationship he was dealing with, among the two other freedom fighters, and as that he was going to store it. Raising his brows, at the following revelation, as they passed a relatively open space of road with no obvious dangers, Brody was caught between an expression of revelation and awkwardness. Ebirone made himself sound like a Hemingway character. A retired sailor, sitting at the harbor, smoking his pipe, wolf-whistling after every young maiden that strolled by, telling his story of better times to everyone willing to listen. By now, he had spent way too much time in the realm of literary fiction, ever since pretending to be interested in such arts when meeting his wife, to not see some of those imaginary characters from history’s grand writers, in everyone he met. And as it so happened, Ebirone then continued to narrate a story of love and regret, like the best of them went.

He was a little bit hesitant, to walk by the side of the tall man, as he slowed down, giving more of his subtle facial expressions away. Sure, he was good at keeping things bottled up under that stern, dark façade, but given the time they had spent together and his nerves wearing thin, he was not so sure anymore, that his façade remained entirely intact. Because, while he could appreciate the sentiment, of keeping the one that completed you, by your side, he found the entire notion of living out their days in a little noodle shop, by the beach, to be mawkish and lacking any sense of ambition. Which was the fuel of his very existence. At this point, however, he had no intention to pass judgment on the man, that had opted to accept him more, instead of killing him, when he’d jumped his back. “If you find a girl that’s as much interested in ‘Ramen’ noodles as you, I’d say, never let her go.” The former operative shrugged idly, offering as much support for this crazy scheme as he could, without sounding insincere, or patronising.

As the conversation jumped to him, however, Brody regarded the Betazoid with dark, quizzical eyes. “Mason’s fine.” he retorted collectedly, pushing away the momentary notion of divulging his real name, the vowels and consonants having already lingered on the back of his tongue, when his conscience had jumped into action. Answering the second question first, by any means, had also given him time to evaluate his reply to the former. “I think Starfleet will be the end of the line for me, ‘pally’.” he snorted slightly, words lined with the almost incredulity of the moniker, though his face not betraying that stern, unbreakable look of his. Thus, he hadn’t divulged any information that hadn’t already been obvious, or previously established. But he realized then, that his curtness was slightly unwarranted, given how open his companion had been. So, with a theatrical sigh and slumped shoulders, the man let his eyes trail squinted through the lines of rain, hanging like strings from the sky. “Though I would not mind trying your ‘Rah-man’ when all of this is over.”

Patting the larger man encouragingly on his shoulder, Brody jogged into the direction of where he had heard the voices coming from. And after a brief lay of the land, and the discovery of their long lost missing brother, they had both skulked through the adjacent noodle place, only for Ebirone to break cover and inject himself into the situation entirely. Cringing at the loud introduction, the curt word cutting through the considerably complacent rushing of the rain like a machete, the commander remained behind the large boulder until he would either hear disruptor fire or someone cheering in joy. Neither of which really happened. But as he heard the Betazoid talk to the woman and kid in a rather acquainted manner, he was able to draw the obvious conclusion, that they had coincidentally stumbled across the resistance cell … and that they were just as reluctant to trusting Bishop as he was. He could feel the warmth of inter-disciplinary bonding already.

Slowly standing up out of his cover, letting the black phaser rifle hang loosely by his side, finger still flush against the trigger guard, Brody gave a brief, thin-lipped nod at the woman. The boy seemed of no importance or threat, at the moment. Acquitting the curt invitation with a slow nod, to mirror Bishop’s, as Ebirone took the kid to pick up his lover from some canoe trip, the man remained in his position for just a moment longer, letting Sariah and the bearded man lead the way. “A pleasure to meet you too! So glad you could join our little rascal rebellion. We appreciate all the sacrifice and bullshit you must’ve had to put up with … come in, come in! Enjoy the fabled Betazoid hospitality!” he muttered extensively under his breath, all the way down the rabbit-hole, disguised by the torrential rain, if only she hadn’t been telepathic too.

Arriving in some sort of unsealed corridor, or sub-basement, Brody was a little bit surprised at the lack of obvious defence precautions, safe the barely distinguishable entrance among the rubble. They passed a couple of civilians, close to the entrance, in makeshift ‘barracks’ installed into the subterranean rooms, huddling around small fires, that surely seeped their smoke through the crevices in the ceiling and out into the cityscape. He could feel the desperation ooze from every bad decision made in an effort to stay afloat in this mess. It both shocked and annoyed him. Finally, they came into a larger room that seemed to be some sort of armory, or fitting room … a command post perhaps, at the center of the structure. Placing his backpack and rifle down against a column, as they stopped in their tracks, making a mental note of where he’d left it, the man took off his waterproof jacket, revealing the Starfleet issue undershirt over his tense muscles, drenched everywhere, that the coat hadn’t covered.

[Show/Hide]

Rolling his shoulders, finally free of the restraining, non-elastic fabric, and the restrictions of the heavy backpack, the man let his dark eyes trail between the Starfleet agent and the Betazoid resistance leader for a moment, as they simply started to go about their daily business of passive aggressive cooperation, seemingly. He could understand her frustration with the foolish operative, but he also thought she was a trigger-happy egomaniac, so his sympathies for either side were limited. “I hate to be that douchebag, who comes in here and pisses on everyone’s feet, but … was that the only way in and out, that we came down? Is there an evacuation route in case we get bogged down from the front? Is that smoke filtered down somewhere? Are those vents even still functional and have you checked that none of this baseball field lighting seeps through the cracks of the building?!” he wiggled on his feet, looking at both of them expectantly, feeling the growing tension.

“I am sorry, but if I am going to be stuck in here for the next …” he pulled up his chronometer. “… 25 hours, then I want to know where the emergency exits are.” he stated, definitely, even reinforcing the urgency with raised brows and a conclusive nod, before taking in the momentary silence. He could just hang out in here for the time being, until the moon came back into view and he could transport Bishop off this planet, if he wanted to or not. So far, this little ‘plan’ of his had been derailed more times than not. And it had evidently been only 7 hours! Placing both hands on his hips, he evaded the stares subsequently, looking around to some of the other onlookers. “Also ... is that soup I smell?”
Title: Re: [2374] Operation 'Spark' - Betazed
Post by: Swift on August 06, 2020, 02:48:23 PM
[ Lt. Andrew Fisher (https://uss-theurgy.com/w/index.php?title=Andrew_Fisher) | Codename: Bishop | Rena Resistance Bivouac | Dalaria City (http://uss-theurgy.com/w/images/1/11/DalariaCity2374n.png) | Betazed (https://memory-alpha.fandom.com/wiki/Betazed) ] Attn: @stardust

As Fisher followed after Sariah, who led both him and ‘Mason’ further down the main access corridor of the current Rena Bivouac, he could hear some indistinguishable muttering from behind him, but didn’t feel the necessity to investigate what had been said. He’d simply figured that If it really mattered, then ‘Mason’ would have spoken more clearly, and made more a point of it. Clearly however, whatever sentiment that he’d missed, Sariah hadn’t as she looked coldly back over her right shoulder past Fisher with her enveloping black eyes that were a dominant trait of her species. Normally such a cold and contemptuous gaze had been reserved for him, and pretty much only him; and that was before the whole Vorta accusation thing. Now it seemed that ‘Mason’ would step forward and be someone else to invoke the ire of the leader of this resistance cell. In a way, Fisher found himself feeling a little sense of pre-emptive commiseration toward the newcomer. It was almost an unspoken bonding experience. Especially as he saw her gaze turn back up the corridor, and she held up her hands on either side of her in a most mocking display.

“Oh... I’m sorry. I guess we neglected to kiss your ass enough, eh ‘Mason’?” her voice echoed with surprising carry back down the corridor, as though she were deliberately trying to ensure that everyone could hear what she was on about. Of course, it was deliberate, Fisher knew. He’d experienced a similar drubbing in front of the others on more than a few occasions himself. “I’ll make sure to get one of the girls to come on over for that signature Betazoid welcome!” The abject sarcasm in her tone was so thick you could have cut it with a knife, and then spread it out over a piece of bread. “As soon as they get over their irrational fear of being put up against a wall and shot.”

‘Yeah, that’s about a PAR for the course welcoming.’ Fisher thought, and immediately regretted it as he knew she’d react to him too.

“PAR for what spies like you deserved, Bishop.” The manner in which she spat out ‘spies’ clearly evocative of how she felt. “Who is this guy anyway?”

“He’s another me.” Fisher answered her rather curtly, letting the vicious tone in Sariah’s voice fuel the often-sarcastic demeanor he offered her. And as she rolled her eyes as if to express her ‘joy’ at that revelation, Fisher allowed himself a grin of satisfaction. Whereas others might have let her get under their skin and would have grown frustrated by the way she seemed so intent on treating them with scorn, Fisher wasn’t so willing to relent. He knew that it would’ve been a surrendering on his part. No, he was more inclined to absorb whatever petty jibes she threw at him with great poise, and an ever-present shit-eating grin spread happily across his face. “Only he bitches more than me.” He soon added, finding it necessary to in a sense distance himself from the character of the other Intelligence Agent, while simultaneously recognizing a chance to make one of his own jibes at the newcomer’s expense. “In fact, I think you two might just get along.” He moved around to stand adjacent to Sariah as she’d come to stop before a beat-up aluminum table, on which an old paper map of the city was spread out, a number of markings drawn across it denoting the strong points from which the Dominion seemed to control much of the city. “I mean, you both share some relative commonality. For instance, you both blame all of your problems on me, and you both hate me because of it. In no time, I’m sure you’ll be sharing a moment in that commonality.” His green gaze moving from her to Bishop as he came to a stop before the table as well. “Roasting marshmallows. Telling stories. Playing truth-or-da--”

“I’m not amused, Bishop.”

The glare of her eyes casting over him combined with the manner in which she’d cut him off spoke to the effectiveness of his taunting, and he knew that for the moment he’d scored a minor and absolutely petty moral victory. “No, you wouldn’t be. Would you?” he admitted, sensing what his moral victory might mean in the grander scheme of things. A greater rift between him, and the leader of the resistance cell he was meant to coordinate and work with. Not exactly a recipe for success in any book that he’d ever read. In fact, he was certain he could already hear the admonishing appraisals of his demeanor during this operation, and how it hadn’t exactly served to facilitate any sense of trust within Sariah. He was all too certain that if he survived the war, and if the word of that demeanor ever made it back to his superiors, that he’d find himself sent to some kind of bullshit sensitivity training seminar hosted by any number of Starfleet Counseling Officers that sought to psycho-analyze everything and everyone in an unending circle jerk. The thought made his skin crawl, and he figured it might be best if he let the issue drop for now. Especially before she caught wind of that feeling with her damnable telepathic capabilities.

“Don’t worry, Bishop. I’ll be sure to put in a good word for you with your superiors, when this over.” She cruelly promised him, having indeed sensed his apprehension at the idea, and knowing she could score her own minor and equally as petty moral victory.

It was an interesting dynamic between Fisher and Sariah, who clearly didn’t hold a candle for each other on any kind of personal level. Fisher of course respected the elder Rena, though he hadn’t exactly made that abundantly clear to her. And to a modest degree Sariah held in reserve her own sense of respect for Fisher, spurred on by fact that he’d volunteered to come and fight for the liberation of Betazed. But trust was an aspect that only seemed to flow in one direction, as from the very onset Sariah had sensed some ulterior motive at-play within the sage-eyed Intelligence Operative, and she’d thus been unable to put an exact fix on what that motive was. It was the uncertainty of that motive that later combined with the accusation of betrayal, made from a dying Vorta no less, that had cemented her distrust of him in an essentially permanent manner. Were it not for Ebirone, whom Sariah did trust, explicitly so, she would have likely cast Fisher out, or even killed him herself. But the big Betazoid had evidently come to an understanding of Fisher, one that he hadn’t felt inclined to elaborate on for her behalf, but one that was still just barely enough to warrant a staying of her hand.

Now there was another Intelligence Operative that Sariah would have to contend with, she soon realized, and her eyes shifted from ‘Bishop’ to ‘Mason’ just as the latter began to voice a number of concerns he’d had. Concerns that immediately drew an overtly contemptuous reaction on her part as she rolled her eyes in apparent exhaustion of him. She even planted the flats of both hands against the table and leant over it as she struggled to stifle a growing desire to shut the man up.

Fisher however, appreciated Brody’s outward display of pragmatism, especially as it had clearly annoyed the woman standing across from him.

When ‘Mason’ had indeed finished spelling out his long list of concerns, and even though he wasn’t telepathic, Fisher could sense the Resistance leader gearing up to tell the man off. “Fair enough, concerns!” he quickly exclaimed, a little more energetically than he’d intended, but he knew he had to intercept her before she could bring form to her words, exacerbating the already tenuous relationship between her, him, and ‘Mason’. And people had said Fisher would make a terrible diplomat. “Aside from the entrance that you came through, there’s one just down that short left bend there.” He pointed to a side of the staging area, where a short corridor seemed to lead. “And another through the third room behind you, on the left. It leads up to the warehouse directly adjacent to his lot, though it’s currently barricaded to prevent anyone from venturing through from the other side.” Taking heed of the fact that the floor was his for the moment, he cleared his throat audibly before addressing the other voiced concerns. “The rainwater runs off into a sub-system of drains, which in turn feeds down into the primary sewers. The same sewers that washed out you an Ebb earlier. As for the smoke from the small fires, it wafts up into the above rubble, co-mingling with the still smoldering debris and gets blended in with the rest of the other equally as smoldering buildings around us. When those fires go out, ours will too.”

“But for now, these people could use a little warmth in their lives.” Sariah added afterward, her care for them evident by the tone of her voice, as it had shifted away from the disdain, she had held for the two of them.

There was a silence that lingered on afterward, as Fisher and Sariah seemed to appraise one another for a moment. As though they had re-discovered something redeemable within each other. A somewhat awkward silence that was thankfully broken when ‘Mason’ expressed an interest in the wafting smell of food that came from the nearby mess area.

“What’s the other team’s status?” Fisher raised his own concern.

“They’re not technically overdue for another hour or so. They had to cover three times the distance as your team. They’ll be back. They're not as prone to trouble as you and Ebb are.”

“Alright. Keep me appraised.”

“You’re a spy. Keep yourself appraised.” Sariah fired back as Fisher stepped away from the table, moving around to lead Brody off toward the mess area. Over his shoulder he cast her slightly bemused gaze as she glared over the two of them.

“C’mon. Cook manages to turn out some halfway decent chow, all things considered.” Fisher explained as he motioned for Brody to follow after him, hoping that the other man might actually heed his beckoning, rather than stay and stir things up, as to an extent things between himself and Sariah had settled in an amicable way. There was still a massive rift between them, of course. One that would take months, if not years to ever close. If that was even at all a possibility, and he was relatively certain it wasn’t. But they didn’t need to like each other, in order to work together. They only needed to have some kind of understanding of one another, and maybe even the tiniest shred of trust extended. It wasn’t the easiest working relationship that he’d ever dealt with, in fact it was likely the hardest of them all, but it did function, and at a level that made it well worth maintaining.

As he led ‘Mason’ back down the hall into one of the rooms that ran along it, Fisher stopped at the rear of a small crowd of the refugees huddled around an Andorian male that presided over a large cooking pot, which was suspended above a makeshift stove of bricks and grated metal. Flames of burning reclaimed wood licked over the bottom of the soot and scorched pot as ‘Cook’ ladled out what appeared to be some kind of meat-stew into the emergency mess-kit bowls that the Resistance had managed to recover from a storage depot some days earlier. Scooping up a pair of the stamped aluminum bowls, Fisher handed one off to Brody as they settled in line behind the others, making their way forward for a bit of food. “I know you likely won’t listen to a word I say. Probably because you have some undue reserved notions of who I am stuck in that thick skull of yours. Granted, maybe they aren’t entirely undue.” He admitted as they took a step closer to the front of the line. “But don’t let Sariah get to you. She hates my guts. Well... our guts. She hates spies.” He explained simply for Brody’s understanding, whether or not he needed it. “But she manages to keep these people going, and they trust her to make the right decisions.”

Offering up his bowl before ‘Cook’, the Andorian smiled brightly as he ladled a portion of the stew into it, before offering a similarly sized ladle of food to Brody.

“And for the most part, she’s proven their trust right.” He added as he stepped away, selecting an aluminum spoon from a stockpile of them resting atop a nearby table as he went over to stand in an emptier section of the mess area, so as not to disturb the others as they went about finding comfort and peace in something a simple as a shared meal.

“...and did I hear you right, back there?” he poised the question, before following it up with another as he scooped up some of the meat stew. “*BASEBALL* field lightning?”
Title: Re: [2374] Operation 'Spark' - Betazed
Post by: stardust on August 09, 2020, 05:41:12 PM
[ Cmdr. Brody Miller (https://uss-theurgy.com/w/index.php?title=Brody_Miller) | Codename: Mason | Jem'Hadar Outpost Bravo-32 | Dalaria City | Betazed] Attn: @Swift
[Show/Hide]

Sure, Brody had half expected his small, little rant to go unnoticed. It was a busy little ant hive they were venturing into, after all, and the Betazoid warrior princess seemed to be rather preoccupied with her animosity and disparaging of the bearded spy. Yet, he obviously had underestimated a woman’s potential for multi-task bitching, as the venom was suddenly sprayed his way too, though not directionally though. Opening his mouth after the first snide comment, the man quickly decided against mounting any immediate defence, else he would’ve had to fight a hundred little battles, until they were done. No, it was wiser to let her get all that shit out and then drop the bomb on her, that tilled all animosity. After all, he’d been married for a hot minute of learning all this shit. So, he just dutifully nodded at each line, with a noticeable ignorance, almost belied by the notion. The lengths she went to in order to bring a point across were slightly cringy, but truthful enough, he supposed. So at least that, he would not hold against her. Noting the other man’s subtle amusement and relief, at not being the target of her verbal artillery bombing, the commander gave a light huff.

“I think I’ll have to gratefully decline, due to prior commitments.” he replied vaguely, not mirroring the woman’s sharp tone in the slightest. He knew for a fact, he could be far more annoying if not showing any reaction, or remorse, for that matter. And it took far less effort than firing back each and every time. The situation then briefly turned into a little inside banter between the two potential odd-lovers, and Brody shuffled on his feet. Letting his eyes trail around to assess the rest of the room and the people within it, he noticed that they clearly did everything they could to seem as unaware of what was going on as they could. It was sort of amusing. But he hadn’t flown all this way to be the bystander to a little unresolved sexual tension. “Charming, bro.” he gave Bishop a cold smile, appraising him with his dark eyes through slotted lids. He actually liked the disillusioned, snide and rough man much better than the trying hard to be funny kind. If anything, THAT was the true commonality he shared with … what was her name? Sarah? He’d probably just refrain from addressing her by name, than endure the wrath of daring to ask again.

“Alright, you two, either get a room or let’s circle back to the facts here.” The former operative finally intervened, spinning his index finger downwards, in a circular motion. “And why would Starfleet care about your opinion? Not to rain on your parade any further, but your little rebellion wasn’t even on Command's map, until they sent him to coordinate with you!” A disgruntled sigh followed; he couldn’t believe he was actually making a case for the guy. But in a way, he was doing so for himself too, proving a point to Bishop just the same, in a way. “I know this might not bode with you well, but while you’re fighting for your little beachside resorts and noodle places, there’s an entire quadrant out there, Starfleet has to look after. We’ve lost half the 2nd fleet in our last two attempts to retake your planet. From the twenty-four operatives sent to help you, only one can be confirmed to still be alive, at this point.” he pointed casually past her at Fisher, dark eyes growing fiery with agitation and the stress and lack of gratitude, slowly bringing the kettle to a boil. “We’re not here to steal away what little semblance of power and control you need to bathe yourself in order to not feel useless.”

And he stopped, though he could’ve gone on a fair bit longer. Bishop had intervened before things could boil over. Well, good for him, Brody wouldn’t have minded making the little woman cry. He could feel his temper infect his every muscle with a burning vigor that numbed out his nerves and rationale. He hated this fucking place and he hated his own stupidity even more. That he once more let the allure of the spy-game tantalise him into a mission with the prospect of making a profound difference when, in fact, it was the same shit-show it always had been. The very reason why he’d quit. On a starship he gave the orders, and everyone followed them. He didn’t deal with renitent Amazons, who somehow thought that a class of Tae Bo and a Sunday course in home-management, made them exceptionally privy to being a leader. Oh, and he was not sorry if she could read his very thoughts. Actually, if anything, he made a point to think rather clearly, so she could get it all.

Shifting his attention to Bishop, nostrils still flaring with the exhale of a hot breath kept in way too long, the commander sucked his cheeks in between his teeth, appraising the facts laid out in return to his critique. “Finally, something one can work with.” He threw his hands in the air, frustration still gnawing on his every limb. Only to discredit the woman’s reply with a roll of his dark eyes. She just couldn’t restrain herself, could she. Well, he wasn’t going to make a case for it being a bad quality in a leader, since he’d shown similar shortcomings just seconds ago. Didn’t mean he was cutting her any slack for it. And just like that, Bishop had been demoted to a minor annoyance, as Sariah took the prime spot in his shit-book. “Well, since they’re obviously not getting it from you.” he looked away, shrugging in idle pettiness, letting the tip of his tongue hollow out an ‘O’ in his lips. Looking back at her, however, as she continued to embellish a simple answer with the vile bitterness of whatever it was that crawled up her ass, he simply didn’t say anything … but that already said enough. There was one word rolling around in his mind that described her rather aptly.

And even though Brody wasn’t really hungry, the distraction and change of place was a welcome one. He had no intent to mend things with the woman, no matter what mawkish hopes Bishop harbored. He wasn’t looking for a local guide to call upon, if he ever came back to Betazed, once all of this was over. To sit at the beach with a beer in their hands and reminisce on the times spent in the foxholes. Following the bearded man further back into the tunnels and caverns, following a stench of food mixed with … other scents, rather not to be identified in detail, the man’s stomach started to churn uncomfortably. Arriving in the ‘cantina’ where the ‘cook’ poured ‘stew’ on ‘plates’ … there wouldn’t have been enough air-quotes in the galaxy, to make any of this sound ‘normal’. Critically inspecting the pot, and more closely its contents, he simply took a deep breath and decided to simply try and sip the broth for sustenance. “Actually …” the man started out, watching the watery soup splash into his tin bowl. “… she made a pretty good case for you being the lesser asshole.” he stated, potentially as somewhat of a peace offering. His enemy’s enemy, and such.

Following Bishop into a quieter corner of the place, leaning his back against the wall before letting the spoon trail through the stew, unearthing all sorts of unidentifiable things, he still held out hope to be back on the shuttle in some twenty odd hours, replicating a proper beef goulash. “The quality of a leader is not measured by how much luck they have in making the right decisions.” he simply grumbled, bringing one spoon full of broth up to his lips, blowing a delicate breath across it, as to not spread it all over his companion. Painfully reminded that maybe he was not that dissimilar to the Betazoid resistance leader. Dark eyes resting on the people ahead, how they ministered over their meals, however, he was half intent to give his portion to someone who might’ve enjoyed it more. But ultimately, his visual attention was warranted by Bishop’s rather incredulous query. Narrowing his eyes slightly, to gauge the guy’s intent, the former operative decided to let the spoon chill on its own for a moment. “Yeah, a ball and a bat, three bases … commonly enjoyed by humans in the 21st century?!” he tried to prod for some sort of revelation, unaware of the other man’s deeper connection to the sport.

“Also, listen …” Brody cleared his throat, letting the spoon fall back into the bowl, which he was then placing on a nearby ledge. “… I don’t really care what her deal or her goal is, she does not concern me. I stayed because YOU said you had a plan. And while we’re sitting here chowing on this … dog food – no offense.” he raised a disarming hand to the Andorian, who might’ve been able to overhear his not exactly covert tone. “Time is running out. I told you, I will extract you whether you are willing to or not. Now, this is a fair warning, again.” He reassured, raising his brows to further the point as he nodded. “So, what is your plan, and how are we going to make it happen in the next twenty hours?”
Title: Re: [2374] Operation 'Spark' - Betazed
Post by: Swift on August 13, 2020, 08:37:13 PM
[ Lt. Andrew Fisher (https://uss-theurgy.com/w/index.php?title=Andrew_Fisher) | Codename: Bishop | Rena Resistance Bivouac | Dalaria City (http://uss-theurgy.com/w/images/1/11/DalariaCity2374n.png) | Betazed (https://memory-alpha.fandom.com/wiki/Betazed) ] Attn: @stardust

Fisher had been expecting a boil over of some kind from Sariah during Brody’s barbed tirade, which had been directed almost entirely in her direction, which was a somewhat pleasant change of pace from the usual manner in which he seemed to be the target of everyone’s ire. But he’d known that it would cause more bad than good to let such an occurrence happen and was exceedingly glad to have managed to intervene before it could. Maybe even let a little bit of that bubbling fury drain off harmlessly in the process, as he sought to address the concerns presented by Brody on her behalf. For the most part, it seemed to have worked too, that is until Brody poked just one too many times, and Fisher knew what was about to come in reaction, because he’d already been fortunate enough to have received it himself, several times in fact. Resigned to what would be her reply, and almost able to predict each of the words as they were spoken, Fisher let his head slump slightly as a hand went to his temples.

“You know what, ‘Mason’, you’re right. Starfleet has done one hell of a job so far. Haven’t they, ‘Bishop’?” she spat back at him, the venom in her words more reserved for the newer of the two spies, though it still sought to sting at the other. “And in case ‘YOU’ weren’t up to speed, the whole reason my home even fell to the fucking Dominion...” Her black eyes locked on Brody as she pointed an accusatory finger in his direction before she resumed capitalizing on this opportunity to vent, as it had been presented to her. “...is because your Starfleet were caught with their pants down. Out on some stupid training exercise when they were supposed to be holding the damned line.” She let her glare shift to Fisher for just a moment, before it returned to Brody, and she resumed her equally as barbed tirade. “And by the way, what exactly do you think has been going on here? You think we choose to live in this level of squalor? Out of some kind of fun? You forget that we’ve already lost hundreds of thousands of people due to your Starfleet, and their abject failures? Huh? So, you’ll excuse me, if I don’t feel overly appreciative of your bull-shit ‘we’re trying our best’ sentiment. As far as I’m concerned, you can shove that shit right up your ass, along with your condescending tone.”

Having puffed out a bit of air at the awkward tension, Fisher had then averted his green-eyes from either of them.

“So... stay or go. I honestly don’t give a shit. This fight began without your help, and it can certainly also be won without it.” At that, she’d had her say and went back to appraising the layout of the map.

Silence then seemed to linger for a moment before Fisher led Brody off from the staging area, headed for the cantina for a quick bite to eat. Knowing that it would serve all involved parties some good if there was a bit of distance for a short moment. He hadn’t even come to know this ‘Mason’ in the slightest yet, but he had already certainly ascertained his skill for pissing people off. It was second only to his incessant need to whine and moan. Something he naturally defaulted to as Fisher stood opposite him, tending to a plate of the stew that ‘Cook’ had fashioned out of the standard issue emergency field rations that they’d been surviving on thus far. Oddly enough, he’d long since developed a liking of the stringy texture of re-hydrated protein bits that came in those rations, regardless of how chewy and dried out they were. They were still somewhat pleasing to the palette, maybe his more-so than the others, but he appreciated the food that was turned out. Today’s offering even had a slightly intriguing tangy zip to the flavor, he noted, and wondered what ‘Cook’ had added to the concoction so as to elicit such a taste.

But as he’d brought another spoonful of the stew to his lips, listening to the other Spy make assertions about Sariah’s leadership, and how luck didn’t make someone a good leader, he’d considered for a moment to correct that line of thought, but let it go. Sariah wasn’t just lucky, she had made some deft decisions in her time thus far, that he might not have made in her position, and would have likely spelled their doom as a result. But his attention wasn’t caught by Brody’s inaccurate consideration, instead by a pair of worried black-eyes that stared up at him and Brody from a corner of the cantina. One of the children, he figured; she was watching him and Brody as they shared their conversation, and Fisher felt his heart sink a little in realization of what all this was likely doing to such a young girl. How traumatizing it must have been to have to hide in a place like this, while literal scaly monsters were seeking you out, so as to end your young life before it ever truly began. It ate at Fisher’s conscience, as he remembered the truth in Sariah’s accusations; it had been Starfleet’s fault that the Dominion had so easily come to dominate Betazed. They had allowed this to happen.

His appetite leaving him, Fisher set the plate down on a table as he turned his attention back to Brody, and immediately felt the need to roll his eyes. It was more bitching, as it always was with him. How did this guy ever find the time necessary to make it through Starfleet, given how much of it he devoted to whining? As it was though, he wasn’t about to let the man get under his skin, at least not worse than he already had. Looking back to the young girl huddled in the corner, he felt obligated to offer her a reassuring smile of sorts. If he couldn’t guarantee her survival, he could at least make her feel a little more at ease in the moment.

“Y’know...” he began to speak, letting that false little smile linger on his face as he turned back to Brody, not wanting it to appear so obvious that the two were arguing. “...with that ‘me against everyone’ attitude of yours, you strike me as a Phillies fan.” It was an assumption of course, but from what Fisher had read of the old files concerning Major League Baseball from the late 20th and 21st centuries, the fans of that particular team had garnered a somewhat difficult reputation among other fans. They were notoriously passionate, to the point of standing rather viciously in opposition of other fans, even violently so. They were the ultimate exemplars of a stand-offish attitude, and that too had fit Brody like a glove.

But before Brody could respond in kind. Fisher accepted the invitation to focus on matters that actually did matter.

“When the second team gets back, which should be any moment now, we’ll have the location of the Dominion signal jammers.” Turning his shoulder, so that there was no chance that a majority of the others could hear what he was saying, though as they were telepaths it might not have made that much of a difference. Still, it seemed like the appropriate thing to do, so as to at least look like they were of a unified front on things. “Once we have that, we can get access to one of them, and insert Brighton’s algorithm, which will in turn trick the jamming network into serving as signal amplifiers, giving the Rena, and other resistance cells a means to communicate with one another, and even directly coordinate with Starfleet.” Running a hand up to his chin, Fisher scratched at his beard as he resumed sharing the details with Brody. “And at that point, we can send you on your merry way.” Determined to let it sit at that, he knew it wasn’t any time or place to address the obvious point of contention between the two men. He figured that they’d cross that road when the right time came and was more than happy to let it sit unresolved until then. Especially as he was in no way willing to abandon Betazed whilst the Dominion were still holding so tightly onto it. He’d already decided when first volunteering for the mission, that it was as good a hill as any to die on.

It could be the one legitimate bit of good he’d do during what he was certain would be his final mission as an Intelligence Operative. Four years had been strenuous enough on him and his psyche and had taken an incredible toll on his will to remain the good person that he was. He had every confidence that if he didn’t step away from it soon, that it would claim what little vestiges of humanity that still lingered within him. So, be it in death, or in walking away, when Betazed was freed, and the war came to an end, he would have tendered his resignation from Starfleet Intelligence, and no one short of the hand of God himself would talk him out of it.

“Red Sox, by the way.” He simply stated, so as to answer a question that he was certain Brody wasn’t at all interested in asking. It was just another jibe at the man’s rigid unflexing exterior, and another attempt at demonstrating how Fisher wasn’t going to be bothered by him.

An instant later there was a shuffling of footsteps from down the corridor, and at the head of it came a boisterous laugh that he immediately recognized as Albert Brighton.

“We back! We got it!” he hollered out in his deep baritone.

Grinning in appreciation of that fact, Fisher poked his head out into the corridor as Brighton strode confidently by him, headed for the staging area to debrief with Sariah. “Speak of the Devil.”

Falling in behind Brighton was the blue-skinned Dr. Betrull, the resident field Physician of the Rena Resistance Cell. He’d come to Betazed to lead a Starfleet Medical clinic in the city just prior to the bombardment and had been forced into hiding along with all other Starfleet personnel afterwards. Of the Rena members, he was by far the quietest, but whenever he did offer something up, it was generally worth listening to. Behind him was Ebirone, one of his big arms slung over the shoulder of the cranberry-haired slender woman that had made up the third part of their mission to sabotage the Industrial Replicators; she had managed to slip away during the Jem’Hadar ambush, and had clearly made her way back to the Bivouac via the canal, as had been theorized earlier. She had a look in her face that spoke to the absurdity of Ebirone’s overly-affectionate appreciation of her, though there was a broad smile across her face that spoke to it being a somewhat mutual feeling. Lastly, the runt of the litter, Aatrah chased after them with a face that beamed of delight at having the whole group back together, regardless of however long that would last. Given the relatively sorrowful situation surrounding them, it brought a much-needed ounce of levity to the situation, seeing the goofy little dork filled with such silly confidence, that it even seemed to infect Fisher as he offered his own bright grin in return.

“I guess it’s about time to light the match. Let’s see where the tinder is stacked the highest.” Fisher said simply, falling in behind the retinue.
Title: Re: [2374] Operation 'Spark' - Betazed
Post by: stardust on August 15, 2020, 09:22:52 AM
[ Cmdr. Brody Miller (https://uss-theurgy.com/w/index.php?title=Brody_Miller) | Codename: Mason | Rena Resistance Bivouac | Dalaria City | Betazed] Attn: @Swift
[Show/Hide]

Dark eyes, unwavering on the Betazoid woman’s almost similar irises, Brody didn’t make any effort to back down, spiritually, physically, or otherwise. “His” Starfleet, really? It almost sounded like he had a nationalist on his hands, someone who, even before the invasion, had not felt too kindly for being part of their interstellar family. He wasn’t going to reason the importance of training exercises with her, nor the intricacies of fleet deployment in an area that took weeks to traverse at high warp. He had said his piece, and that’s what it had all been about. He knew he’d not be able to appeal to reason with someone as emotional as her. Which was funny, because he was probably being ascribed a rather similar notion. Sure, he had been passionate about getting his point across, he was a Starfleet officer first, and everything else later. Questioning that one second would’ve meant to invalidate every sacrifice he’d made, fighting for it. It would’ve reduced his life’s work to an illusion of dying piece by piece for something that mattered.

“That makes absolutely no sense …” the man muttered quietly, shaking his head with a resigning sigh, in reply to her last statement, as he turned to follow Bishop out of the room. After all, the woman had just spent about a dozen cubic feet of air trying to pin this whole invasion as a fault on Starfleet. But he had learned, there was a certain sense of logic, or delusion thereof, in what justified a woman’s emotional displays. His entire body chemistry may have prevented him from understanding it, and if he had minded only one bit about her, he may have found it in himself to accept it, but ended up just not caring enough. Which oddly enough brought his sympathy for the other operative closer into perspective. Not only because they both seemed to share in the Rena leader’s wrath. There was something unifying about the sentiment. But also, he felt even just the slightest bit of respect for the fact that Bishop had managed to endure that treatment for as long as he had and still fought for the cause. Maybe he would have to slightly rethink his preconceptions and ease up on the man a little. After all, he had not tried to get himself killed for at least 20 minutes, not counting the evoked wrath of the dragon.

Watching the man subsequently dive into the stew, like he was under some kind of spell, that made it taste like lobster thermidor, Brody couldn’t help but swallow the urge to actually regurgitate his own breakfast. He’d just given himself the shivers. Shaking his head free, with closed eyes, dark orbs focused once more as the other man spoke. Narrowing them immediately, perking his pate slightly to the side as he appraised Bishop, the man had to take a moment to deceiver why this was relevant in this situation. “Just because I hold my ‘team’ accountable, doesn’t mean I am turning on them.” he shrugged, letting the notion fall off his broad shoulders as nothing but an odd reference, intended to somewhat characterise his relationship with other protagonists in this mess. He didn’t reflect on himself as hard to get along with, but he did have certain expectations that needed to be met, that he was passionate about, that he considered non-negotiable. So yeah, maybe it was rather obvious, even though the reference was of a centuries old cliché.

Even as Bishop continued on the more pressing matters of THIS century, the former operative could not quite shake the curiosity it had sparked, over how the other man would’ve been too so knowledgeable about ancient earth sports and the long extinct fanbase around it. Blinking a few times, his brain then shifted into a more professional gear, evaluating the facts presented to him. Up until he practically already picked out Brody’s farewell card. Crossing his arms, he gave the man a stern look. “I’ll be coming back to that.” He waved one hand from the confines of the pretzel across his chest. “What’s the plan on how to covertly get to an access port to upload the algorithm? I am pretty sure that if we stun, neck-pinch or evaporate even just one of the guards, the station will be taken offline and thoroughly inspected.” he posed his first question, appearing as if the prying of loopholes provided particular joy to the man. “And how do you intend to propagate the algorithm throughout the jamming relay network? Connections ARE encrypted and each station is autonomous. I don’t think infecting one will yield enough power to transmit through the field and off planet. We should potentially consider infiltrating at least three stations simultaneously in order to boost the chances.”

Letting his eyes trail back across the small cantina, Brody seriously gave the plan some more thought. He had not come here to aid the resistance, or even make a damn difference in this rebellion that was brewing, his grander plans for the planet were in consensus with Starfleet’s favor for an orbital campaign. Which were already set in motion. “We’ll need some sort of distraction … long enough for your computer nerd to upload the algorithm unnoticed. Making the Dominion belief that, whatever had been attempted, failed.” he looked back at Bishop, justifying the definite nature of his suggestion with a brief nod. “Of course, it would sell much better if we’d leave some corpses behind. You think the queen witch would volunteer? I already know YOU wouldn’t mind.” That was a snide remark, and he actually regretted it the minute it had left his lips … and that was a rare occurrence. He’d actually developed enough sympathy for the bearded man to value his continued survival. Not only for his mission’s sake. He would’ve hated to come back empty handed, or worse, with a body bag. "And at the danger of repeating myself, I'll take you back, no matter what condition you'll be in and no matter how the mission eventually turns out. If you don't get me killed along the way, that is, for sure."

In the end, however, it had seemed as if Bishop had been unaffected … he appreciated that. Which was before he spat back a little of his own venom, though. “Well, so you know how to stay loyal in the face of constant defeat, good for you. Any crazy pre-mission superstitions I should look out for?” he replied, the faintest hint of a smile actually tucking on the corner of his lips. Which was the most his stern façade would give way to an actual display of affection towards the comrade. The moment of mutual understanding and a semblance of warmth, as their eyes got lost in the intricacy of one another, however, was cut short, as commotion reverberated from the adjacent corridor. Leaning to his side to ascertain what Bishop was seeing, a group of people, including Ebirone and the kid, the commander irked his brows a little at the other man’s non-descriptive prompt. “Sariah come too?” he gave back dryly. Eyes temporarily falling back to the almost empty bowl, Bishop had sat aside, he disgustedly picked up the teetering spoon and dropped it further into the mess, so it wouldn’t fall and spray everything across the floor, before leaving the room after his companion.

Shaking his head at the young boy, barely a teen, infecting Bishop with his naïve cheerfulness, Brody actually wished he would be so easily impressionable. But he still felt the heavy coat of darkness, back on his shoulders whenever he was more than just a few decks away from her. The weight of memories easier to bare if shared. But she wasn’t here to lighten his load, and the image of her golden hair and sky-blue eyes was a distant memory, that he didn’t even want to bring into a place like this. Giving the other man a wearily enthusiastic nod, brows raised temporarily, the tall man positioned himself somewhere along the perimeter of the newly arrived group, orbiting Sariah. For the most part, he simply held back, as they discussed the intel and their approach. She was not the boss of him, he would device his own strategies on the spot, if they didn’t align with what these guerrilla warriors had learned from old kung fu movies. Bishop aside, he was easily the most qualified person in the room, professionally trained, yet lacking the misguided compassion and utter desperation that seemed to motivate everyone else. How comforting it was to cling to protocol and procedures, he thought, when the world was falling down around him.

This would certainly be interesting.
Title: Re: [2374] Operation 'Spark' - Betazed
Post by: Swift on August 21, 2020, 05:53:27 AM
[ Lt. Andrew Fisher (https://uss-theurgy.com/w/index.php?title=Andrew_Fisher) | Codename: Bishop | Rena Resistance Bivouac | Dalaria City (http://uss-theurgy.com/w/images/1/11/DalariaCity2374n.png) | Betazed (https://memory-alpha.fandom.com/wiki/Betazed) ] Attn: @stardust

His suspicions as to the nature of Brody’s personal sports preference, at least in this particular instance, were confirmed, and Fisher couldn’t help but let a little shit-eating smirk creep up from the corners of his lips. Anyone who understood the finer points of old North American Sports, the teams that played them, and the fanbases that supported those teams, could draw relatively safe assumptions about certain things. In this instance, it revealed some rather hilariously appropriate aspects of the man. He was stubborn. He was easy to irritate. He felt the world was out to get him. He felt like he was underappreciated. It all fit perfectly so, and for a brief moment, Fisher considered writing something targeted at Starfleet Counselors, recommending that they look into, and potentially make use of sports analogies in their analysis, especially when it seemed to fit a persona so perfectly as it did in this case. Still, it also was a revealing of one redeeming quality in Brody, as it spoke to him having some form of pleasant commonality with Fisher. It also meant he wasn’t made up of only ceaseless bitching, and whining. There was more to him after all. Maybe he wasn’t such a dick? No. Phillies fans were always dicks. And Brody was definitely a dick.

But at least he wasn’t a Yankees fan.

“Yeah, the idea is to come at it from different angles.” Fisher began to explain in at least a cursory fashion to Brody, as he knew that a more in-depth briefing would take place shortly. All the same, he figured it best to spell out what he could now, and hopefully avoid any kinds of issues that might crop up later. Though, judging by the man’s behavior thus far, Fisher knew he would still voice redundant concerns, and fulfill that inherent need to bitch. “One team distracts the primary focus of the Dominion forces, the other implants the carrier signal. Which, according to Brighton works something like an infection, spreading from one signal jamming repeater to the next until they’re all working in the same fashion. A daisy chain effect.” Sensing a follow-up concern approaching, he knew to head it off before it could find voice. “Also, the signal is such a minor alteration to the code already built into the Dominion subsystems, that it should go undetected. Apparently, it’s an adaptation of coding intercepted from within Dominion territory; from some sort of communications outpost on their side of the line.” Fisher was of course referring to the comms station on AR-558, though with a certain ambiguity that didn’t reveal specifics that might have compromised Starfleet’s knowledge of the installation. There were already plans being made to seize on that facility, though such an operation would take time to pull off. Whether or not Brody had any kind of fore-knowledge of those plans, depended entirely on how in concert he was with Starfleet Intelligence at this point in his career.

Offering a little chortle at the suggestion of leaving a few bodies behind, specifically Sariah’s, Fisher had also found the thought relatively amusing in his own right. However, the suggestion that he himself would have also volunteered didn’t bite as deeply as Brody likely felt it would have or had intended it to. To a certain point, he was right after all. In fact, the issue as to whether or not Fisher even wanted to survive the Occupation of Betazed, or the Dominion War itself was one that he had been weighing in his own right. It wasn’t an easy concept to grapple with, as each of the days that had passed since the one light in his dreary life had gone out, were only seemingly to be made up of a varying range of grays. Every one of his senses had grown dull, and he felt only a loneness that was all-consuming. But he also couldn’t escape or avoid the realization that if Nass could have voiced her thoughts on the issue, she would have insisted Fisher to keep going. To live on. To deal with the loss, and to get over it. She would’ve already been more than enraged at his mere selection of such a suicidal mission, let alone the risks he’d taken as part of it. It was one of a number of confrontations that he was dealing with.

Another being the issue of his and Brody’s conflicting will, which still loomed over them, but Fisher wasn’t about to engage in that subject, no matter how willing Brody was. Instead, he just let a wry little grin cross his face and opted to shake his head defiantly. The confidence with which Brody seemed to exude his intent, was either meant to intimidate, or demonstrated a clear underestimation of Fisher’s own abilities. Or both. Regardless still, he knew short of them resorting to open hostilities, which was a real possibility, he wouldn’t be leaving Betazed under someone else’s timetable. No matter where, or from whom that timetable originated. The days in which Fisher so readily acceded to every beck, will, and call of Anderson had long since passed. At least, that’s what he was trying to convince himself of.

“Unfortunately, she never left.” He commiserated with Brody, as the other spy came to join him, not really certain or caring if Sariah had heard the exchange made at her expense. It made little difference, as she’d already had made up her mind with regard to the two of them. After the short trip back down the corridor that led to the staging area, Fisher stopped to stand behind the other members of the Rena Resistance Cell. It was his preference to hang back, out of the lime-light even when it came to matters like mission de-briefings and the such.

“Well?” posed Sariah, as she regarded the mixed bag of individuals that represented the bulk of her fighting force.

Holding up a closed Tricorder, Brighton smiled with utter confidence before taking the opportunity to seize the spotlight. “We got it. Full layout of all Dominion outposts throughout the city, their patrol routes and schedule, and the pièce de résistance, the locations of all Dominion communications jammers throughout the city.” Setting the Tricorder down, Brighton then looked back over his shoulder with a smug sense of satisfaction at the others. It was definitely something worth being excited over, as it was literally the crux of the entire next phase of their resistance operations.

Grabbing the Tricorder, Sariah opened it to review the information, so that she could draw it out on the paper map.

“What kind of resistance, did you have?” Ebirone piped up.

“Only a small security contingent. They were guarding their Vorta overseer. Begrudgingly so, I might add.”

“They still living?”

Nodding in acknowledgment, Brighton had quelled the concerns that Fisher had voiced. If they had killed the contingent, then the Dominion might have had fore-knowledge of the impending act of sabotage that the Rena would enact. Thankfully so, Brighton and Betrull had been better at avoiding confrontation than Ebb, Fisher, and Kennedy had. Though, the entire focus of the second team was to stir up as large a hornet’s nest as possible. Drawing away a bulk of forces that might have stood between Brighton, Betrull, and their objective. All in all, the plan as it had been drawn up an executed had worked rather well; save for Fisher and Ebirone winding up apprehended, and nearly executed.

“So... what now Sar?” piped up Aatrah, cutting right through the awkward silence that had permeated the staging area. Her head lifting, the resting bitchface that had almost been permanently attached to her head had softened, if even for just a moment, as she regarded him as any big sister would have regarded their naïve younger brother. There was a sweetness there, that likely had existed in full prior to the calamitous events that had befallen Betazed. Fisher saw this, and felt somewhat less negative about the woman, even though she’d treated him unfairly from word one. She wasn’t supposed to be the leader of a damned resistance cell, he had to remind himself. She was supposed to be a teacher. Her brother some sort of student, but he couldn’t specifically remember what kind. The only reason they were where they were, was because someone like him, had failed to appropriately see the impending shitshow that was the fall of this planet. Someone hadn’t forwarded the information to the right people, and the 10th-Fleet had left her, and her brother entirely defenseless to the onslaught of the Dominion. She had every right to hate him, he rationalized.

“We need to hit one of them. But we also need a diversionary force of some kind, same as before. One team draws away the enemy, so that the other can plant the carrier wave signal into the jammers.” Ebirone had disengaged his arm from where it had been wrapped around Chris, and he appraised the situation on the map as Sariah resumed drawing out the points of relevant interest. He might not have been ‘the’ leader of the Rena, but he certainly was ‘a’ leader of them.

“The diversionary team is going to be hit with the hardest fighting. We should count on our best fighters taking up that aspect. I’m to go with them too, so that when they get shot to shit, I can patch’em up and get them back into the fight.” The gruffness of Betrull’s voice betrayed his relatively advanced age, and experience.

“That means me.” Ebirone boasted, though Chris didn’t seem too appreciative of the fact that he was so inclined to volunteer himself for what was sure to be the more difficult of the two missions. In their dynamic, Fisher could see some familiarity, and it triggered that pang of loss back to the surface of his consciousness, only to once more be stifled by an uncomfortable shuffling of his feet, and an audible clearing of his throat.

“It does.” Sariah confirmed, clearly unaware, or uncaring of the manner in which Chris had seemed concerned. “Ebb, you’ll take Dr. Betrull...” she looked up from the map, and glared at Fisher and Brody for a moment, her displeasure evident in the accusatory nature of her black within black eyes. “...and our two spies, down to the Andorian Embassy Building; there’s a large Dominion contingent nearby, that will likely respond to reports of Resistance operations there. Which will clear a path for myself, and the other ‘Starfleeters’; allowing us to access the Ferengi Banking Administration Building. According to this readout, one of the signal jammers is there.” She pointed on the map to the two locations, which were within relative proximity to each other at the far north west side of the city center; a good two-hour trek, given the round-about way they’d need to go in order to make it with relative safety. “You make as big a noise as you can, attract as many of the scaly bastards as you can; then get the hell out of there when they show up. We only need a modest amount of time to implant the signal. You don’t need to fight and kill every last one of them, in some sort of display of heroic bravery.” She was clearly speaking to Ebirone on the matter but may well have also been speaking to Fisher given his own penchant for theatrical displays of heroism.

“We’ll need to clear a means into the spillway before we start our attack. Can’t possibly expect to do it under a barrage of Dominion weapons fire.”

“Wait... what was that? Run that by me again? The spillway?” Fisher stepped forward, clearly having missed something from an earlier briefing. The spillway was a massive underground water aqueduct that ran beneath the northern most part of the city. It had siphoned water from a lake in the northwest, down into the bay. It was and old remnant from a time, centuries earlier when Dalaria City derived most of its power from hydro-electric generators. Now it was nothing more than a glorified giant water pipe, that bled millions of cubic-meters of water down into the bay each and every day. A few days earlier, one of the others had mentioned a service plant attached to it as potentially being the next bivouac location. Fair enough concept, but the idea of jumping into it, so that it could lead them away from a fight was ludicrous to say the least. The water currents of the sewers were one thing, but the spillway supposedly flowed at nearly three times the rate and pressure, for miles. There was no way they’d be able to hold enough air to transit it. Worse still, if they weren’t careful, they’d be ejected from it into the bay at enough speed and force to obliterate their bodies.

“Sorry bud, only fast way we can bug out when the Dominion forces show up and start shooting everything to shit. We dig a hole down to the spillway, and...”

“Get flushed?” Fisher interrupted, completing the thought. He hated it, and he knew Brody likely did too. “Only this time, we’re not going down ‘a’ drain, we’re going down ‘the’ drain. The mother of all drains! Who thought this shit up?” His gaze went from each of them in turn, knowing that behind him, Brody was likely feeling equally as thrilled about the prospect of going for what could best be described as the end-all be-all water slide.

“I did.” Sariah chimed in, eyes burning a hole into the Fisher’s skull.

‘Of course, she fucking did.’ He thought, just when he’d tried to explain to Brody that she’d made good decisions as a leader. He could only imagine the thoughts running through the other spy’s mind at this revelation.

“We’ll have rebreathers, and some of the others will be set up in prime position in the spillway, ready to catch us.” Ebirone tried to explain, but Fisher just looked on in incredulous consternation.

“No... they’ll be set up in prime position to wave our dumbasses good-bye as we spiral further down the drain! You really expect us to jump into the rushing water of an old defunct hydro-electric line?”

“If you’ve got a better idea for how you can get out of the area, when you’re effectively surrounded by hundreds of Jem’Hadar. Then by all means.” The tone in Sariah’s voice was one of rhetorical challenge, and it ate at Fisher’s nerves tremendously so.

So, with a sigh, he turned back to her, and without any other options presenting themselves, he was forced to at least raise the concerns that were popping up. “Do we even know if it’s clear? Are there any obstructions that we’ll slam into, or debris sieves for that matter? I’d generally prefer not winding up julienned.”

“Fine... since the mission calls for the distraction team to draw the attention, then back out at the first sign of the Dominion forces...” she hesitated a moment. “...we’ll switch up the teams. ‘Bishop’ and ‘Mason’ will take Brighton and Chris to the signal jammer, while Ebb, Betrull, and I will ignite the match.” With that, she seemed set in her determination. Fisher had considered raising his ire at the summary decision, but Sariah wasn’t the kind to change her mind twice. She rarely ever changed it once, for that matter. Fisher, Brody, Chris, and Brighton would be the infiltration team now, while the others would stir up the hornet’s nest. For a moment, Fisher considered the thought that his own bitching had likely just enlisted him in the far more difficult of the two mission tasks. Finer details aside, the other team’s objective was relatively straight forward. While his was now far more complicated, and likely to encounter an air of unforeseen difficulties. It meant that he, and ‘Mason’ would need to be at their very best in order to make this work. Brighton and Chris were both Starfleet Officers, but they weren’t exactly the cream of the crop when it came to matters of fighting. They were both engineers after all. Perhaps then, it was better that the two spies were taking this more difficult road, as they likely had the necessary skills to improvise, adapt, and overcome any potential obstacles.

“Wait... that’s not what... hey?!”

“Shh... it’s alright, we’ll be fine.” Chris turned to comfort her man, pressing a hand against his burly chest so as to silence him, as he had tried to call after the elder Rena, who had herself stormed off to the makeshift armory. Fisher regarded them for a moment but knew better than to linger on after a show of affection between the two of them. It was an intimate affair that didn’t demand an audience, especially not that of Aatrah’s, sensing this, both Betrull and Brighton seized on the younger Rena and shuffled him off.

Fisher’s own attention turned back to Brody, whom he could already imagine the protestations blaring out from him, almost telepathically, he could only offer him a wry little shrug. “Well... a good Phillies fan should always appreciate the uncertainty that lay ahead of them. Besides, if shit goes bad... how’d the saying go year after disappointing year? There’s always next season?” Except, if shit went bad in this case, there wasn’t to be a next season. He knew that, but he also figured their situation could use a little levity in it. As the others all dispersed, leaving Chris and Ebirone to argue about their respective missions, Fisher waved a beckoning hand at Brody to follow suit as he went to their armory. They were going to need a wide array of weapons and equipment for whatever challenges lay ahead of them. But before they could truly enact their plans, they would need to make the long journey from their current bivouac location, to that of the Ferengi Banking Administration. No easy feat in its own regard. With an exasperated sigh as he approached the armory, Fisher understood how much bitching he was in store for during that trek. Maybe he should have taken that ticket off Betazed when Brody had offered it?

“Nah...” he said audibly, realizing that would have meant a few days stuck-in a shuttle with the man. He doubted even Baseball could prevent that conversation from reaching new levels of awkward contention.

Better to die at the end of a Jem’Hadar bayonet, then from a few days of listening to his incessant whining.


ONE-HOUR AND FOURTY-SEVEN MINUTES LATER


“That’s it... that’s the building. I can see the transmitter on the roof.” Brighton explained as he stooped to a knee next to the burned-out hulk of an old hover-vehicle, about a hundred-meters distance from the building which was clearly demarcated by the green beetle like emblem of the Ferengi Alliance. The long winding road that led them here effectively behind them, they would need to be ready to storm the building when the signal came in, alerting them of the other team’s ready status. The calamity to unfold afterward, would hopefully buy them the window necessary to infiltrate undetected. The uncertainty was certainly something that none of them liked.

At least the rains had let up from their constant monsoon like downpour, to that of a gentle spraying mist.
Title: Re: [2374] Operation 'Spark' - Betazed
Post by: stardust on August 27, 2020, 01:20:11 AM
[ Cmdr. Brody Miller (https://uss-theurgy.com/w/index.php?title=Brody_Miller) | Codename: Mason | Rena Resistance Bivouac | Dalaria City | Betazed] Attn: @Swift
[Show/Hide]

Following Bishop through the cavernous remains of the building, back to the central hub of their resistance, the epicenter of their guerrilla defense against the Dominion and the dragon’s lair, Brody positioned himself by the sidelines, close to one of the makeshift light sources, so he could not be readily identifiable, when his face slipped. Because as much as he wanted to, he would never be as much a master of his outward expressions, and of masking his true intents, like his wife was. But he figured, after everything he’d been through, the galaxy could do with a little candor, and less beating around the bush. A notion he was, despite everything, still rather good at keeping from her. Crossing his arms, as he listened to the so called leaders and experts, narrating their approach to the ploy, that the bearded spy had already lady out hours ago, and much more concisely so, the commander spun his index finger in a circle, out of the confines of his limb-pretzel, as to forward the conversation, while rocking his head left and right with nuisance.

Loop holes after loop holes, puffed into the air like circles of smoke, gathered thick under the eroded ceiling. But Brody kept his quiet. There were only two things, that could be garnered from saying anything, to these kids: A: Diddely and B: Squat. So, he let them play war, devise their little strategies, take the intel for granted just because, well, it had been hidden in a locked box with a Vorta sitting on it, somewhere. And then they decided that Bishop and him, probably the two single most educated covert operatives on this whole god forsaken world, would play decoy. Nodding slowly, eyes closed and lips curled downward, he appraised the notion with the relaxed devil-may-care attitude he had recently adopted to this woman’s so called ‘plans’. He’d keep Bishop alive, no matter what silly gig they would have to pull, and come moonrise, he’d beam the two of them back up. And that would be that, no need to get agitated about anything along the way. A contingent of blood hungry Jem’Hadar? Please. A spillway with a giant meat grinder at the end? Bring it on.

Raising his brows as Bishop intervened, however, voicing the concerns that had already gotten lost in Brody’s new Hindu-Cow philosophy, the man raised his brow expectantly. This ought to be good, and he would be front row for every bit of it. He remembered that Sam had once told him that sometimes, in a negotiation, if you held back at the right time, you could let everyone else do all the work. And even though he would never be able to tell her about this little personal victory, he would treasure it no less, and thank her in a different way. Internally the man chuckled, at every little exchange between the bearded man and his bunk buddy. In his mind, he readied the bat, adjusting the hands on its grip, waiting for the curveball, that surely would come. He could see the pitcher about to burst with anticipation, pressure rising, as the game clock ticked on, until she burst, pitching one of the sharpest heat he’d ever seen. And clang, the leathered orb zipped through the air, as he started to run bases in his mind. 1st base, Bishops impetuous sigh and subsequent stinky eye. 2nd base, the man’s sudden and surprising desire to live. 3rd base Sariah’s reiteration of her original plan to reassure her annoyance and … HOMERUN! Someone else would play the decoy.

Sending a wink against the ceiling, as a silent token to his distant wife, Brody felt rather good about himself, there in the shadow of a buzzing field light. Giving the other man a stern face, as he turned around to make it seem as if he had just scored the deciding moon shot instead. The audacity. So, he merely regarded him with a subtle nod, as he iced himself from his home base, to follow the man to get suited up. Furrowing both brows at the weird one-syllable, voiced so out of the blue, like that unruly little strand of hair, at the back of Bishop’s head, that had been driving Brody crazy, ever since they entered the bivouac. “Are you having a stroke?!” he asked irritated, but rather metaphorically, so naturally the only answer he got, was a mean look. They would have a good time, on their journey to get to the FBA building. Picking up his little rucksack of surprises, where he had left it, he dutifully followed the other man to the armory and further onward in their journey. Little did he know, that the man’s desire to weigh death against the most mundane pleasures of life, was still very much alive and well.


ONE-HOUR AND FOURTY-SEVEN MINUTES LATER


By the time they had reached the elevated and somewhat isolated position of the Ferengi Banking Association, Brody had already been drenched once more, despite his waterproof street-camo getup. It had almost become second nature by now, not minding the small abrasions in the pits of his body, where the elastic fabrics constantly rubbed against his skin, like a diamond saw trying to split off a brick of marble. Sitting back against a large boulder of the crumbling facade, that had littered the cul-de-sac like a rockslide, the man drained a puddle of water that had accumulated in the hood of his jacket. “Ugh … can’t believe I was supposed to spend my honeymoon here.” he off-handedly mumbled, sending a stern look towards whichever pair of eyes was cast his way, to ensure that he was not open for it to be turned into a conversation topic. Readjusting his stance, to a crouching one, resting his rifle on the boulder, to get a good look at the building, he didn’t notice any guards on first sight. Which didn’t mean there weren’t any there. Jem’Hadar could cloak, after all, though they seemingly had trouble with their technology in these humid conditions.

Giving the area another inspection through his multi-spectral scope, which would’ve also unearthed any cowardly disguised critters, he came up zero as well. He still thought storming the place was a bad idea, distraction or not. A remote attack would never lure out the whole contingency of troops of such an important installation. And once the hornet’s nest was rattled, the remaining ones would be on high alert. But hey, it was made very clear to him that the woman in charge was a grand leader with infallible instincts and surefire plans. What could go wrong. “Do I still have time to take a leak or …” he said coyly, clearing his throat from the raspy sound that had lined the words, while pulling his jacket back into place across his lower back, where the chilling spray invaded through a narrow gap between garments. “You’ll say ‘go’, right? And then … I’ll just follow your lead.” he nodded, even before he got an affirmative reply. Which kind of translated into a careless sentiment, where he was going to do his own thing anyways, whenever he wanted. Like that one time, on their trip here, when he had attempted to smuggle a transporter marker onto Bishop’s jacket so blatantly, that he had obviously intended to be caught. Just so he could show how little he cared. He hoped that soon there would be some action and he’d not have any more time for silliness as such.
Title: Re: [2374] Operation 'Spark' - Betazed
Post by: Swift on September 04, 2020, 08:40:38 PM
[ Lt. Andrew Fisher (https://uss-theurgy.com/w/index.php?title=Andrew_Fisher) | Codename: Bishop | Ferengi Banking Administration Building | Dalaria City (http://uss-theurgy.com/w/images/1/11/DalariaCity2374n.png) | Betazed (https://memory-alpha.fandom.com/wiki/Betazed) ] Attn: @stardust

Fisher ran a hand over his face to momentarily alleviate the sting of the constant harrying mist caught in the whirling winds as they surged down from the nightmarish clouds hanging above. It was a minor annoyance; just another in a long list of them that he’d been forced to deal with, but he’d managed to pay it little mind at all. He hadn’t found it to be a necessity to focus on such minute concerns when there were so many far-grander that threatened his very existence. The realization of which he’d found rather odd, given how little care he’d actually afforded to the idea of surviving this suicide mission. True, he didn’t want to suffer a meaningless death. If he was going to go out, he wanted to go out having done something of merit. But by all rights he should have been more fixated on immediate issues, like the stinging rain, as in his mind there wasn’t much of a future to focus on. Perhaps it was an instinctual part of him, which prevented his indulgence in complaining, as Brody seemed willing to engage in endlessly.

Or maybe he wasn’t as ready to die as he’d originally thought he was.

Pushing the deeper introspection away, he gradually approached where Albert Brighton was knelt, peering over the big man’s shoulder in the direction that he’d hinted at, laying eyes on the Ferengi Banking Administration Building. Comparative to the others that surrounded it, it was of modest size; however, what it lacked in grandeur, it more than compensated for in its ostentatious outward presentation. Whereas its immediate surroundings were cloaked in a façade of grey steel, white concrete, and predominantly blue glass panels; the FBA building was sheathed by a gold hued exterior, clearly meant to be reminiscent of the most prized of Ferengi possessions. Even the exterior glass panels were gold in tone, which reflected brilliantly with the frequent flashes of lightning overhead. In fact, the only non-gold aspect of the building was that garish bright green beetle, which had been left to hang about four-stories up and was decidedly unlit at the moment. Not at all surprising given the general lack of electricity throughout the city.

Though there should have been a backup generator of some capacity within it.

Looking back over his shoulder, Fisher was about to ask where Brody was in relation to his location when he’d heard the other spy’s self-relief related inquiry and could only muster a non-committal shrug of his shoulders. “Judging by the time-table, we have about thirteen minutes until things get start on the other side of town.” Brighton interjected, feeling an ounce of sympathy for the man, even though he had spent the better part of the journey complaining about the rain, the city layout, the destruction, the squelching sounds his water-logged boots made, their plan and the many-loopholes that still remained within said plan, and lastly his decision to have even stayed in the first place. Pretty much anything and everything he could have made a gripe over, he had. But whereas Fisher had seemed resigned to absorb and display an outwardly visible annoyance at the constant droning, Brighton simply let it wash right off him as though it were nothing more than an additional bout of rain. Besides, in a way, Brody had started to remind Brighton of his younger brother, Aaron, who was also a member of Starfleet, and off some place else, doing his own part to bring about an end to this war.

“Smoke’em while you can.” Fisher said simply before having turned back from Brody, working his way across the street in a low crouch.

Determined to scope out their potential resistance, he hadn’t exactly described what he was doing, though it quickly became evident an instant later, as directly adjacent to where the others were left, he’d retrieved a stolen Dominion ocular device from a pack and begun to use it to scan the immediate vicinity of the courtyard in front of the FBA building. He’d expected to see a cadre of Jem’Hadar, but instead laid eyes on a rather strange and peculiar interaction unfolding between a pair of Ferengi, a Vorta, and two Jem’Hadar personal guard. They’d appeared to be enraptured in some facet of discussion, and it was relatively clear that the Ferengi were not in any immediate threat or duress from the opposition forces. Letting a little chortle escape him, Fisher shook his head at the recognition of what was going on: The two Ferengi had somehow worked out an arrangement with their ‘oppressors’. So much so, that to a point it almost seemed a cordial arrangement and discussion. It spoke to the incredible survival instincts of the Ferengi, who knew when the tides were turning, and as such knew which moves to make that would improve their chances of long-term profitability. Or outright survival. If the war ended in any fashion which saw the Alpha-Quadrant brought under the oppressive heel of the Dominion, it would haven been the Ferengi which would have found a way to co-exist and share space with their new neighbors.

Some might have found that fact rather reprehensible. Fisher however, found it admirably amusing.

Having checked his watch, he saw that time was hastily closing in on the two-hour mark. Any moment there would be an eruption of activity which might draw the modest Dominion forces away from the FBA building. Most, if not all of them, he’d hoped. It would present the three-man team a chance to infiltrate and take up their objectives. The addition of the Ferengi presence did throw a small wrench in their plans however, as it represented an unforeseen element that they hadn’t considered. Originally, there was an intent to fight to the roof, access the transmitter, upload the carrier signal, then destroy it and the building so as to disguise everything as a mere act of sabotage. Resultant from that, the Dominion would think that the resistance was simply attempting to down the jammers one-by-one, as futile an effort as that would have been. In their arrogance, the Vorta overseers would likely dismiss any further inspection on the matter, thus allowing the implanted signal to spread on undetected. But the Ferengi, if they caught even the slightest wind of what was going on, could’ve decided to broker an arrangement in which they’d appraise their Dominion ‘partners’ of the true intent of the mission, no doubt for further favors in return.

His attention shifted back across the street and could see Brighton coming to the same realization.

But before he could lodge a discussion with the other two, the party suddenly got started. A party which erupted with a monumentally thunderous bang which reverberated from somewhere on the other side of the city. Sage-eyes going wide in abject surprise, Fisher’s face was one of confusion and concern, as was Brighton’s. There had been no previous discussion of an explosion serving as the ‘announcement’ of things. Maybe it was an especially loud thunderclap? No, this was definitely man made, and it was quite a bit louder and booming than that of even the greatest lightning discharges. Things were underway now. Quite literally with a bang. As evidenced immediately when the Vorta was summarily shuffled off by his personal guard in the direction of their outpost, a protest being lodged against them in refute, though they were clearly intent on protecting him from whatever was about to erupt. Further down the street, there was an even greater commotion as a garrison of thirty or so Jem’Hadar emerged from said outpost into an open intersection.

For a moment, Fisher thought that maybe they wouldn’t take the bait and bugger off, which would have put one hell of a damper on their plans. But to his avail, the apparent reason for their emergence suddenly became evident, as a hurricane like gale of wind erupted streaked overhead of him overhead. Debris was thrown wide in wake of the rush of shipboard thrusters, Fisher himself nearly being dislodged from where he had been knelt as a Jem’Hadar attack ship squeezed through the narrow corridor of the streets, stopping to hover above the cadre of troops. Squinting his eyes as purple light bathed the area in a brilliantly eerie glow, a loading ramping lowered to accept the troops which hurried aboard, taking their Vorta overseer with them. Quite literally, the enemy forces were bugging out. Whatever the other team had done to elicit such a response, must have been monumental in scope, and would buy Fisher, Brighton, and Brody a larger window in which they could implant the signal. But it also meant they were due for far more resistance than they could likely deal with; they would absolutely need to escape while they could.

Swearing aloud, Fisher wished there was some form of warning the other team of what was headed their way, but it was impossible while the jammers were still working as intended. His disruptor rifle at the ready, he peered across at the other two once more. An unspoken agreement made implicitly by a simple nod. They would close the distance on the FBA building once the ship ascended back into the sky. And as another typhoon-esque wail of wind was kicked up by atmospheric thrusters, the signal was made. Emerging from where he’d been nestled, Fisher sprinted at full in direction of the two Ferengi standing in front of the FBA building. They were both holding up hands so as to shield themselves from all that was being kicked up, which should have been the first indicator of something being wrong with an assumption he had previously made on their behalf. Regardless, he needed to get to them quick, as out of the corner of his peripheral vision, he saw a similar flurry of movement rushing to close the proximity.

“What do you think that was all about?” asked one of the Ferengi to the other.

“Are you kidding? That lobe-aching explosion, you dullard!” the other spat back in irritancy, though as his sensitive hearing caught the encroaching splashes of boots behind him, which grew ever closer, there was a dawning of revelation. Promptly he turned about, just in time to make a stupid face, and to be tackled to the water-soaked ground by a bearded man.

“Hey!” came a rather paltry protest from the first Ferengi as he too turned, only more in a more deliberative motion. He stared down upon his brother who had been taken down to the ground and tilted the pate of his head to the side in confusion. “Who’s he, Ferron?” Though as he raised a finger to point at Brighton and Brody, he too found himself grabbed aggressively, ushered toward the main entrance of the FBA building behind him. “Hey! Wait a minute!” he protested a little more energetically before a hand found his mouth to silence his deeply baritone vocal cords. The smaller of the two Ferengi, identified as ‘Ferron’ by his brother, was far more-lively; screaming against Fisher’s hand as it was pressed against his lips. There was a fumbled wrestling for a moment as the smaller Ferengi searched for something, anything upon which he could use for leverage. Thankfully, that commotion soon stopped at the behest of a rifle pressed against his forehead. And with hands raised in acquiescence to the promise of a quick death, Fisher was able to stand up from atop of ‘Ferron’, too hefting him unto his feet as the five of them made for the entryway of the FBA building.

“Hey! Unhand me! On behalf of the Grand Nagus, and the Ferengi Backing Administration, I demand you--” Ferron’s protestations were cut short as Fisher pointed his own rifle at him.

“The door. Input your code, and step inside!” charged the bearded Intelligence operative. This was good, he thought, as they would get into the FBA building without needing to blow a hole in its exterior. Maybe it wasn’t such a bad thing that these two nincompoops were caught in the middle of this little mission.

“Umm... we can’t. Our codes don’t work no more.” Explained the other Ferengi, before his brother shot him a curt glance.

“I don’t believe you. Your code. Now!” Fisher insisted, motioning with his rifle.

“As my brother Norben so explained, we cannot. Our codes were locked out.”

A surge of anger sprung up from inside of Fisher, and the darker aspects of his tutelage under the auspices of one Richton Leonardo Hurley reared their ugly head as he considered for a moment shooting the one identified as Ferron in his kneecap. Pain like that would certainly reveal the truth. With an aggressive grunt he grabbed a handful of Ferron’s soaked upper garment and shoved him hard against the gold-glass paned double-doors, a rifle finding his belly. “If you don’t have codes to get in, then what the hell are you doing here?” From behind him, he could hear impatience mount from the other spy, and knew that this wasn’t the time to seek out motive, or reason. “Fuck it! Is there another way in?”

“Yeah, but Ferron says we’re not supposed to tell anyone else abou--”

“Oh, would you shut up!” Ferron interrupted.

“Take us. Now. Or you both die.” There was a dead seriousness in Fisher’s green-eyes as he glared at Ferron’s own, and if he were honest with himself, he doubted as to whether or not he truly intended on killing the two Ferengi, regardless of whether or not they acceded to his demands. Every moment of delay was another moment wasted in which he and the others could have and should have been working toward the roof of the FBA building, and their objective. The distraction being lodged by the other team would only last for so long, and they absolutely needed to make the most of it. It was that desperation that was clear in his face, which eventually caused the more cunning of the two Ferengi to nod in relent, his hands motioning for Fisher, Brighton, and Brody to follow him in a direction around the periphery of the FBA building.

“Of course. Right this way.” He said simply.
Title: Re: [2374] Operation 'Spark' - Betazed
Post by: stardust on September 10, 2020, 12:27:14 AM
[ Cmdr. Brody Miller (https://uss-theurgy.com/w/index.php?title=Brody_Miller) | Codename: Mason | Rena Resistance Bivouac | Dalaria City | Betazed] Attn: @Swift
[Show/Hide]

Surely there was no accounting for taste. What Brody intended to be the comic relief and entertainment of the long and tedious track, was – by the look of the vein on Bishop’s forehead – potentially taken as another series of senseless bitching. Well, he was not really bothered enough to care about the man’s handicapped comedic sensibility. Thus, he gratified the go-ahead with a curt nod, albeit relaying the added relief of the urgency, the situation in his loins imposed. There was really no time to contemplate the intricacies of a straightforward 'come and dump' situation, where they simply infiltrated a space with the sole purpose to leave behind a nasty little virus. Surely like every visit to Risa, any of these men had ever undertaken. But just as he was about to get to work on the waterproof zipper-concoction in his crotch, the man was startled by a loud bang and subsequently reverberating shockwave, that dispersed tedious raindrops into a wobbling fog temporarily. Ferociously trying to hide the fact that, for a moment, he thought his fly had popped. Disregarding of that, he sent viciously narrowed eyes in the approximate direction of the blast, silently cursing Sariah for not even allowing him this little pelvic salvation.

“Well, that had all the tact and finesse of a Jem’Hadar stormtrooper squad.” He abjectly judged the happenings. As far as diversions went, however, it would certainly proof effective. Returning his attention one-eighty, towards the façade of the building, only then noticing the two Ferengi and their Dominion posse. “What the …” he cursed to himself silently, feeling slightly out of the loop, switching on the power-cell of his rifle with a moderately audible, increasing hiss. But as it became apparent rather quickly, the Dominion had taken the bait. A ship appeared with roaring engines, dipping the area in purple and white hues, as it picked up the invaders. Then, Bishop, in true kamikaze fashion, ran out of cover and towards the Ferengi. The urgency of the situation slightly lost on the former operative. Peeling deliberately from his cover, letting the rifle hang loose by his side, at the lack of imminent danger, he appraised the reflecting windows and small recesses of the building for stragglers. Keeping in the background for the little talk with the Ferengi, for the most part, keeping an eye on their surroundings, all the while keeping an ear open for their weasely lamentations.

Rolling his eyes in abject restraint, his whole body reverberating in the ridiculous sentiment, Brody bent the crook of his arm to bring his rifle up, aiming against the sky, as he pushed into the circle of ‘negotiations’, grabbing the obviously more important one of the two by the upper arm, tight as a vise. Instantly triggering a pathetic howl and detestable whimpering. “Rule of acquisition 208: Sometimes the only thing more dangerous than a question is the answer.” he reiterated to Ferron, but not Ferron alone. Sending Bishop a look, that showed his disapproval of being so gullible as to trust a Ferengi, while he dragged the louder one of them away towards the door. If there was indeed a back entrance, that they were not supposed to tell anyone about, then surely it was much better protected than the locked main entrance. A devious culture, such as the Ferengi, always placed extra emphasize on their backdoors. Be it in contracts, negotiations or simply their architecture. They presented an easily accessible, open front, while keeping the back wound tightly. Something he had learned from his wife. Even if the Dominion changed the codes, and even if they didn’t tell the original tenants of the building – which already where too many ‘Ifs’ for the man’s liking – certainly the Ferengi had a backup code or an override, hidden deep in the infrastructure of the building’s security, like the seed of distrust in their culture's general demeanour.

It was also highly unlikely that Bishop would’ve actually harmed any of these unarmed civilians. He didn’t have that kind of stone-cold conviction. Not to anyone but himself, at least. And almost certainly the Ferengi, a species of cunning businessmen that thrived on deception, knew, it was an empty threat. Because you didn’t take an empty rifle-case to a gun fight, you brought the rifle. Stumbling over his own feet, at times, the orange creature was merely kept up by the strong grip and relentless drag of its captor. Arriving under the wide awning, that covered a row of doors into the atrium, hidden behind golden veneer, the commander stopped so Ferron could take one good look at his reflection, before he was pushed forward, his head smacking against the door, causing the metal frame to rattle a bit.

“You hear that?” Brody asked, pointing at the top corners of the door with the matt-black rifle, letting his dark eyes follow, as the notion drew his forehead into deep pleads. “I promise you, either with the correct code or by brute force, somehow that clumsy head of yours will get us in.” he told the Ferengi, leaning down lightly, so his menacing words could be conveyed as a vicious whisper, that surely rang like bell-towers in those large ears. Giving the creature a little more time to look into its own terrified mirror image, compounding the threat, the man ultimately let the rifle fall back into the strap over his shoulder, his second hand grabbing the Ferengi’s other limb forcefully, so he could use him like a makeshift battering ram. “You wouldn’t!” Ferron squealed, shivering, tiny tangerine hands helplessly clawing at dark digits, digging into his soaked coat. But he had already lost, given enough fear away as leverage for the former operative’s ploy. Pulling him back a foot as if to build extra momentum, he pushed the Ferengi forward in a swift thrust, a forced scream turning into a series of squealed digits, as the potato-face came to a halt a mere inch from its terrified reflection.

“Awesome … don't stray too far while I check this.” Brody replied unfazed, pushing the piece of trash off towards the other three, who had caught up by now. Entering the given code, the door unlocked with a hydraulic clank, so that he could push it open. Stepping aside, giving the atrium a brief once over, the man then invitingly beckoned for the group to move inside, glistening residue on his skin and clothes destined to be evaporating into the dry interior air soon. Closing the door once more, after everyone had entered, the commander took a few steps away from the lock, before cocking his rifle and shooting it, a couple of sparks flying off, extinguishing against the dust covered marble. In the process, all the lights on all the other locks went out too. That had been … unexpected, but not entirely undesired. “Well, I guess we’ll try your backdoor for an exit.” he voiced, pressing his lips together thin while giving an apologetic raise of thick brows. “Or your little head again.” His sudden move scared the taller Ferengi into an embarrassing twitch, that hopefully kept him in a generous and helpful mood.

Ultimately letting his eyes trail to the high ceiling, taking in the sickening opulence and almost decadent display of bad taste, Brody narrowed his eyes slightly at the cracks in the ceiling, before they fell to the pieces of putty and concrete, littering the shiny marble, that had long been covered in obscuring dust, interspersed with random trails of footprints. Least theirs would not stick out. “Before we go up, up, up though … do tell, any more surprise we should be aware of? Were those critters, that left, the only forces posted here?” he asked the Ferengis coyly, waving his rifle around between them, incepting a little more of the trademark fear, that had fared so well. “Because, rest assured, if we run into some more Jem’Hadar, they will see you for the turncoats that you are and snuff you out … if I don’t first.” And if that wasn’t motivation to be forthcoming, then he didn’t know. After all: ‘You can't make a deal if you're dead.’
Title: Re: [2374] Operation 'Spark' - Betazed
Post by: Swift on September 17, 2020, 05:19:35 AM
[ Lt. Andrew Fisher (https://uss-theurgy.com/w/index.php?title=Andrew_Fisher) | Codename: Bishop | Ferengi Banking Administration Building | Dalaria City (http://uss-theurgy.com/w/images/1/11/DalariaCity2374n.png) | Betazed (https://memory-alpha.fandom.com/wiki/Betazed) ] Attn: @stardust

To a point, Fisher had admired the violent streak from his fellow Intelligence Operative, so long as it wouldn’t tread too far past the line of reason. Sure, this was an active warzone, and some bending of the rules could be expected and in fact tolerated. In his own right, Fisher had done more than his fair share of rule bending during his time as a field operative, and perhaps had even outright broken more than of them as well. However, he had always known where the line lay, and though he would tread along it with careful balance and caution; as if he were a high-wire act, he had never overstepped the boundaries of morality. Even when his previous handlers had attempted to drive him to such depths out of necessity, he had always managed to find a means of remaining on the right side of acceptable behavior. Yet, he could now sense by the manner in which his ‘comrade’ operated, that Brody was likely closer to the ilk which had so brazenly used their status with SFI as an excuse for excess. And in the moment, he didn’t like the way that Brody had presented himself and began to question for the first time the true merit of Brody as a man worthy of respect.

That wasn’t to say that Fisher was naïve. No, he understood that sometimes you had to wrap someone on their decidedly bulbous head in order to get the results you needed, and that was fine, so long as you didn’t let such an act consume and poison who you were down to your very core. He had always though it a simple matter: victory didn’t mean a damned thing if you lost who you were along the way.

At least, that’s what he had always tried to think of it as.

Once inside of the grand atrium of the Ferengi Banking Administration Building, it became overtly clear that little expense had been spared in terms of grandiose opulence; the walls were gilded in gold and ornately detailed with gemstone encrusted molding all along the upper edging. The marble floors were carpeted by throw-rugs of gaudy hues of purple and green, and the pillars painted a sickly hue of pink which only further accentuated the odd fashion tastes of Ferengi culture. There were also electronic braziers festooned all along the periphery of the space which were faintly aglow with ambient light, no doubt powered by emergency backup systems as they cast the massive room in a mixture of obscuring shadows. However, aside from the echoing cascade of water-fountains as they splashed against and over an absurdly lewd golden statue of the Ferengi Grand Nagus in his buff, which dominated much of the atrium, there were no sounds filling the cacophonous space. At least, none other than the unpleasant whimpers of Ferron who was held by the scruff of his collar by one of Brighton’s massive hands. All the while his brother had seemed oddly at peace, given he was actively threatened with death.

“Yes, yes hoo-mon, you’ve made your point!” sniveled Ferron, as he’d brought a hand not to the throb of his head, but rather his wrinkled nose in an attempt to stifle a sneeze brought on by the pervading scent of mildew, a result of the ceiling having been cracked open during the initial bombardment, letting in the constant rains from outside.

After having shut the doors behind them, Fisher took a moment to appraise the grand welcoming hall as he leveled his borrowed disruptor-rifle and stepped past both of their Ferengi captives. Unfortunately, there hadn’t been any detailed plans that were readily accessible to study prior to their arrival, as either the local visitation and commerce board had been paid off to keep things obscure, or they simply hadn’t bothered to deal with the Ferengi long enough to create a thorough layout of the building. From the outside, the FBA building had appeared to be roughly ten-stories high; far more-stumpy in comparison to the towers that had surrounded it. This was a good thing in the sense that it made the process of getting to the jammer on the roof that much easier, but it also presented some problems, as once on the roof they would be easily spotted by anyone that may have been lingering in those surrounding towers. It had also meant that they would be at a distinctive height disadvantage if shooting broke out between the various buildings.

“Resistance. What can we expect?” Fisher probed, pointing his rifle back at Ferron.

There was a quizzical look in the crafty Ferengi as he had seemed to consider his options first. Of course, had he known how costly of a mistake such a look would be, he likely would have offered up what he knew immediately. Instead, he had seemed as if he were contemplating on how he could turn this situation to his benefit and profit. It was a look of hesitance which only served to flare the temper within Fisher, triggering an internal wonder as to whether or not Brody had been on the right side of a warpath when it came to dealing with these two swine. Yet before he could press on the issue, the less prohibitive of the two piped up an answer of his own accord, trying to ferry things along rather innocently. “Ferron said there would only be ten guards that roamed the tenth-floor. It was what the Dominion were willing to pay for when we brokered the deal to--”

“Would you shut-up!” Ferron snapped back.

Incensed that the one Ferengi had silenced the other just as he was giving them the sordid details that they needed, Fisher felt his blood suddenly boil. This time however, he wouldn’t allow the other operative to show him up, as the bearded man acted before Brody was able too. Training his disruptor-rifle at Ferron, he canted the weapon ever so slightly off to the side and pulled the trigger. As the white-hot bolt that he’d fired surged through the air just a few centimeters adjacent from the bulbous tangerine skinned head, the singe of the shot stung against the devious little Ferengi’s earlobe rather painfully. An instant later Fisher trudged heavily toward Ferron with an outstretched hand that immediately grasped at his hideous tunic. Forced to dodge the bolt himself, Brighton could see the aggression in his fellow man and let go of his own grasp of Ferron and stepped aside. So it was, that with a hard shove that Fisher knocked Ferron down onto his back while the Ferengi howled rather pathetically in abject terror, and anguish. Immediately, one of Ferron’s hands found his ear in an attempt comfort and sooth it, as the other was held up to stop the sage-eyed spy as he stood overtop of him, a grimace of brazen rage evident in how he menaced his weapon down upon the frail cowering Ferengi.

Having lost his grasp of self-control, perhaps stoked on by Brody’s own aggressive display a moment earlier, and perhaps also due to how utterly compromised he was from an emotional standpoint, Fisher gritted his teeth as he barely resisted the urge to shoot Ferron in his face until his head was nothing more than a dripping puddle of skin, skull, and brain matter on the carpet. “Enough with the bull shit, you little fucking troll!” Fisher barked as rather poignantly a thunderclap echoed throughout the atrium. “Tell me everything, RIGHT NOW! Or so help me I’ll take my sweet time when I carve little chunks of your ears from the side of that hideous mug you call a face!” A little surprised that Ferron’s brother didn’t seem to react to the attack, Brighton’s attention went to Brody as he tried to gauge whether or not it was necessary to step in and stop his companion. But he figured it was best if he didn’t compromise whatever leverage was being put into play, if there was such a play being made.

“Yes! Yes! Alright! Don’t... don’t hurt me!” cried Ferron, cowering beneath Fisher.

“SPEAK!!!!”

“T-t-ten guards! They patrol the tenth-floor! Their access is restricted to that floor, as part of our deal!” Ferron’s hands were shaking visibly as he held them up to protect his face from the disruptor rifle, which had encroached rather closely to the bridge between his two yellow-eyes; the menace in Fisher’s face transfixed as he seemed almost on the edge of a rabid fury. “The rest of the building is empty! I swear!” the desperation in his voice betrayed how absolutely terrified he was, and it was that sense of terror which ensured honesty from him. But it didn’t seem to quell the onset bout of rage in Fisher, as he didn’t budge an inch from where he had towered over Ferron; only silence existing in the tense moment. It was as if Fisher were stuck in a mental loop which was preventing him from asking further relevant questions, or from continuing on in the interrogation. Feeling something was wrong, Brighton took a step closer to where Fisher stood over Ferron and tilted the pate of his head as a form of inquisitiveness.

In his mind, Fisher could feel a sinister overtone beckoning within him. He could feel himself becoming rather despondent, and in a state of absolute desperation to surrender to blinding hated. Something had snapped, and he was slowly coming to understand that which had triggered such a fracture in him: Brody. It was the manner in which Brody had gotten results so easily in comparison to Fisher, by just pressing just a little. In a way, it was another example of how Fisher had perpetually handicapped himself, out of some deep-seated need to remain what he considered a moral man. Why did any of that matter anymore? He could be so much more effective if he just gave in. He could do so much more to help the Federation in this time of crisis if he just acquiesced to unrestraint, and did whatever was necessary, just as Brody had seemed to willing to do a moment earlier. He knew without a shadow of doubt, that he should’ve just killed this Ferengi, and likely get enough relevant information from the other one, who was far more agreeable when it came to cooperation.

“Bishop?” came Brighton’s voice.

As eyes darted to behold the big man, Fisher came back to the reality of the situation and eased up off of the trigger of his weapon. He could still feel an intense desire to end the sniveling little man’s life, perhaps not even out of necessity for the mission’s success, but rather out of cold-blooded malice. At least for the moment however, he had refrained from relenting to that malice. “Is there another way to the roof, without going through those guards?”

“No! No other way, I swear it! The only access is through the tenth-floor!”

“No other way. Ferron is telling the truth.” Added Norben, his dull voice coming from behind as he looked to Brody almost apologetically.

“Fine.” Fisher said sharply as he stepped back from where he had stood over Ferron, turning about to walk away a little, clearly in need of a moment of solitude to gather himself before they continued onward. There were still questions that had yet to be answered, but they would need to come from someone who wasn’t as outwardly volatile. As it was, he was simply in not good position to take the lead, as he fought demons which had rather abruptly stormed to the front of his consciousness. He was a veritable Molotov-cocktail of emotionality right now, and thankfully there weren’t any empaths or telepaths within a good distance, otherwise they would have picked up on just how tenuous a grasp Fisher had over himself. All that was needed for a full-on explosion from him was a good enough light, and he would likely lose it. Turning his back to the others, he sought temporary solace as he stepped close to one of the double-stairways that led up to an overlooking interior terrace.

Regarding Brody for a moment, Brighton exhaled in exasperation as he slung his weapon over his shoulder and went about hefting the little Ferengi back to his feet.

“You hoo-mons are too emotional.” He said as he dusted himself off, pressing his luck in the matter, though he could see that he was about to outlive his usefulness if he didn’t offer up something else. “Did I mention that there is an intruder suppression system built into the corridors?”

Lost in thought, Fisher struggled to regain his composure as he clenched shut his eyes, and took a series of deliberative breaths.
Title: Re: [2374] Operation 'Spark' - Betazed
Post by: stardust on October 10, 2020, 10:03:58 AM
[ Cmdr. Brody Miller (https://uss-theurgy.com/w/index.php?title=Brody_Miller) | Codename: Mason | Rena Resistance Bivouac | Dalaria City | Betazed] Attn: @Swift
[Show/Hide]

A notion that seemed to define the systrophe between the two men, was the iterative occurrence of discourse and subsequent mimicry. Where Brody was chastised for doing one thing, only for Bishop to go and commit virtually the same act to memory, mere minutes later. In a highly stylized and amplified manner, no less. Where he’d shown mild irritation and contest with the Rena headmistress, the bearded man had gone and virtually torn her a literal new one. Where he’d bumped the Ferengi around a little, with the threat of more, the other operative had gone and singed the alien’s ear – ironically proving a point that had been made a little earlier, but not by him. All of which, coincidentally, happened only a blink of an eye after he’d given Brody the holier-than-though attitude, he prided himself on, seemingly. At this point, however, the sentiment left nothing more than the stale taste of annoyance, on the back of his tongue. Not quite sure what issues Bishop harbored – and surely, they were numerous – he was going to pay extra attention, just so he wouldn’t get him killed. No matter the outcome for everyone else, really. They were all consenting adults and obviously indulged in some sense of misguided veneration for the guy.

Giving Brighton a nonchalant shrug, stretching out a hand, holding the rifle, and an idle one, to his sides. Nonverbally relating that he didn’t feel obligated to reign in the man’s hero figure. Ironically so, Brody liked this manifestation of Bishop much better than the wannabe do-gooder, who couldn’t hurt a fly, even if it was in the way of achieving his goals. Who pretended to be oh so diplomatic, in telling him how to deal with the Rena leader, only to then dissolve in blatant animosity. He could actually feel the faintest sense of appreciation for the cut-throat demeanor, even if the man himself probably hated his own guts for it. Brody himself had come to terms with the fact many years ago, having lived more carefree ever since. It wasn’t that he’d submitted to being pure evil, quite the contrary, he’d submitted to the fact that light could not exist without darkness. He could be the most docile and sweet of all of them, well, almost … but when the situation required it, he was the first one to shed all doubt and restraints and embraced what needed to be done. And he liked to think that was what had gotten him the career fast-track and the beautiful wife, in the first place.

Then Brighton finally intervened, branding himself as the resident buzzkill. “Hey, I thought we were getting somewhere here.” Brody mused laconically, taking delight in the man’s exasperation, as much as his stoic face could relate. Narrowing his eyes at the Ferengi, as he passed, pushing forward, in the vacuum of Bishop’s relinquishing power, he gave the orange hued alien a threatening glare. “I wish you wouldn’t lump us all together like that.” He remarked quietly, not intent on making a grand display that Bishop could take offense by. Skipping up a few steps towards the back of the atrium, taking two platforms at a time, the commander stopped in the middle of the wide landing, appraising the branching corridors that lead away from that point. “So, which one’s the golden staircase? You know, the one that hasn’t been mined.” he asked, his baritone voice carrying across the rubble once more, before he turned to point at Ferron and his brother. It was a usual guerrilla tactic to leave only one way in and out, up and down, usually the most obscure one. And as it had been made rather clear by him, that he’d use the siblings as a shield, they should’ve had enough incentive to pick the right one.

Beckoning for Brighton to drag Ferron up there, so he could lead the way, they didn’t really have to give Norben the same treatment, as he was in no state to run away or cross them. He clearly was the duller one of the two. Letting his eyes subsequently switch over to Bishop, standing somewhat in the off, back turned their way, clenching fists by his side, the former operative knitted his brows together. Holding up his hand in a subtle wave, for Brighton and the two Ferengi to stay put, he jogged down the steps once more, coming up behind the bearded man. Sure, he could’ve introduced himself with a gentle touch, a reassuring word, something diplomatic … but he wasn’t Sam. Pushing his palm against the other man’s shoulder blade, he shoved him forward, edging him, instead. The guy spun around, as expected, face distorted with anger and control, fighting each other like epic beasts. “Come on, lay into me … I’ve already taken your Betazoid lover today, I’ll manage. Better here than up there. If it makes you feel any better, let it out man, or get a fucking grip on yourself!” he barked. The most enraging part probably being, that despite the tone, he wasn’t emotional about it. It was the perfect ploy to gauge how much of a time bomb and a liability the man really was.

He himself may have been accused of being emotional, once or twice before, when quite the opposite was true. Many of Brody’s actions relayed the telltale signs of someone who acted on a whim, or a feeling, though actually, he acted that way because he had grown numb to the consequences. That paired with the honed skill of having to react within a split second, not having the luxury to have lengthy internal debates – and perfecting that – surely made him appear impulsive. But that was just a superficial judgment that didn’t take his years and years in the covert service and sacrifices into account, that he’d personally made, to become the tool necessary for the mission to be a success. In many ways, he’d become a machine, to be used by Starfleet intelligence, to get things done. Even now, that he wasn’t living that life anymore, he was that guy. Like a phaser was a deadly weapon, even if it wasn’t pointed at someone. Granted he could not draw any conclusions on the other operative, from his own experiences. People dealt differently and it seemed like Bishop had not yet given up on clinging to his last shred of humanity – the sole reason for his inner turmoil. And while Brody was intent to push him over the edge, into the comfortable darkness of not caring, with him, he too harbored the faint hope that maybe for Bishop it was not too late yet. That he could regain his humanity, if he got out of this line of work soon enough.

Potentially the first amicable sentiment he’d felt for the bearded man, since first looking into his pudgy face.
Title: Re: [2374] Operation 'Spark' - Betazed
Post by: Swift on October 22, 2020, 08:10:34 PM
[ Lt. Andrew Fisher (https://uss-theurgy.com/w/index.php?title=Andrew_Fisher) | Codename: Bishop | Ferengi Banking Administration Building | Dalaria City (http://uss-theurgy.com/w/images/1/11/DalariaCity2374n.png) | Betazed (https://memory-alpha.fandom.com/wiki/Betazed) ] Attn: @stardust

There was a serious consideration at play within the mind of the sage-eyed and moderately seasoned spy, which threatened to manifest itself into a harsh reality here and now, yet while he could feel an almost immeasurable power wellspring up within him, he could also feel the soft whisper of a voice echoing against his ear. A memory of something; someone who had renewed in him a desire to be better and do better. Were it not for that which was holding his base aggression at bay, he might have slipped back into acquiescent alignment with it. He might have even escalated the confrontation in response to the challenging words lobbed at him by the man who had triggered this transgression of turmoil in the first place. But no, Fisher wasn’t a monster. He had done monstrous things in his past, in a naïve and fundamentally flawed understanding of ‘the greater good’ and what it represented, but he wouldn’t stoop to that level once more. Sure, her memory served as a reminder of what he could be, but it wasn’t what had first inspired and instilled that ideal; from the very onset he had always strived to be better than the typical Intelligence Officer, and though he had stumbled from time to time, he never let guilt and a costly victory compromise who he was at the very core.

Glaring at Brody, he found a new revelation of thought which hadn’t existed before with regard to the man; that of pity. He hadn’t know the other man for any real length of time, but he could still detect the telltale signs of surrender to the ‘business-as-usual’ approach that many Intelligence Officers exhibited, and which he was so determined to resist. As such, a much less scornful sentiment began to settle in, helping him to better understand the other spy. It was safe to say, that Fisher found himself feeling far less antagonistic toward Brody, and if anything far more apathetically neutral. “Another time.” Fisher dismissed him simply, immediately letting his considerable rage subside, and choosing to ignore the rest of the other spy’s attempts at provocation. Just as quickly as he had lost his control, he had regained it, and solidified it behind a fortified wall which always existed; the will to proceed, and to heed the call of duty. “Let’s get this over with, first.”

“If you hoo-mons are done, I’d like to conclude our business together.” Expressed Ferron who stood at the base of one of the two stairwells, a look of confusion clearly evident on his face. “Whoa! Alright, easy!” he protested as Brighton shoved him forward, annoyed that the Ferengi had grown comfortable and confident enough to voice such concerns, when he and his brother’s fate was still very much within the purview of the men who held them at the behest of disruptor rifles. “There aren’t any mines. Our agreement made it explicitly clear that explosives of any kind were forbidden.” He expressed, taking the first step unto the stairwell, followed by a second. “I made sure to include it in the contract, and the Dominion are surprisingly adherent to those finer details.” Though as he made the third step, a sudden chirp emanated from somewhere along the baseboard of the stairwell, and his eyes went wide in abject horror. Throwing his hands up over his head in anticipation of an explosion, the sniveling Ferengi dove up the stairwell and screamed, and Brighton likewise recoiled in expectation of some form of detonation.

Yet a few seconds passed, and it became clear that what had triggered was no mine, but rather a motion sensor.

“Shit!” exclaimed Fisher as he stepped closer to the stairwell, moving by Brody and toward Brighton. Laying eyes on the device which had been set off, he motioned with a wave of his hand for Brighton to grab Ferron and move him along. Their presence was likely revealed, and the Jem’Hadar would no doubt be moving to dig themselves in advance of what they likely perceived to be a raid on the FBA building. “Failed to detail motion sensors as also forbidden, huh?” he snapped at Ferron, only to turn back and grab Norben by the scruff of his collar and move him along too. “Come on, we’re not entirely screwed yet.” He explained, knowing that there were still one or two cards of deception that they could draw upon if circumstances were still conducive to them. Of course, that all hinged on details that they wouldn’t know until reaching the tenth-floor. “Is this the fastest way up?” he barked at the smaller Ferengi, ushering him up to the second level which overlooked the grand atrium down below.

“The fastest way is through the westside emergency escape stairwell.” Explained Norben, his dull voice co-opting the answer before Ferron could possibly convolute it with lies and half-truths.

“There are three ways up. This, the main stairwell, and yes the westside and eastside stairwells.” Ferron added.

“But we only disabled all of lockdown barriers in the westside, Ferron?”

Brighton and Fisher both immediately turned to glare at Ferron, who could only smile and shrug his shoulders. “Right... I forgot.”

“The emergency stairwell sounds like our best option, since it’s meant for easy escape it’s likely on the periphery of the building. Means we only have to worry about Dominion forces being in front of us, rather than behind, as we would if we took the main stairwell up.” Brighton reasoned, looking back and forth between the two spies as they were likely making up their own relative plans on the matter. Fisher nodded in acknowledgement, and while time was now of the essence as every passing moment meant that the Jem’Hadar on the tenth-floor would grow increasingly readied for combat, but there were likely other avenues of approach that they could explore when it came to dealing with the obstacle in the way of their getting to the roof. “I’m just an Engineer. Get me to the roof, and I’ll get the carry signal implanted. But I deferring to the two of you when it comes to dealing with our... obstacle.” The big man peered back and forth between the two spies, and though he could tell that Fisher’s mind was at play with an idea, he could likewise see that the other spy was also making considerations of his own.

“The path to the roof is the only thing that matters. The entire rest of the tenth-floor means nothing of value.” Fisher began, looking to Brody with an idea, which was potentially ridiculous, but also possibly might afford them the time they needed. “How much explosive did you manage to shove into that bag of tricks?”
Title: Re: [2374] Operation 'Spark' - Betazed
Post by: stardust on November 04, 2020, 01:25:01 PM
[ Cmdr. Brody Miller (https://uss-theurgy.com/w/index.php?title=Brody_Miller) | Codename: Mason | Rena Resistance Bivouac | Dalaria City | Betazed] Attn: @Swift
[Show/Hide]

It wasn’t quite obvious to Brody, how he’d gotten to develop a subtle sense of care, for the man calling himself Bishop. Or when, this exactly had occurred. He simply realized that, while his offer for physical release was rebuked, he felt a ping of concern, reverberating through his innards. The concern for the bearded man to at least not meet the most gruesome of demises – which was already a lot, considering. For someone who worked alone, it wasn’t very professional too care too much about anything, but the mission. A very easy focus to place, if you thought of it, excluding yourself from the ramifications of reality. It was, however, not very human … and, as the lovely Ferengi pointed out in his most screeching of voices, the two of them still were, very much so, decidedly human. All the flaws, all the demons, that came with it.

For now, however, he would put it down as battlefield affection: People spending an exceeding amount together, fighting the same foe, having each other’s back in some unspoken scheme of honor … it created a sense of comradery, no matter how hard one tried to fight it. Touching back on the very human instincts of connection and heightened sympathy, for those of their kind. A sentiment played like a fiddle, twisted to perversion, by the skilled diplomats of the fleet, but held in high regard still, among those deep down in the thick of it, where naught more existed, than the unwritten code of conduct, between those who fought the good fight. So, he did not press forward, on the issue, instead let the man pass, as the obnoxiously vocal Ferengi was pushed forward into the stairwell at his beckoning. Rolling his eyes at the new tirade, the former operative was already geared up to take a few flights of stairs in stride, as the whole procession stopped.

Cringing slightly at the way half his squad and their hostages recoiled in anticipation of what was to come, Brody remained relatively relaxed, bringing up the rear from a safe distance. But he DID expect something to blow up, orange chunks being flung around like someone detonated a firecracker in a jack-o-lantern. That spectacle, however, did not happen. “Good work … Pumpkin.” he denoted, sarcasm dripping off his every word, as he glared at Ferron, who was only just reclaiming his sanity. Circling around, pushing hands stiff into his hips, the man shuffled for a moment, letting his eyes scroll the room with an audible puff of vapor, escaping stiff lips. This was just getting better and better … the clumsiness with which they stumbled through this mission, playing Polish polkas on the strings of his nerves. And while his ears rung with the rushing of blood, he only caught the tail-end of their so-called ‘plan’.

Letting out a low snort of chuckle, the man turned around, his face serious as always, as if the stifled laugh had come from someone else.

“While I do appreciate where you’re going with this, the fireworks are reserved for the grand finale.” Brody challenged, ready to take Bishop to the mat on it … what was it with him trying to get the man to fight him though?! Lot of unresolved battlefield tension, if you would’ve asked the wife at home. “The alarm is already triggered, they know something’s coming …” he started out, casually reiterating the facts. “… they also know that these little worms are still creeping around, as if they had nothing in their heads but a candle, to simulate life in their eyes.” Just taking even the slightest bit of pleasure in the Ferengi’s communal exasperation, he paid them no direct attention. “We’ll send the little one up ahead to explain what happened.” He then looked at Norben, leaning forward and down slightly, to seem more menacing. “That they have nothing to worry about, that he was being stupid and irresponsible and deserves to have his head blown off.” The younger Ferengi retreated behind Brighton, figuring him the least of all evils. Erecting himself back up, dark eyes soon fell on Brody.

“I am afraid if we send the shriveled one, he’ll only rat us out, no matter if we snuff his cousin for it. In that regard, the smaller one has more wits, at least when it comes to fear being the smart thing to feel, right now.” the commander conceded. “We have no time for detours, no time to smoke an entire floor of alert Jem’Hadar … and we can’t afford drawing any more attention to this building, until we have finished our mission.” Tipping his pate subtly, wholesomely intent on coaxing forth a sense of agreement from Bishop, Brody let a small line of a frown show, between his thick brows. Lowering his voice, so only the other operative could hear it, he continued: “We’ll use him as a distraction, come up behind him, catch them by surprise. It’ll be over in a matter of minutes.”
Title: Re: [2374] Operation 'Spark' - Betazed
Post by: Swift on November 11, 2020, 04:24:36 AM
[ Lt. Andrew Fisher (https://uss-theurgy.com/w/index.php?title=Andrew_Fisher) | Codename: Bishop | Ferengi Banking Administration Building | Dalaria City (http://uss-theurgy.com/w/images/1/11/DalariaCity2374n.png) | Betazed (https://memory-alpha.fandom.com/wiki/Betazed) ] Attn: @stardust

Having been wholly intent on quite literally pulling the floor out from under the Jem’Hadar on the tenth level, Fisher could actually appreciate the slightly more sound and deliberative approach put forward by his fellow Intelligence Officer. Besides which, there were no guarantees that strapping that much high-explosive to the underside of the tenth level wouldn’t cause a severe destabilization of the roof structure and eliminate their true target: the jamming emitter placed atop it. Of course, while tactful, this stealthier approach full of subterfuge and silent death was undoubtedly a more difficult feat to accomplish. It would take the kind of practiced deftness that few could so profess an understanding and mastery of, though Fisher felt surprisingly confident that his counterpart could count himself as one of those few. So, casting the other man a cursory examination with his green gaze, Fisher offered nothing more a simple nod of agreement on the matter. There were more than a few slit throats in his past, and it seemed tonight he’d add to that gruesome tally.

“Well. Norben, I would argue, but it sounds like a fair enough proposal to me.” Chimed Ferron, the snarky sniveling tone of his voice made plainly evident by how he was oh-so-willing to sell out his brother, as the alternative would have seen him placed in harm’s way instead.

“Man, shut up!” barked Brighton as he shoved Ferron out of disgust.

“We take the westside stairwell up, our more agreeable Ferengi friend gives the Jem’Hadar a moment of pause, and then we pull out the clean sweep, yeah?” Fisher surmised the plan as much for his own benefit, as for anyone else. It wasn’t the worst plan he’d ever heard. Nor was it the best or most well thought out one either, but given their options and constraints, it still beat his proposal. Thing was, everyone had plans until they got punched in the mouth, as a famous Earth heavyweight boxer used to lament, and they were definitely going to be getting their fair share of punches during the inevitable fracas. With an audible sigh however, Fisher stepped toward and padded the taller yet slower Ferengi on his shoulder in a reassuring manner. “You’ll be fine.” While his fellow spy might have been far less considerate of such a small gesture, Fisher wasn’t, and knew that the Ferengi would be placing himself in a precarious situation on their behalf. Sure, he was in stuck in between a proverbial rock and hard place, without much else to do about it, but Fisher also figured Norben might be more useful to them and their effort if he wasn’t so sure of his own death. If there was even a tiny glimmer of hope that the noble Starfleet Officers might do their part in ensuring his safety during the bloody strife of this initiative, then it might bolster their efforts.

“Well. Okay.”

“Good enough for me. Let’s go!” he beckoned Norben ahead of him, sending him scurrying down the corridor which led to the westside emergency stairwell. Brighton fell in behind, shoving Ferron in a likewise direction, though with a more aggressive sentiment behind it. Lingering back just a second, Fisher afforded Brody a knowing glance that spoke volumes of the understanding that they surely shared, that this wouldn’t be such a clean and thrifty business as either of them had outlined. That there was odds on favorite that the dullard of a Ferengi wouldn’t see the ensuing exchange through unscathed, if alive at all. It was an uneasy thought to him, as even if the Ferengi were making deals with the Dominion, they weren’t necessarily traitors as Brody had likely seen them. They were collaborators, sure, but that didn’t necessitate their deaths in his mind. But the simple facts had been laid out to bear by Brody, they didn’t have time for detours, and couldn’t risk drawing attention to their location until after things were settled with the emitter. For him, it meant he’d reach inside for something a little extra in the next few minutes, because he didn’t want to add Norben to the list of guilts already weighing him down in life.

Naturally, he wondered if Brody might be able to summon the same level of wherewithal, or if he would simply do as little as possible in getting the task done, disregarding the value of the Ferengi’s life as nothing more than another expendable asset.

The climb up the eight flights of stairs to the tenth-floor went slow enough thanks to Ferron who trudged onward under the aggressive behest of Brighton, himself annoyed at how many breaks the conniving Ferengi begged to take along the way. Eventually though, they reached the last platform at the top of the dimly lit emergency staircase, where a lone door awaited them. Glancing at Norben who stood just before the precipice of where it might swing open, he imagined what kind of ambush and or traps might lay in wait for them just beyond it. Thankfully, the ten Jem’Hadar had three staircases to keep watch of, as they likely had no idea which of them the intruders might emerge from. Given that they also had to maintain guard over the stairwell which led to the roof, it was relatively safe to assume there would be two maybe three of them waiting within close proximity. Those odds weren’t great for poor Norben, but they were well within the realm of reasonable for Fisher and Brody to successfully take down. The issue was that if they didn’t do it quietly, they’d soon find themselves swarmed upon by those remaining Jem’Hadar.

“Knives out.” He commented softly, recalling exactly how Anderson would have said it when approaching a similar scenario. As accentuation, the bayonet at the end of his borrowed Jem’Hadar disruptor-rifle flicked out audibly from where it had been retracted.

Understanding what the play was, as it had been described to him during the ascent, Norben cast one last look at the men whom he was being forced to entrust his life too, then took a step forward into the door, clunking against it clumsily as it didn’t budge for him. Blinking in confusion, and looking back for instruction on the matter, it was clear Norben didn’t understand the issue. So, rather than spell it out, Fisher reached out and grabbed the door handle and pulled it open, demonstrating what the issue was in the mere act. Raising a finger as though he understood, though neglecting to comment, Norben strode through the now open doorway and made an immediate right turn. “Umm... hello?” he called out into the darkness, raising his hands in sign of his ‘innocent’ intentions to whomever may have lay in wait for him.

Shaking his own head at the idea that their plan hinged on someone too dimwitted to recognize that a door was of the pull, not push variety, Fisher went to a crouch as he slipped through the doorway a few seconds after Norben, weapon at the ready, and sticking to the darkened parts of the shadows that which permeated the confines of the first corridor. There were rooms to either side of the corridor, with doors which were left open due to the lack of an internal power source, which was great since it offered a decent bit of defilade for when the shooting inevitably broke out. Tucking away into one and peering out from one of them as he continued to overwatch Norben who strolled along, Fisher began to wonder where the Jem’Hadar were, as they likely should have spotted and called out to the Ferengi by now. Or they should have shot him. All the same, the lack of an immediate reaction was moderately disconcerting.

“Halt!” boomed a disconnected voice from somewhere. “What’re you doing here, Ferengi! You’re not cleared for this level!”

With a deep yet silent breath, and just barely capable of seeing the encroaching Jem’Hadar who had called out to Norben, with what appeared to be a second just a few paces behind him, Fisher ducked out of his cover and sidled around the corner into the next open doorway just prior to the intersection where the Ferengi had stopped in place. Taking up a position just off to the rear left of Norben, he was ready to lunge forth and down the Jem’Hadar if they so closed distance just a little more.

“Umm... sorry, but I uhh... need to talk to the First? It’s about my brother.”
Title: Re: [2374] Operation 'Spark' - Betazed
Post by: stardust on November 15, 2020, 01:07:20 PM
[ Cmdr. Brody Miller (https://uss-theurgy.com/w/index.php?title=Brody_Miller) | Codename: Mason | Rena Resistance Bivouac | Dalaria City | Betazed] Attn: @Swift
[Show/Hide]

Feeling as if they had reached a level of agreement, unprecedented in the short amount of intense time spent together, Brody dared not cast doubt, into that holy light of unity, temporarily cast atop their fellowship, like a single bright star in the sky. So, he dispensed his judgment on the further cuts, that dissected his original ploy into a reality more suitable to Bishop’s sensibilities as an operative. He found himself to be bigger than that, in one of the most selfish displays of misplaced grandeur to date. Which ironically translated into one of his smartest moments. Maybe that was the essence of diplomacy, Samantha always kept talking about. That getting what you wanted, was as much about making concessions, as it was about staying true to your own convictions. An eternal tug-of-war, between either. Accepting that not always could you get the exact results you had vied for. Sometimes it was a compromise. God, how he hated that word. But not only since getting married, had he painfully learned the merit of such a concept. And what would keep him off the living area’s couch at night, surely, could also keep him in more agreeable graces with the man that obviously held such (unwarranted) sway among the local rebels.

The fate of the two Ferengi truly wasn’t on the forefront of the man’s mind. Perceptions trained on the ultimate goal still. Which had already shifted from extracting the bearded man to tagging along on his ill-fated crusade in an effort to keep him alive. Emotional proclivities not at the top of the list, until mere minutes ago. As it had turned out the man’s mental stability was probably equally important to his survival as having someone to guard his back. Both of which were already a fully day’s work for a single man. Combined, however, there was little more room to care about the wellbeing of two whining, orange balls of greed. “Ferron, I swear, by the singed chip in your ear …” he grumbled up through the bars of alternating banisters, to the flight of stairs the alien was currently catching his breath on. Apparently, he had still gone to easy on the man, eliciting any sense of self-preservation, above that of comfort and slight physical anguish. Deliberately leaving the fate open, however, he hoped to instill a ‘or else’ sensitivity in him, that would hopefully drive those pudgy little feet to a more agreeable pace.

Eventually, the small group reached the top, a lone single door in the wall, like a predestined fate. No choice, no alternative, a solitary way forward. Which, from a tactical perspective, held its own merit. Having brought up the rear, Brody waited half a level below, still hearing the commands hissed through the dark clearly. He was now caught in between the comfort of his sniper scope, revealing shrouded Jem’Hadar with ease, and the quiet, subtle edge of his carbon blade. The words, however, touched on familiar ground, that he hadn’t thought possible between these two men. Dark eyes gazed at the other operative incredulously, beneath furrowed brows, that conveyed an unspoken sense of realization. Etching them one step closer to mutual agreement. So, he submitted to the notion laid out by Bishop, he’d grant him that much advance trust now. Slipping through the shoulder strap of his black rifle, placing it across the backpack on his hunch, the man pulled a shimmering anthracite blade from his boot, clenching his fist around the grip to it pointed downward, to give better leverage while letting it fall onto the back of Jem’Hadar necks. “Stab, don’t slash.” he whispered succinctly, since even a simple task as push vs. pull seemed too hard to understand. Too loud enough for the whole group to hear, alongside the subtly mocking tone. There was no need to spend their last seconds of peace in pathetic sobriety.

Turning back into motion, as the caravan scampered single file through the exit, Brody brought up the rear, guiding the door back into its lock silently. Watching Bishop disappear in a room on the opposite side of the corridor, while Norben shuffled ahead straight down, he tapped Brighton silently on the shoulder, giving him a distinct chop with the side of his hand in Bishop’s direction, beckoning him to follow. He had no intention to be blamed for that one getting scorch marks. He’d rather taken the Ferengi, who was already singed. Pulling Ferron into a room, opposite of the other two, Brody took a quick moment to adjust to the darkness, spotting a connecting door just down the room. Slapping the large-eared alien on the head, to regain his attention, he pointed at the pathway for him to follow, as well as reiterating, by gesture, to keep his damn mouth shut or else … finger guns to the head, with his eyes rolled to the back of it. Continuing to scurry across the dusty floor, torso bent down low, he almost admired the Ferengi for his stout profile, right then.

Squatting beside the door ultimately, he gently pulled at the already slightly gaping panel, cringing at the subtle sound of metal scraping against one another in the absence of magnetic levitation. But the noise was wholesomely covered by distance and the Jem’Hadar asserting themselves just beyond the wall. Shoving Ferron through, Brody followed suit immediately, pinning the Ferengi against the wall and beckoning him to stay, before scampering onward to the next doorway into the corridor, just feet from where the soldiers stood. Peering out a bit, covered by the shadow of the wall, he could see Bishop and Brighton having taken up a similar position on the opposite side, as they waited for the Jem’Hadar to take the bait. Moving to the opposite side of the doorframe unseen, so he could have direct line of sight with Norben, the notion was not requited. No matter the effort on the operative’s side, the Ferengi could not see the signals in the dark, urging him to lure the guards his way. Instead, the opposite happened.

“Alright, come with us!” they demanded relentlessly, causing Brody to cuss quietly and for Ferron to actually display some semblance of terror, in what that would mean to his brother. Or himself, it was hard to tell. Nonetheless, watching Norben slowly pass by the door, towards the Jem’Hadar, he already saw his window of opportunity slip, until the two men made an effort to let the Ferengi pass between them, so they could take up the rear, like good old soldiers. Sticking his head out of the doorway as they had turned, a wave towards Bishop, Brody quickly snuck out of his hiding place, coming up behind the left Jem’Hadar. One last check with regards to the other man’s readiness, he let his blade fall dash down into the back of the guard’s neck, soliciting a gut-wrenching crack, as his spine severed. Giving it. A twist for good measure and the limp man slid off the blade onto the floor with a subtle thud. Kicking him one last time, to check any reaction beyond the random twitch of his body chemistry, the former operative brushed both sides of the blade against his black pants, leaving a shimmering trail of indiscernible color.

“How many more was that?” he whispered, readying for the next act.
Title: Re: [2374] Operation 'Spark' - Betazed
Post by: Swift on November 22, 2020, 11:57:03 AM
[ Lt. Andrew Fisher (https://uss-theurgy.com/w/index.php?title=Andrew_Fisher) | Codename: Bishop | Ferengi Banking Administration Building | Dalaria City (http://uss-theurgy.com/w/images/1/11/DalariaCity2374n.png) | Betazed (https://memory-alpha.fandom.com/wiki/Betazed) ] Attn: @stardust

Knives in the dark.

When he’d first come to work with Starfleet Intelligence, it had surprised a younger and slightly more naïve Fisher just how often true change came via that most vicious of combinations. Talking your way through disagreements was fine but trying to understand your opponents and their point of view could only go on for so long. Diplomacy was of course always the goal with Starfleet and the Federation, but in reality it had a limited modicum of time to be played out, and when it finally felt like that time had reached it’s inevitable close, and an impasse still hadn’t been cleared, it was then that the sheathes were discarded, and the pathways to ‘peace’ became greased with the blood of those opponents. At least, that had been the case far more frequently than was common knowledge among the people of the Federation. The ‘nobility’ of that Federation, and it’s superior moral standing went right out when faced with something like the Dominion; it didn’t matter if the dove-like people made new calls for peace talks, even sometimes in the form of surrender so as to bring an end to the bloodshed. Once there was a promise of war, it was then up to people like Fisher and Brody to ensure that the efforts of those opponents were bitterly contested, and to forward the agenda of violence.

Peace would be won by making the enemies of the Federation regret ever having gone to war with them in the first place.

That reality wasn’t lost on Fisher as he followed after their dimwitted Ferengi accomplice, making his way down the corridor ahead of them. He kept close proximity by sticking to the shadows, skirting around and through one connected office into the next. He could only hopefully assume that his fellow Intelligence Officer was likewise keeping up with the slow advance toward this particular set of Jem’Hadar, because he would no doubt need his assist in downing them silently if they wanted to have any chance of making it to the roof without everything going to shit before then. It was however, and oddity that for the first time since he’d met the man, that he’d felt a sense of trust in Brody. He had recognized the same deftness of skill and training that had been instilled in himself as an Intelligence Operative. There was an experience hidden behind those brown-eyes which spoke to years of honing those skills, the same way it was hidden behind Fishers eyes of sage green. So it was, that as Norben moved between the vanguard pair who sought to escort him to indeed speak with their First, and under the behest of a gesture to commence the strike, that Fisher and Brody made their move.

Coming up from behind the one of the left, Fisher grabbed a hold of its shoulder to spin and face him before powerfully thrusting the eight-inch bayonet of his borrowed disruptor rifle upward into its neck, just above the start of its sternum. The location of such a stab, taught to him by a less than benevolent mentor, ensured a number of things, most notably of which was a silent and near instantaneous incapacitation of the victim in question. The initial thrust would puncture their wind-pipe, pierce the spinal cord protected by vertebrae, and if pushed deep enough even potentially strike at the nerve cluster at the base of the brain. If followed by a sufficiently violent swipe on the withdraw in order to sever the arteries hidden in the neck, the victim, if somehow still alive would most certainly drown in his own blood as it poured into his now punctured throat. In this particular case, Fisher had executed such an attack flawlessly as with a slight grunt, followed by a lightly audible gurgling caused by dark life-fluid bubbling from the cut gash, his prey slumped to the ground with little if any movement which denoted life.

His blade dripping, Fisher regarded Brody with a serious gaze before his attention moved to a stunned and shocked Norben who hadn’t seen what transpired behind him, but who had most certainly heard it, perhaps even viscerally so due to the Ferengi’s gifted sense.

“Eight more to go.” He said simply, looking back to where Brighton and Ferron were waiting in the recesses of shadow. It didn’t bear mentioning that there would soon be a patrol dispatched to check on these two after they failed to report in, as Brody would have been just as aware. Peering down the darkened corridor as it stretched onward, he knew that they could likely pull off one more stealthy attack like this one, before the Jem’Hadar would understand the game being played and adapt strategies. With a nod in the direction further down the corridor, indicating his intent to lure in the next patrol and repeat the process, Fisher gave a wave to Norben, Ferron, and Brighton so as to have them take cover somewhere. Ducking back down to a low crouch, Fisher then moved ahead twenty or so paces and tucked back into one of the empty offices, once more making note of the tactless and gawdy features which adorned their surroundings in sickly hues of purple, green, and orange. The only items which more readily denoted this structure as Ferengi in ownership, were the number of safes and vaults which adorned the corners of each room. He pondered for a moment if their contents had been left behind, then with a dismissive head shake he knew it ludicrous to imagine that the greedy species would leave their most prized possessions behind.

“Westside unit. Report in!” came a baritone voice down the corridor, alerting Fisher to take up the ready.

“First, this is Central unit. We’ve not received check-ins from the Westside unit since their dispatch. What are your orders?”

Clutching his disruptor rifle tightly, and ready to emerge from the cabinet he had chosen to obscure himself behind, Fisher waited to hear what this group might do. He knew that if they didn’t take the bait, he would need to force the issue, and rush them. This was a game of numbers, and they desperately needed to seize on whatever few opportunities there were to even them out.

“Understood!” the voice seemed to draw nearer again, and Fisher could hear footsteps.

As a flashlight suddenly shone into the office that he had taken refuge in, illuminating the interior rather brilliantly, the spy was careful to ensure that he was hidden from view, though that also meant he couldn’t necessarily ascertain how many of the Jem’Hadar there were in this particular group. Holding his breath, and making a conscious effort to steady his heartbeat, it felt like an eternity had passed before finally the light disappeared and the room was bathed in pitch once more.

“Clear!” came a second voice, and more footsteps. “There! Bodies!” it followed up with.

It was an interesting thing, how without any prior determinations made, he could recognize his cue to act as if he had been called to it under a waving baton held by an orchestral conductor. How it was an almost intrinsic awareness, bordering on extra-sensory capability which he and most spies possessed, because he knew the window to attack had just been thrown open, and that the time to continue this symphony of silent death had come after the briefest of interludes. Springing forth from where he had been hidden, he emerged from around the open doorway of the office into the corridor and approached a trio of Jem’Hadar from behind them. Two were fore, the flashlights of their weapons trained on the pair of bodies that he and Brody had left for them to discover, yet the third was smart enough to keep a keen eye on their rear as they advanced. He had spotted the movement as it came for him and his fellows, but unfortunately for him, at such close distances he barely had time to recognize what that movement was before it was bearing down upon him.

He might not have been as easy a slaughter as the first had been for Fisher, since the green-eyed spy had to swing the butt of his rifle in a wide arc just to fling the soldier’s own rifle out of firing position, but he still didn’t stand much of a chance to survive the follow-up bayonet thrust which lanced into the dead center of his chest, piercing a protective breastplate with ease as Fisher leant the whole of his body weight into the attack, his blade entering the heart behind it. His momentum carried on however, causing him to fall atop of the body he had just created, leaving himself a target for the two still living Jem’Hadar soldiers just a few paces ahead. At least, that would have been the case, were it not for a skillful Brody dealing with them first.

Digging his bayonetted rifle free from where it had come stuck in his target, Fisher stood over his second victim a moment before turning to look back down the corridor.

“Five left now.”



OOC: A little music to set the badass mood after Fisher and Brody have finished the second set of Jem'Hadar. ;)
[Show/Hide]
Title: Re: [2374] Operation 'Spark' - Betazed
Post by: stardust on December 04, 2020, 07:08:10 PM
[ Cmdr. Brody Miller (https://uss-theurgy.com/w/index.php?title=Brody_Miller) | Codename: Mason | Ferengi Banking Administration Building | Dalaria City | Betazed] Attn: @Swift
[Show/Hide]

The curious thing about memories, repressed or not, was that they popped up in the funniest moments. Like that silly earth game, where you had to whack a mole, or a beaver, popping out from beneath the surface unpredictably. And while Brody certainly had the mental mallet, and the skill, to score at hammering any unwanted memento back into the depth of the infernal machinery, there were still those cute little critters from days gone he had to take a moment to look at. Potentially until the timer passed and that particular point was lost to his mawkish veneration. Like the way Bishop and him had taken down the two soldiers in perfect synergy, now stalking the next batch like a pack of wolves, relying on millennia of evolutionary conditioning and silent, almost telepathic, communication. These were the moments that felt so incredibly natural that he did not mind the call from the past. No, if anything, it cast an almost acquainted light on the relationship between the two men, that only now started to find the mutual ground, they had so long danced around. Who would have thought, that all it took would be a couple of hours in the soup, to become one with the struggle once more. Hell, to potentially even enjoy it, just a little.

For a moment, the corridors filled with the silence of battle fog, descending thick upon the dusty floor. Invisible, yet heavy, as a wet blanket. The tiniest crack, echoed through the cavernous halls, like tender ripples in a pond, almost tugging at the man’s rigid body, as they gently lapped around him. A husky voice cracked through the dark like a whip, sending miniscule electric shocks to his muscles, stiffening them into an alert pose, within a moment that not even his blinking eyelids could catch up with. As stray dust particles, caught in his dark lashes, sparkled like blurry glitter, against the rays of flashlights, coming up the hallway like the silver promise of a new morning … though not for them, certainly. The lizard creatures beyond the veil of white light. Monstrous things that fairytales had been made of, when humanity was till confined to their little corner of the universe. Oblivious to the real horrors of infinite possibilities in infinite variations. A kind of ignorance that would’ve caused them destruction by the Borg, or even the Dominion by now, potentially, had they not left the surly bonds of home. Yet they didn’t exactly find paradise in the heavens above either, did they.

In an ideal scenario, the bodies would’ve been removed, to eliminate unwanted attention. But that was a tactic reserved for worse odds than ten against two. So what, if they knew what was to come, if the fear of it all turned their muscles and flesh sour, from the acidity of fear. Even If the Jem’Hadar couldn’t feel it, per say, they knew the taste of danger, like the scent of copper in the wind, that attracts the predators of the wild. Transmitted like the staccato of morse-code, in every abrupt move and jerk, as their heartbeat hastened. No matter how he stalked, be it a Klingon, a Romulan, a Jem’Hadar … they all behaved the same, in the end. When an ethereal sense of finality flushed their arteries with adrenaline. An innate sense of foresight, that every living thing possessed, as it pertained directly to the finite quality of existence. A siren’s call, from the other side, like a dark echo, a gravity, pulling at the soul, even before the body hits the ground. He’d seen it, many times, as the light went out in someone’s eyes, before they even felt the sharp sting in their flesh, that squeezed their lungs like an elephant, sitting on their chest. Constricted their muscles, like a boa, wrapped around their limbs and torso. Until it all gave way to numbness.

One Jem’Hadar slipped off his blade, a stray drop of blood, springing into the air with every groove in its shaft, as it flicked against the fabric of his suit, on the way out. A long streak of black liquid, almost frozen in the air, stretching between the tip of his knife and the wound on the collapsing soldier, as it whizzed through the air with the sound of an arrow, clean across the other alien’s neck. Cutting scaly leather and rigid meat in a hot flesh, so deep, it caused the Jem’Hadar’s head to tip back, revealing the white of a vertebra, like an opal in the dark crack of a mine, flooded with the oily grime of life. He too, sank to the floor momentarily, like a machine that had just been switched off. Brody didn’t even realize that he was slightly panting, against the more gut-wrenching sound of liquid spiling across the dusty marble. His boots, squeaking against the pooling to his feet, as similar black ponds raised to look at the other operative, glazed over with the memories he did not care to relief as vividly as the ones he’d indulged in just minutes earlier. It took him a moment to untangle the current situation from that of shadows past. Until he realized Bishop’s position.

“Well, once you’re done making out with that corpse, you can still catch up.” he noted flippantly – or as flippantly as could be, when the mere notion of making light was in reference to one’s own darkness, rather than that weighing down the situation they were in. Half of them down and no mentionable injuries, but maybe psychological ones, the odds certainly seemed to be in their favor. Turning slightly, to get a look back at the other three behind them, their pale skins and distorted faces at the scene, he could – for the first time- see the true extent of their mess. Walls splattered with long streaks of dark glitter. The floor almost obstructed, by fleshy debris. Almost feeling bad for the display, in light of those, that these were not all too common sights for. “Steady steps, they won’t get back up.” He reassured, holding out a hand to get the Ferengi across swiftly, and without them shrieking like a pig. In the end, however, his pulling them across made them stumble even harder, than had they gone at their own volition … and pace. Earning him some mean glances, but what else was new.

“What are the chances we make it to the roof without going through every last one of them?” He didn’t suppose they would be open to bribery, or terror. But maybe they were just dim enough not to notice.
Title: Re: [2374] Operation 'Spark' - Betazed
Post by: Swift on December 20, 2020, 10:16:02 AM
[ Lt. Andrew Fisher (https://uss-theurgy.com/w/index.php?title=Andrew_Fisher) | Codename: Bishop | Ferengi Banking Administration Building | Dalaria City (http://uss-theurgy.com/w/images/1/11/DalariaCity2374n.png) | Betazed (https://memory-alpha.fandom.com/wiki/Betazed) ] @stardust

In what could be described as a most vicious and carefully choreographed ballet, Fisher and his silent partner had worked their way down through the halls of this abandoned and mostly forgotten building like a pair of looming shadows which sought to steal away the very last facets of light from their would-be victims. Together, they had so skillfully skulked from one darkened corner onto the next in perfect lock sync, and rhythm. The pitter-patter of spilled blood and the subtle almost indistinctive fading of dying heartbeats serving as a percussive backdrop to the nearly silent orchestral masterpiece of instinct and training which was driving them onward. Not everyone who served within Starfleet was capable of such deftness when dispatching death upon the foes of the Federation. No, these abilities weren’t even all that common among members of the Intelligence services to which both Fisher and Brody had both either belonged to in past or present tense. Anyone could wield a phaser and shoot their enemies from a distance, but few could, and even fewer would choose to adopt such a brutally violent and personal skillset which leant itself so readily to assassination and murder. Some might have even foolishly mistaken this kind of mastery of knives as something akin to the valorous displays of martial combat that Klingons and other similar warrior races had so championed. But there was nothing valorous about what Fisher and Brody had just gone through.

In the simplest terms, their use of knives was an efficient means to an end and nothing more.

As the diameter of a puddle slowly expanded beneath the limp body of his latest victim, soon finding, and mingling among a pair of others like three great lakes which began to merge into a vast ocean, Fisher glared with a determination in response to the flippant remark cast by his fellow assassin. As much as he hated to admit it, there had always been a surge of adrenaline and endorphins which came in accordance when committing these kinds of acts. Bloodlust, he knew it as, was very real, and were it not for his training, skill, and the understanding which he had been taught, he might have fallen victim to the inescapable lure of how incredibly empowering it felt. It was safe to say that men like Fisher and Brody were either a Counseling Officer’s greatest wet dream, or their most horrifying of nightmares. Because there were dark places where only men like Fisher and Brody were not only permitted to delve but were in fact encouraged to roam. The very act of emerging from darkness only to so viciously deprive the gift of life from another being was the kind of fuel which sustained history’s greatest murderers and psychopaths, but to them it was their job. And just like all those murderers and psychopaths, Fisher could keenly remember the looks in the faces of each and every one of his victims when his knife struck home, and the light in their eyes went out of existence.

For now though, those old faces along with these new ones would have to settle back into the recesses of his subconscious and wait for their opportune chance to haunt his dreams.

‘Be seeing you.’ Fisher thought to himself as he exhaled deeply and eased his grip of the rifle in his hands ever so slightly.

“Slim to none.” Shifting his attention to the two bumbling Ferengi moving toward them at the behest of Brighton’s prodding, he could see a slightly terrified and clearly judgmental look in the eyes of Ferron. Fisher was more than aware of the reputation that humanity had garnered since joining the greater community of races which trekked across the stars and knew that more cunning people like Ferron could see right through the professed warmth and higher sensibilities espoused by the Federation. Romulans were duplicitous by nature. Vulcans could be considered cold. Klingons violent and impulsive. Ferengi conniving. But humanity was different in that it would exemplify each of these traits while attempting to hide them behind a veil of love for peace and prosperity. Some were naïve enough to but this façade, and give the benefit of the doubt, but others were wary of how dangerous humanity could be. And by no means was that wariness unwarranted, or unrightful. It was proven prudent time and again by actions commensurate with those that these two assassins had just demonstrated.

“Hoo-mons.” Remarked Ferron as he shook his head, appraising his dim-witted brother with an incredulous look as if to say he was right.

Choosing to ignore the shade being so liberally cast upon them, Fisher spun on his heel as he peered further down the hallway that they had been working their way along. “With two of their patrols going silent, the remaining Jem’Hadar will seek to regroup, hunker down, and defend their position and the signal jammer until reinforcements arrive.” It would have been exceedingly foolish of them to believe their mission would proceed without additional enemies descending upon them at some point. If the clock wasn’t ticking before, it certainly was now. They needed to make it to their objective sooner rather than later, and at this point the added baggage of their Ferengi friends would only serve to slow them down. “The access stairwell to the roof, down this hallway, right?” Motioning with his rifle in the direction which led off into the distance, its bayonet still dripping with thick droplets of blood serving as stark reminder to the hellishness of just a few seconds earlier. He could only imagine the kind of defenses that the Jem’Hadar had previously set up in advance of an eventual attack.

Sensing it as his turn to speak, Ferron glanced between Fisher and Brody for an instant before. “That’s right. About fifty meters that way.”

“The corridor widens just prior the stairwell to accommodate Director Ongro’s private lounge.” Norben added.

“Alright. Cut’em loose, Al.”

Raising a curious eyebrow at the instruction, Brighton didn’t exactly hesitate as he stepped forward to shuffle both of the Ferengi back down the corridor in the direction from which they had emerged just moments earlier. “You heard the man, get lost!” barked the big Starfleet Engineer, his deep baritone voice serving as an impetus to the pair of brothers. “Best you run and keep your heads down. We mean to make a mess of this place.” He warned as Norben scuttled down in advance of his brother.

“Oh! Real quick! If any of you ever have need of sound financial advice or investment opportun-- umm, actually never mind.” Ferron blinked in disbelief as he cut short his attempt at soliciting a new client from the trio of men, choosing instead to scamper after his brother with added gusto.

Shaking his head as the annoying Ferengi brothers disappeared into the darkness, Brighton checked the power level on his rifle as he stepped forward to stand among Fisher and Brody. “Time’s ticking. We need a plan to get past them, and we need one quick. The Jem’Hadar aren’t likely to be in any kind of mood to talk. If anything, they’ll be shooting first, second, and third at this point. A full-on frontal assault is likely suicide, but with the window for subterfuge being closed at this point, I don’t really see another way around it.” Standing a good few inches higher than his comrades, the broad-shouldered hulk of a man peered down past the pair of them and waited to field any options they might have had. After all, his expertise was with computer systems, and engineering. Assaulting an enemy position wasn’t necessarily out of the realm of his job expectations, but it certainly wasn’t something that he had much personal experience with. No, it was best to leave such considerations up to the two spies that thrived under such dire situations and circumstances.

Sighing softly for a moment as he checked the watch on his wrist, Fisher made mental note of the time so as to get a rough idea of just how long they probably had before any of the forces that had gone to attack the divisionary team might return. At best, he surmised they had five-minutes to get to the roof and start the upload before troops began storming the building in support of their fellows. And that was assuming the divisionary team hadn’t already been wiped out, and the Jem’Hadar hadn’t already been on their way back. Starkly aware of all the variables which existed as part of their problematic situation, Fisher could see the whole equation splayed out and knew that the calculations his trained mind was making were right. Sure, an assault had a better chance of success if all three of them attacked at once, but Brighton was himself too critical to the overall success of their mission to really risk. Additionally, while he didn’t exactly like Brody, Fisher knew that he had already rather unfairly asked too much of the man, and that he had gone above and beyond the call of his respective duty in helping Fisher get this far. He couldn’t rightfully expect him to risk his skin and surrender the life he had hinted about earlier on some daring attempt to storm an enemy holdout.

That left only him. Of the three, he knew that he was the most directly expendable. And despite what Brody might have thought of it, the realization wasn’t one born of a death wish. It was simply born of succinct truth. After all, his survival wasn’t integral to the success of the mission. Nor did he have anyone waiting for him to return somewhere.

“Right.” He said simply as he slung his rifle over his shoulder. “You get this shit done! Yeah?” Quickly grabbing both a flashbang and a fragmentation grenade from his where they had been clipped to his waist, he quickly pulled the pins from each and held their respective spoons in place. “Godspeed gentlemen.” And with that, Fisher took off in a sprint without so much as a hesitance down the hallway toward where an ambush and the objective were awaiting. His heart pounding in his chest, the passage of time soon seemed to slow and stretch out with each successive stride he took. Behind him, he could hear the echo of his footsteps, and ahead of him he heard shuffling movement as his greeting party got ready. ‘Two or three of them.’ He thought to himself. ‘If I can take at least two or three of them, then the others should make it.’ Drawing nearer to where the corridor began to widen in advance of the aforementioned personal lounge, he heard the command given to open fire and saw a brilliant flashing of light ahead of him. Yet like creeping lightning bolts the disruptor blasts surged past him in what felt like slow-motion, singing the hairs of his beard as they narrowly missed striking him in the face. ‘Just a little closer.’ The proximity now just a few meters, he could see how the five Jem’Hadar were split, two of the left side, three on the right, and in and instant he threw the fragmentation grenade at the larger group, and the flashbang at the other.

“Wait! Bishop!” blurted out Brighton in protestation as the bearded spy took off without forewarning, his attention shifting to Brody in shock at what was happening. But before he could even attempt to charge after Fisher, he had already disappeared into the distant darkness at a full-on sprint, only to be illuminated by the pulsing of discharged weapons fire, and two rather loud thumps which reverberated back down the corridor to them.

For Fisher, who had dove with his unslung rifle, bayonet first at one of the two Jem’Hadar on the left, there suddenly came an utterly blinding flash, accompanied by a pair of ear-shattering booms, and then followed almost immediately by searing hot pain as he was struck cleanly in the right shoulder by something which he couldn’t readily ascertain in the midst of the chaos and confusion he had wrought. Instead, he found himself being thrashed unto the ground, no doubt by one of the surviving Jem’Hadar. A fury of clenched fists soon descending upon him in haphazard fashion as both he and the assailant were blinded and rendered temporarily deaf by the thrown flashbang. Unable to defend himself, he could only lay pinned to the ground beneath the scaly demon, an arm covering his face as haymaker blows began to rain down. He had somehow survived the first part of this brazen and somewhat blatantly stupid assault, but he hadn’t made it through unscathed, and he certainly wouldn’t last forever without help, even if he had somehow managed to unknowingly dispatch four of the five enemies which stood in opposition of them completing their mission.

“Rrragh!” bellowed out the lone surviving Jem’Hadar as his fist struck true to the side of Fisher’s face, a rather satisfactory dull thud emanating from where he slugged in addition to a splattering of blood as skin tore underneath his knuckles.
Title: Re: [2374] Operation 'Spark' - Betazed
Post by: stardust on December 20, 2020, 10:52:15 PM
[ Cmdr. Brody Miller (https://uss-theurgy.com/w/index.php?title=Brody_Miller) | Codename: Mason | Ferengi Banking Administration Building | Dalaria City | Betazed] Attn: @Swift
[Show/Hide]

Brody wasn’t the biggest fan of obvious conclusions, no matter how truthful they would turn out to be. They always imposed a sense of predetermination he rather not entertained. But when Bishop so aptly outlined the near future through his little crystal ball of trained virtues and the tarot cards of his sharpened intellect, the taller man couldn’t help but quietly agree. A court nod the only disgruntled consent he would give to the plausibility of such tactics. Pulling on the Ferengi’s arm a little tighter. To the point of almost disjointing the fabric-clad carrot, at the mention of another ill-pronounced species denomination – which he couldn’t be certain anymore to be coincidental and not malicious – he let his contempt shoot into the shorter guy’s limb like a knife, as the nerve endings fired. Stumbling almost the last step and slipping subsequently in the forming puddle of cherry syrup, said arm was however the only thing keeping the alien from dissolving into a comedy act. Which caused his inadvertent savior to roll his eyes into the back of his head, the white a stark contrast against his dark skin.

Yanking at the arm once more, that was already aided by Ferron’s hand on his aching shoulder joint, the former operative elicited another scowl and childish hiss. “Fifty meters?!” he asked, probing, unwavering in his determination to rip the worthless piece of bone and flesh right off. “Fif … FOURTY-SEVEN meters, precisely … I swear.” The Ferengi bubbled with venom and pain, still intent on keeping his own life obscured to the rest of the Jem’Hadar as much as those of his assailants – by coincidental association. Yet even after Bishop’s command, Brody took a good moment to let his dark eyes sink coldly into the depth of the orange guy’s conscience where it would haunt him for a good while longer, keeping him from making any decisions detrimental to his own health in the long run. Only then did he give the alien full control over its own body back, as it quickly scampered off like a beaten dog. Diverting his attention to the hallway ahead, light losing itself in the dusty depth of darkness, he was however briefly met with the annoying call of Ferron once more, with a resigning puff of air exhaled. Turning his head swiftly, dangerous eyes shooting daggers at the wimp, it however decided quickly against furthering his pathetically misplaced offering.

Then Brighton piped in. And while Brody held no personal ill-will towards the man, he now realized he had liked him better quiet and behind cover. Narrowing his eyes slightly at the narration of facts as if a director were giving hints to the cast for what the next act was about, he temporarily rested his fists comfortably into the crook where the corners of his hip bones were closest to the surface. Letting a small moment of contemplation sink in, that visible bathed the other man in slight discomfort. Pulling up one hand, as if to calm the guy down, thumb spread apart like a lone soldier, he pressed his lips together while getting his rifle ready on the other arm. “Just … warm up your microchips or grease your connectors and be ready.” The part about letting the pros do the work till then being conveyed by posture and a subtle nod of a brow alone. Turning attention back at Bishop, who was a few feet ahead down the hallway, the two of them made no further attempt to catch up, until it transcended what the next step of the plan was. A mistake, maybe. It didn’t leave Brody much time to react, let alone intervene, from so far away.

He found himself even too perplexed by the display to utter something as simple as ‘Wait! Bishop!’ like his technically inclined counterpart. Instead he stood there a good few seconds, gaping lips slowly curling into a disgruntled mess, while brows slowly drew together into a mangled knot of pleads across dark skin. “For fuck’s sake …” he hissed to himself, pushing his hand flat against Brighton’s chest, firmly planting him in his place, before dashing after the one-man suicide squad. His feet took a few steps to get traction, in the dusty heaps, while his free arm balanced out the movements in his heavy body. Leaving behind a trail of puffed up mist, adding tot hat left behind by his predecessor, he dove into the darkness, at least drawing reassurance from the fact that he would run into the other man first, before into something else. Even if it were a Jem’Hadar bayonet. But then came a quick flash of light, briefly outlining the contours of five or six people, before a shockwave and subsequent bang caused Brody to be thrown into the side wall. Tumbling forward a few steps by sheer momentum, spinning around a good 360, against the traction of the cracked marble, ripping his sleeve in the process, the man staggered for a few steps, unwaveringly pushing forward, before regaining his full composure.

In the wavering dust, settling back and forth like ripples in a pond as the reflected shockwaves dissipated within seconds, he could very well make out a heap of immobile bodies as well as two still sparing on the ground. If only echolocating in by the sound of struggle. Peeling out the knife from his boot swiftly, throwing it into the air to grab the hilt blade down from his fist, Brody let it dash down into the back of the Jem’Hadar’s head, the tip of shiny obsidian metal sparking from his mouth with a splatter of dark blood, as his face froze in abject terror. Body going limp almost immediately, he had to put his foot against the alien’s back – and this push him onto Bishop more – to even pull the knife back from the scaly skull. Exiting with an audible crack, as a piece of bone broke away on the ridges of the blade, another streak of blood casting against the marble. Soon to be devoured by the growing pool of glimmering darkness. Ultimately tossing the body over from on top of the other operative he extended a helping hand to heft the man back to his feet. The gash on his cheek rather apparent but not seemingly threatening.

“You look like some angry love making.” He judged dryly, readjusting the grip on his rifle while slipping the knife back into his boot. Luckily combat as this didn’t require great finesse with either hand, but rather the necessary strength. That aside, to an extent, they were both trained ambidextrous. You never know when you had to fight on with one limb less. Circling the scenery quickly, counting the bodies, Brody entertained the assumption that they had indeed been dealing with ten guards and that those five were thus the last of them. He did, whoever, also do the math in his head that this put Bishop two bodies in the lead. Shooting his rifle off the hip, right into the chest of a Jem’Hadar, disposed with his back against the wall by the explosion, he turned back around with raised brows. “He was still twitching … let’s call it even then.” he mused, the faintest whisper of a smile on his lips, that could’ve just been a play of shadows.

“Alright, Brighton, come on out, area’s secured.” Brody subsequently yelled down the corridor they had come running from. Not overly bothered with secrecy anymore, while turning his attention back to Bishop, with a nod towards his bloody face. Not all of it his own. “Need a patch for that?”
Title: Re: [2374] Operation 'Spark' - Betazed
Post by: Swift on December 23, 2020, 05:57:14 AM
[ Lt. Andrew Fisher (https://uss-theurgy.com/w/index.php?title=Andrew_Fisher) | Codename: Bishop | Ferengi Banking Administration Building | Dalaria City (http://uss-theurgy.com/w/images/1/11/DalariaCity2374n.png) | Betazed (https://memory-alpha.fandom.com/wiki/Betazed) ] @stardust

There had been a number of instances in the past when Fisher had taken the time to consider whether or not there was anything beyond this existence. When it would all eventually go black for him, would there then be some other plane in which his consciousness would continue, or would he simply cease to be? Would he be utterly consumed by nothingness, and be rendered entirely unaware of anything, or anyone for the rest of time? It went without saying, that he had held no particular religious beliefs of his own. Not due to any malice or ignorance, but rather because he simply hadn’t been convinced by any ideas or concepts which had been proposed by the myriad of Religious institutions. After all, how could they possibly know? No. Their ideas. Their concepts had all been born of story. Born of myth that had been passed down from one generation unto the next, and as far as he was concerned, they were more tailored toward bringing comfort to the living, rather than finding answers for those who would ultimately die. For the most part, it was something he hadn’t truly pondered over in quite some time. Even tonight, as he had been faced with situations which had more the merited that level of introspection, he still couldn’t found the wherewithal to take a moment and give it another thought. He had instead chosen to refuse the want, or more appropriately the need to contemplate it.

Perhaps it was because he hadn’t truly come to grips with the subconscious realization of what it would mean for Nassyra. A reticence born of pessimism, and sorrow sewed by years of pain and anguish. Because if he knew that if he actually took the time to ponder through it, he would find himself adoptive of a fate which he knew was unfair for someone he had so loved.

A somewhat pity, as there seemed there would be no time to do so now.

“Rrragh!” growled the Jem’Hadar as he was knelt upon one knee, straddling Fisher at his midsection as he rained down one devastating haymaker after another onto the bearded man. A sickly thud, followed by a groan each time his fist made contact with he left side of his face, tearing a gash into the man’s left cheek, coating his scaly knuckles with crimson.

Blinded from the brilliance of the flashbang he had tossed, deafened by eardrum shattering concussive force, and now stricken with a general sense of haziness from being thrashed so violently, the spy hadn’t noticed when the blows which had been cascading down on him had suddenly stopped. A heft of mass that had been pinning him to the ground growing tenuous, then momentarily greater, only to finally be removed was not something he had been expecting. Nor had he expected his life to be once more saved by his fellow spy, who he had found nearly insufferable, and who had exhibited a similar level of personal annoyance in return. Words spoken were barely tenable to him, as his ears were still ringing, yet he could still detect the obvious tone of dry wit and sarcasm which was a tell-tale sign of any weathered Starfleet Intelligence Operative. Mason. Fisher accepted the hand as it had been offered, groaning deeply as almost every inch of his body ached commensurate with the brutal force, he had just unleashed in the form of two close-in explosives, and the subsequent beating rendered by the lone survivor of said survivor. Touching tenuously at the bleeding wound on his shoulder, he gritted his teeth as it stung.

Shrapnel from the fragmentation grenade he had thrown, he assumed, but could safely judge by the wound that whatever bit had torn into him, had also exited, probably taking with it a chunk of flesh in the process. Either way, it hadn’t stuck around to hitch a ride, and merit any kind of invasive healing. “Son of a bitch went right through me.” He explained as response to Brody’s offer of a patch up. Keeping his right arm momentarily immobilized, he felt around his pockets for a field dressing, and with a flick of the wrist unraveled it so that it could be applied to the wound. Once more gritting his teeth as it stung, he was of course aware that he would need it to be disinfected later on, but that could wait. “Well... he’s not now.” The tone in his voice was as close to a concession of appreciation that he could muster in the moment. A pseudo thanks for Brody and his save, espoused after the man had put another shot into one of the bodies as a late-term coup de ta.

“What the hell was that Bishop?” Brighton emerged from where Brody had called for him, his pack of engineering tools slung over his back, and disruptor rifle held in the crook of his left arm. “Damned idiot! Almost got yourself killed!” Shaking his head, the big man nodded with appreciation toward Mason for having intervened, thus preventing that very outcome.

His right arm extended slightly, Fisher wrapped the long gauze of the field bandage as tightly as he could around his shoulder, using his teeth to tie it off as best he could. The white cotton already soaking through with crimson, he finally took a moment to peer about at the carnage he had wrought, and how his thrown grenade had in fact landing directly in the midst of the group of three Jem’Hadar, peppering their bodies with fragmentation that had silenced them with absolute authority. About as lucky as anyone could have ever been with such a toss, he was legitimately surprised at how perfectly it had landed in terms of proximity. As for the other two, his bayonetted rifle was still sticking out of the soldier he had dove into, though it was broken and bent at an awkward angle due to the momentum his body carried. He had hoped for two, maybe three at best, but had outperformed that perfectly. Be it due to saturation of shock from the two thrown explosives, or just absolute surprise at such a brazen frontal attack, he had managed to catch the Jem’Hadar in such a manner that he had only been left to contend with one of them. Granted, that one had totally dominated him in the immediate aftermath of the attack, and were it not for Brody’s interference, would have absolutely beaten Fisher to a bloody death. But in the long run, his sudden strike had worked. Sort of.

“Yeah. I did.” Ignoring the blood that was slowly dripping down his cheek from the gash that had been torn, he peered back and forth between Brody and Brighton. He considered for a moment explaining why he had made the choice on their behalf, but ultimately decided against it. He didn’t need to justify his actions. That wasn’t why he was here. Plus, they were growing short on time. Stumbling forward a little, he had to shake his head as he nearly doubled over out of dizziness, extending a hand toward Brody as if to steady himself. Confident he wasn’t going to keel over, he instead checked the motion and shuffled past his Guardian Angel in the direction of the doorway which hopefully led into the stairwell at the end of the hallway. “C’mon. We need to finish this and get out of here before more of these bastards show up and force me into doing something as equally stupid.” Shoving the door open, he sighed with exasperated relief as within it was indeed a stairwell which led upward. There was a soothing light at the end of the proverbial tunnel, and he desperately hoped that it wasn’t in fact a freight train coming their way.

“Gentlemen?” He nodded to the pair of them, holding the door ajar as though it were his purpose in life.
Title: Re: [2374] Operation 'Spark' - Betazed
Post by: stardust on January 04, 2021, 11:22:41 PM
[ Cmdr. Brody Miller (https://uss-theurgy.com/w/index.php?title=Brody_Miller) | Codename: Mason | Ferengi Banking Administration Building | Dalaria City | Betazed] Attn: @Swift
[Show/Hide]

Exceedingly questioning his skin in this game, Brody watched Bishop dab at the bloody stain on his skin, flanking a jagged tear. So far, he had singed his glove with acid and ripped his sleeve on the wall just there. That was it. All the while the other operative had become every night nurse’s wet dream. Which he would gladly put down to the man’s reckless heroisms and unthought out so-called ‘plans’. He had to. He didn’t want to consider himself getting old, or soft, or any other potential terminology you would coin for an aging Labrador – not a covert warrior and unsung patriot of the Federation. Yet the entire struggle left him utterly in thoughts, contemplating the true differences between the two, while absent-mindedly handing the guy one fresh patch to soak-ruby red after another, it seemed. Listening to Brighton – who frankly had done nothing of merit yet – berate the man on his admittedly poor choices. Bishop agreeing, however, as conceding as it sounded, had the commander break through the vail of self-reflection and back into the darkness of the office floor. Squinting his eyes slightly, dark irises burning with the coarse quality of dust in the dry air, he contemplated both men’s views for a moment before speaking up himself. Mostly to end this pointless ‘what if’ conversation.

“I am not carrying anyone out, so you better keep your legs.” He stated plainly, raising his brows for added reassurance of his determination. It was likely an empty promise, one that could not be made in anticipation of the worst case. It was a notion that only truly was able to be judged once the moment was there. Considering that, who knew, he might’ve carried Bishop’s upper half out after all. It would’ve certainly been a lot lighter than the whole guy.

At the mention of urgency, Brody could not agree more. He not only wanted this mission over and this grossly ostentatious building far behind him, but also this war-ridden planet as a whole. All these tiny little needle pricks, that were bought with the blood and lives of underground warriors and rebels, were nothing but a nuisance in the side of the Dominion. That much became more and more apparent. They needed a blow at the core that mattered. Something that could only be achieved with fleets, not with bayonets and plucky spirits. Maybe with Bishop's plan, however, if it came through as intended, that was. Securing all his equipment once more, pushing the strap of his rifle back onto his shoulder, the man was ready to follow the other operative on the last leg of this endeavor. Hopefully.

Being drawn from the almost routine sentiment, feeling a hand heavy on his shoulder, almost making him lose his own balance out of sheer surprise, he looked into the hesitant eyes of his companion, as he rethought whatever tangent he’d set himself on … or simply the very action taken. He better, too. This wasn’t the time or place for a thank-you snog. Sending him off on his way with a gentle few pats on his shoulder blade as he turned away, both appreciative of the readjustment as well as the continued perseverance, Brody followed suit momentarily. The sound of boots against dry dusty marble by now having become an all too familiar ambience. Slowly replaced by an even more so acquainted noise coming down the last stairwell, as the door was propped open by the human stopper: Torrential rain. Nodding with modest gratitude in passing, taking up the front this time, the man jogged up the last few stairs with the added vigor of the goal literally in sight. Pushing open the half ajar cover of the stairs at the end, soon finding himself back in the seemingly characteristic weather of this planet, he at least took solace in the dust being washed away in no time.

Taking a small moment to let the drops bounce of his face, water running over his closed yes, as it absolved him of the past few moments seemingly, Brody finally made space for the other two men and seized up the surroundings of the roof. The otherwise gorgeous view across the city, the billowing columns of smoke and smoldering fires in the streets, reminded him of when he’d first beamed down into this mess at the top of that hotel tower. Little had he known then what he would find himself in soon thereafter. Letting his eyes drift back to the more immediate surroundings, precisely the vents and other technical doodads on this level, the large satellite dish was rather hard to miss. Merely nodding over at the unmistakable endgame, he jogged the last few steps there, letting his backpack drop into a puddle next to it. Well, the whole roof was basically one big puddle. Glistening like a disturbed mirror, duplicating the already copious amounts of dread and terror in this world to frightening detail.

For a moment even, as he squatted down besides his pack, unzipping the black Kevlar, Brody noticed his own reflection in the thin layer of water. Cast over by a shadow from the way his head was oriented against the brighter backdrop of the sky. His skin didn’t help. He almost looked like he had no face, as if he’d lost something that had made him who he was. That people recognized him by … it was frightening. A sudden chill running down his spine, accentuated by the cold water seeping back into his neckline once more. Shacking his thoughts away with a plethora of droplets from his short head of hair he pulled the zipper back the last few inches. “Do your thing, man, it’s about time you pulled your own weight.” he demanded, directed at Brighton. While pulling out a block of several explosives packed together, quickly inspecting the settings and functionality on all of them, before plucking them apart. Cradling three of them in his hands he stood once more, nodding at Bishop as a means of alerting his attention, before throwing him the batch.

“You think you can rig the base?” he asked, unzipping his jacket half, so he could shove the other three into the front, while waiting on a positive affirmation from the other operative. Receiving the confirmation and appraising it with another curt nod, Brody skillfully swung himself onto the side of the apperature and pulled himself with considerate ease up towards the fixing of the dish. Hooking his elbow into one of the supports, to precariously dangle off the side, the man swiftly planted his bombs with help of the magnetic adhesives in an even pattern around the dish structure itself, while Bishop could mine the control unit below. And just as he had attached his last one, the commander’s eyes casually drifted over the magnificent scenery once more. But the awe, with which he marvelled over the abstract beauty of it all, was quickly replaced by a sense of urgency, as he picked up movement in the sky, coming back towards their direction. It was the Jem’Hadar transport. Or at least one exactly like it. Still a few clicks out of range, but closing.

“Guys.” he prompted, stretching his free arm out at the horizon. “Two minutes to Delta.”
Title: Re: [2374] Operation 'Spark' - Betazed
Post by: Swift on January 10, 2021, 07:50:52 PM
[ Lt. Andrew Fisher (https://uss-theurgy.com/w/index.php?title=Andrew_Fisher) | Codename: Bishop | Ferengi Banking Administration Building | Dalaria City (http://uss-theurgy.com/w/images/1/11/DalariaCity2374n.png) | Betazed (https://memory-alpha.fandom.com/wiki/Betazed) ] Attn: @stardust 

There was a strangely familiar and wholly concerning sentiment lingering in the forefront of Fisher’s conscious mind now that he and his comrades had finally managed to make it past this particularly difficult roadblock in what was a seemingly unending road of them. That notion was born of an overt awareness which stated that eventually your luck ran out, and your proverbial number came up. After all, there were only so many missions, so many times one could realistically hope to challenge death and expect to get the best of him before you wound up on the losing end. It was important then, that you knew when and where to pick those battles. At least, that was the general operating procedure with which others and even Fisher used to fall under. In recency however, as the war against the Dominion continued to drag on, it was becoming ever more so clear that such considerations had grown far less paramount. That was a dangerous mindset to exist within, not just for himself, but especially for those around him as they didn’t necessarily exhibit the same level of skill and ability he had. But desperation had an ugly way of bringing people back from the brink of knowing themselves, and their capabilities. It’s what transformed mere civilians into courageous warriors, soldiers of fortune into the ultimate champions of a noble cause, and it was what drove smart people into doing reckless and dangerous acts which got them killed.

All too keenly aware of how the anguish of a deeply personal loss was now playing against him in his own gambit to stay alive, Fisher also understood that his life was in fact his to spend however he so chose. No one, not some spy sent to retrieve him, nor any member of the Admiralty was going to dictate that for him, even if it meant insubordination and eventual court-martial.

He would see through this mission to free Betazed or die trying.

As the others moved past him on their way up the stairwell to the roof, he withheld himself for the briefest of moments to clear his mind of the troubling and distracting notions which threatened his attention. An instant later he too emerged from the relative shelter afforded by the gaudy building and allowed himself to be enveloped by the near constant rainfalls which continued to besiege Dalaria City in the midst of it’s rainy season. Prior to arriving he had actually enjoyed the occasional bout of rain, having found it to be peaceful and reverent. Now, after almost two weeks of an unending torrent, he was fairly certain that he could go on for decades or even perhaps longer without ever missing or enjoying the sensation of a droplet of water touching against his skin, regardless of how lovely the heavens from which that drop had fallen were, nor if it had come at the behest of even the most beautiful of angels. Glaring up into the skies full of annoyed defiance, his sage-green eyes flared brilliantly with reflected light as a spider’s web of lightning surged across the menacing clouds hovering above; it was almost as if the Gods were challenging his assertion in advance knowledge of that which awaited him.

Peering about the exposed rooftop, he too needed only an instant of time in which he could thoroughly size up the situation. Their target, the large satellite dish perched atop a base of sorts was pointed almost directly up into the sky, where it was casting it’s interfering signal. It was that signal which they now sought to hijack and turn against the Dominion, and which would hopefully allow resistance forces to once again coordinate with the Federation. From his right, he caught sight of the hulking member of their trio moving over toward it, unslinging his own bag of goodies from a shoulder once he dropped to a knee before it. Fisher was indeed relieved to have brought the big man, as engineering had never been his strong suit, and whatever process needed to go on as part of this scheme of theirs would no doubt advance better, and far more quickly with someone like Brighton on the job. Hell, the big man had already started playing with the now exposed Dominion control circuit board, whereas Fisher likely would have still been looking for a way to get the hatch open.

“Alright... security encryption is pretty rudimentary. Guess the Jem’Hadar didn’t much expect anyone outside of themselves to be accessing this data port.” With focus clearly transfixed in his face, the engineer worked with surprising alacrity as he worked to access the databank attached to the signal jammer.

His rifle in hand, Fisher casually approached the signal jammer opposite of where Brody had stopped to retrieved explosives from his bag of goodies, tossing one of the four in his direction which he deftly caught with a nod of understanding. “Yeah.” He affirmed simply as the other man began to ascend the tower on his way to plant the charges that would mask the true intent of their mission. “I wonder how regularly this thing attracts lightning.” He teased with a smirk as he moved around to where a joint connected the ascending tower and the base mounted to the roof. Pressing the explosive against said joint, he double-checked the detonator on the explosive brick to ensure it was in functioning order, and active. At the same time, he watched out of his peripheral vision as Brighton seemed lost in his work, though he couldn’t necessarily discern whether or not progress was coming at a commensurate rate which would mean the ultimate success, or failure of their mission. The man simply didn’t espouse enough facial expression, other than that of extreme focus as he was working; a trait which would have made him a hell of a poker player, Fisher realized to himself.

Spinning his head round as Brody called out to the pair of them, Fisher felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up accordingly.

“Figures.” He responded dryly.

“C’mon you stubborn bastard!” added Brighton a moment later out of frustration and annoyance. “Yes! Got it!” he soon amended as a bright smile crossed his face, and he peered over to both of the spies. “Files are uploading and integrating into the databank. Give it thirty-seconds, it’ll begin transmitting across the network, and we can blow this joint! Hahah! Yes!” He exclaimed with exuberance once more, standing from where he had been knelt out of a need to admire and celebrate his work, if even for a brief moment. Appraising the situation, Brighton quickly came to understand just how dire things were about to become if they didn’t get out of there, and fast. “I hope the other team made it through alright.” He commented, looking to Fisher more than Brody as he did, though his gaze soon seemed to transfix on something else which caught his attention. Squinting in an attempt to try and ascertain whatever it was, he took a step past where Fisher was standing.

“What is it?”

“I don’t know. I thought I saw a glint or something in that building. It’s probably nothing.”

It was something, as a streak of light pulsed across the two-hundred or so meter gap separating said building and where they were standing on the roof and struck the big man in his abdomen, just to the right of his stomach, punching through clean to the other side of him. “Sniper!” Fisher shouted as he jumped at Brighton, shoving him down onto his back just as a second streak singed the air where he had been standing an instant before, leaving a vapor trail of steam as it had flashed the rain droplets in its path. Afforded a modest amount of cover, the spy immediately sought to attend to the big man who had been hit by the first shot. Brighton groaned loudly as he clutched at the injury, though thankfully there wasn’t much in the way of blood; the wound having been cauterized by the intensely focused beam. Still, it was no doubt very painful, and could very well have been life-threatening if left untreated. Slipping his bag off his shoulders, Fisher plucked free the field medical kit he had brought with them and opened it to begin treating the big man, though another shot soon soared in overhead and struck just near to where he was trying to keep cover. “Fuck! He’s trying to get a bead on us!” He explained as Brighton grunted once more beneath where Fisher was knelt, trying his best not to verbalize the pain he was in too loudly.

Snatching a hypospray, he pressed it against Brighton’s arm and administered a quick analgesic to temper the pain.
Title: Re: [2374] Operation 'Spark' - Betazed
Post by: stardust on January 20, 2021, 12:55:38 AM
[ Cmdr. Brody Miller (https://uss-theurgy.com/w/index.php?title=Brody_Miller) | Codename: Mason | Ferengi Banking Administration Building | Dalaria City | Betazed] Attn: @Swift
[Show/Hide]

Shooting Bishop narrow-eyed daggers had not at all become a rare occurrence, in the short time the two knew one another, and as such felt all too natural, while executed in this very instance. But even though it was a defiant gesture, it did not convince Brody enough to not take a skeptical look at the dark sky, once the bearded man seemed to have stopped watching him. He had really no intention to turn into smoking meat on a stick. Not for this ill-fated suicide mission, that had actually led more than once into the attempted execution of the very sentiment, by one particular operative - making the name particularly fitting.

Pressing the last explosive to the support struts, however, he took note of the excited uproar with added relief. Just in the nick of time – he was almost getting worried he’d have to force Bishop at gunpoint, leaving the mechanic behind to finish his job at the mercy of an honorable death. And while he was not overtly apprehensive to such measures, he could appreciate the simplicity of voluntary compliance. Letting his dark eyes gauge the distance between the Jem’Hadar and their position once more, drops of water dangling from his thick lashes like magnifying lenses, the man shook his pate free of unnerving, tickling residue, just as a bright flesh impacted a few feet below him, causing his adrenaline to flush his muscles with the heat of molten glass. Letting himself drop down instinctively, rolling over one shoulder to dampen the fall, the man ended up flat on the wet concrete for a second, neck craned to get a sight of his two companions, as well as a potential origin of the skilled shot. This had gone to hell in a hand basket on so many levels, in such a short amount of time.

Noting Bishop taking care of Brighton immediately, Brody pushed himself up into a prone position quickly, slipping the rifle off his back as he zipped over to the retaining wall around the perimeter of the roof. Pushing his back against the firm support, one last glance back at the other two men, shallow breaths quickly entering and leaving his broad chest in hasty staccato, he eventually detached the sight from his spec-ops compression rifle and held it at an angle over the banister, scanning the approximate direction for hidden stragglers. Movements growing shaky, not only by the awkward positioning, but the strain of adrenaline as well, he almost lost hope of finding the culprit when the enhanced vision picked up on a Jem’Hadar cloaking signature, on a balcony of a building across from the banking administration. Sure, they could’ve just ignored the guy and scampered out of there, dragging Brighton after them, but if there was the slightest possibility that the sniper had seen them tampering with the system ahead of blowing it up, their entire plan would go up in flames. And frankly, he was not all too keen on putting the whole thing down as a nice try. No, not after everything. He honestly rather go down with the entire ploy.

“How’s it looking?” the man barked across the pitter patter of the torrential downpour, turning the rooftop into a smorgasbord of watery jumping beans. Not quite waiting on a reply, by merely asking for a semblance of reassurance, Brody plugged the scope back onto his rifle, the location of the culprit saved to the targeting assistant, before taking a few more collected breaths. Then, in one swift move, he turned around one-eighty, raising the rifle to rest upon the concrete wall, leaning his head in, one eye squinted, guiding the barrel towards its final destination skillfully, by following the reticule indicator. Focusing on the last degrees of discrepancy to the target, all within not much more than a second, time seemed to slow down for a moment as all that was left to do was calmly finding the sweet-spot of the delicate trigger … at which point, with a barely audible swoosh, a trail of vapor established between the two buildings once more, following a flash of light so quick, he could see the alien’s surprised face only for a mere moment, before it got splattered black against the back wall of its hideout. Leaving a mere smoking stump, vanishing behind a banister of its own, rifle falling off the side of the building.

Taking a moment to scan the rest of the vicinity, only slightly irked by the fact they hadn’t done so preemptively before getting to work, Brody ultimately concluded that there were no more immediate dangers. The Jem’Hadar ship aside, that certainly had picked up on the brief exchange of weapon’s fire. They had done about everything they could – had come to do. It was high time Bishop would realize that too.

Crouch-running back to the two men, placing his weapon down and instead retrieving a tricorder from his backpack, the operative gave their technician a quick once over. It didn’t look good. Not for a rooftop in the middle of enemy territory, anyways. Folding the device shut with a deep breath he caught Bishop’s questioning, almost probing look quickly. Standing back up he motioned for the man to take a quick sidebar, by the near edge of the roof. A quick appraisal of the area beyond, the sloping glass façade down to the river, Brody turned just as his counterpart caught up. “Listen, we gotta speed this up.” he said simply, quietly placing the man between him and the retaining wall, as he circled in seeming contemplation … a decoy. He could see the hesitation in understanding the direness of the situation within Bishop, the struggle, even though he had already made up his mind in what Brody could only judge to be the most ludicrous display of yet another selfless heroism. Letting his shoulders drop with a submissive sigh, almost regretful, he held his chest tight for a mere second.

“Sorry, man.” he said calmly, pushing forward with the momentum of his entire body, flat hands against the other man’s chest, tipping him over the edge and onto the sloping glass, sending him on a slide down towards the river. Letting spent air only escape his lungs once he saw the guy splash into the turbulent waters, coming up with vigor just seconds later, he couldn’t let him drift off too far before following suit. Not with the man’s injuries and frantic objection. Turning to face Brighton once more, he could already see the sort of revelation dawning on his face, that he’d seen countless times. The sort of calmness and clarity that came with the inevitable. The realm beyond bargaining and self-delusion. Submission … in whatever there was left to hope for. Walking over calmly, he could feel the added weight to his steps, his forehead carved with the deepest crevices his skin was capable of. He quietly helped the man sit up, his back against the transmitter, before retrieving the trigger device from his backpack, clasping Brighton’s shaking hands around it within his own strong and reassuring grip.

“You did your friends a great service.” Brody said quietly, his sympathetic voice barely carrying across the sound of the rain, as the admittance of emotions wasn’t his strong suite. “You’re the spark that lights the fire that’ll bring this whole thing down ...” Patting Brighton’s shoulder with the weight of the entire situation, and the gravity of the journey he was about to embark on, he let his palm rest there for a moment, as if drawing days and weeks of missed opportunity to get to know the man, from just this one physical contact. Letting his pate drop, sorrow mixing with the streams of water running down both their faces, he squeezed the man’s flesh once more, before getting up. Any last words, he would abide to with pride and honor. Gathering his things, not even tainting the moment with haste, against the impending arrival of Dominion reinforcements, Brody picked up Bishop’s rifle too and slung it tight across his back as well.

Few slow and heavy steps back to the retaining wall, he turned once more to face the man, the hero, he would become. At first unable to say anything more, though feeling the almost desperate expectation of Brighton’s, electrifying the air between them. “Make it shine, man.” he nodded, thick lips pressed together, before plucking up the courage to flip himself over the threshold and sliding down the sloping side of the building. Feeling his stomach churn in his torso for various reasons, the definiteness of it all, there was no going back on this, Brody could not deny the knot in his throat that only intensified as he stiffened his entire body, prior to jack-knifing into the river. Feeling the cold water engulf him provided little ease and the man found it exceedingly strenuous to even get his arms and legs to work, in an effort to stay afloat … but somehow he did. He could see Bishop’s head bopping in the waves ahead, trying to stay close against the current and undoubtedly straining his own stamina beyond compare.

Swimming in a crawl to the man’s aid as quickly as he could, with his own engine starting to run on fumes soon, he took the defiant operative in a supportive arm-lock, merely treading water, while letting the river take them out of the danger zone. All while keeping them facing back towards the eerily green shimmering building, with reflective skin like a beetle. His heartbeat and breathing slowing to a crawl, as he waited for the inevitable. Seconds seemingly stretching into hours. Then the explosion came as a surprise, making his body tension, as the flash of light reached them first, followed by a large thud moments later, while the white ball of shockwaves dissipated into a fiery cloud that in turn became dark vapor slowly floating away … illuminated from below by the remaining flames on the roof.

They’d actually done it …
Title: Re: [2374] Operation 'Spark' - Betazed
Post by: Swift on February 01, 2021, 11:14:32 AM
[ Lt. Andrew Fisher (https://uss-theurgy.com/w/index.php?title=Andrew_Fisher) | Codename: Bishop | Ferengi Banking Administration Building | Dalaria City (http://uss-theurgy.com/w/images/1/11/DalariaCity2374n.png) | Betazed (https://memory-alpha.fandom.com/wiki/Betazed) ] Attn: @stardust

This was the sad and yet wholly unalterable reality within which Fisher existed as part of his work as an Intelligence Officer, and it was gradually eating away at the very last shreds of decency in him, just as it did for most of his peers. It didn’t matter who it was to him, be it an asset, a friend, a lover; one by one, in this game he was playing, and make no mistake about it, it was a game of the most sordid kind; time eventually ran out on each and every one of them. It meant that he would be left alone among a proverbial pile of corpses; distant memories and echoes of anyone who had ever meant anything of merit to him. They were like ghosts, haunting his every step, waiting for the time when his end would also come due, and together they would welcome him into the abyss in kind. Yet more than he ever cared to acknowledge, he had been spared, while more and more of them had paid the Reaper’s price on his behalf. And whenever their physical being was eventually replaced by an imagined metaphysical one, the spy would be left to invariably ask the question which had plagued him and his conscience worse than any other. Why? Why had they gone in his stead? What made him different? What was the thin veil of a shield which spared him, yet seemed not to care whether those around him weren’t? It was a frustrating consideration. Angering. Rage inducing even.

They all died. Good people. People who offered far more to this world than he ever did or would, while he persisted on. The viciousness of his psyche would only in turn try to change the cards which were being dealt. Survivors guilt threatened to alter who he was, in the hopes that maybe fate would finally choose him over one of these good people, that is if he wasn’t considered one of them.

If he would only embrace that darker side, which others in his position were often so willing to.

Knelt over Albert Brighton, the latest in a long list of comrades names which had leap-frogged him to the front of the line in order to pay the bill, Fisher’s trained instincts were kicking in as he began working to try and stave off a fate which was almost guaranteed. Defiant to the very end. The wound in the big man’s belly went clean through him from front-to-back, the fine-tuned energy blast having burned and singed away a good two-inch diameter of flesh on the way. Normally, that might have been a good thing, as the intensity of the heat would have cauterized any blood vessels it punched through, and in fact they had. But as Fisher ran a tricorder over the wound, while Brighton grunted and groaned as he courageously fought the urge to more appropriately verbalize the pain he was feeling, the spy could clearly see that not only had the shot cut clean through several of the arteries which supplied blood to the lower-half of his body, but it had also clipped his stomach, liver, and in fact destroyed a section of his T9 vertebrae. The big man was now likely paralyzed from the waist down, which made exfiltrating with him something of an impossibility, even if Fisher was entirely unwilling to accept such a scenario.

“Just... dandy...” Brighton retorted sarcastically when Brody had barked over at them, gritting his teeth as his eyelids were clenched equally as tightly.

Having tossed the tricorder aside, Fisher then grabbed for a small container of bio-foam from the makeshift med-kit he’d stashed away in his thigh pouch; the foam would hopefully help to seal up the wound until the Engineer could be properly treated later. “Easy, buddy!” Fisher wanted to reassure him by placing a hand on his shoulder before he pressed the nozzle of the bio-foam into the wound and began injecting it. Expectantly, Brighton immediately hissed through clenched teeth as the wound no doubt stung a great deal, the result of antiseptic agents contained within the foam. Fisher himself had known the unpleasant sensation all too well and could empathize with what the big man was feeling. “Can you get a shot?!” He hollered to Brody, peering back over his shoulder in order to see if the other spy was working for some kind of a vantage point. After all, regardless of the bombs attached to the signal jammer and the rapidly encroaching Jem’Hadar craft in the distance, their ability to get off of this roof hinged entirely on movement, and right now that movement was being impeded by this sniper. They needed to deal with it before there could be any thought or consideration of how to best move Brighton, given his newly limited capabilities. An instant later though, he heard the whine of a tuned phaser rifle as it fired, his green-eyes catching a glimmer of light when the ruby-red beam lanced across the distance between the two buildings.

Waiting a moment for some kind of an inclination as to whether or not he’d found his mark, Fisher exhaled when Brody finally stood from where he had been perched, recognizing that indeed he’d succeeded. “Nice shot.” Turning back to Brighton, he could see a similar sense of relief in his face, though he could also discern a certain notion of falsity to it.

“I think he wants to talk.” Brighton looked beyond Fisher to Brody, having picked up on the motion for sidebar after the other spy had similarly run a scan of his injuries, and picked up on the same notion of weariness over the results.

Pushing up off of where he had been knelt beside the injured Engineer, Fisher suddenly came to realize how his back was starting to ache from a mixture of the tension caused by this ridiculously unnerving dilemma, and more specifically how he had been awkwardly crouched just a minute earlier. He imagined that the constant deluge of rain wasn’t helping to ease the mess of surgical repairs hidden at the base of his spine, either. “What’re you thinking?” Peering over the ledge of the retaining wall as the other spy circled, he had no concept of the ploy being made. It had simply never crossed his mind that the pragmatic approach of his peer would result in such a way. “Sorry? For wha--” caught entirely off-guard, the bearded man careened over the ledge as designed, and began sliding down the sloped glass façade without any means of stopping himself. The poker player in Fisher would have been impressed by the deftness of which Brody had sold his bluff, were he not so completely taken by surprise, and enraged by the decision that was made without his consultation. However right that decision may well have been. Defiantly, he clambered in absolute futility as he tried to latch onto something; anything which might have altered the fate they were now being locked into. More specifically, the fate which Brighton was now locked into. But the sheer slickness of the glass aided by the constant rainfalls made it utterly impossible for him to have halted or even slowed his descent. Instead, as he reached the end of the sloped façade, his momentum carried him over the edge until he fell a good twenty feet into the flowing river below.

Brighton however, had known what Brody was up to the moment he’d pulled Fisher away. Clutching at his abdomen, he had accepted the reality of his situation, and knew that his comrade, whom he had come to know over the previous two weeks, even having grown to respect and like, simply wouldn’t have taken no for an answer. That ‘Bishop’ would have raged, raged, and raged against the dying of Brighton’s light, thus also extinguishing his own in the process.

“He’s... going to be pissed.” He smirked in amusement at Brody as he helped to settled him upright at the base of the signal jammer.

The big man clutched at Brody’s hands tightly, peering into his face with full awareness and a sense of pride over how this whole thing was going to end, or rather how he was going to end it. For an instant, he even wondered if given the time, if he too would have learned to understand and appreciate him. But that was all moot now, he rationalized as the finality of his fate seemed settled. Instead, he searched the confines of his thoughts for what were to be his final words or wishes for any loved ones he was leaving behind. But the reality was, Brighton hadn’t had anyone back home waiting for him. His life had been devoted to Starfleet and the greater Federation, and he simply hadn’t had the time to really find much else of note, at least not yet. He’d always imagined that the finer things in life, dating, marriage, kids, would all come later on when this damnable Dominion War came to an end. It angered him that he wouldn’t get the chance to experience those things now, but he wasn’t going to let that anger dictate his final sentiments. “Win it, yeah?” Nodding as he could feel an unusual tingle starting to trickle up his back, Brighton knew the point he was trying to impart didn’t need to be spelled out for Brody. Instead there was a moment of uneasy silence between them as the spy approached the retaining wall and offered one last anecdote of confidence for him before he disappeared over it.

“Make it shine.” He repeated to himself as he glanced at the detonator in his hands, the ebb and flow of time seeming to slow as his thumb touched against the actuator with no hesitation in mind. “I like that.” He added, then pressed it, and the world entire suddenly enveloped him in a bright light which went on unto eternity.

Kicking against the torrent of water as it was railing against him, trying to send him down stream, Fisher watched as the other spy likewise descended the slope of the glass façade without any control over his movements. He was without Brighton, and though Fisher had known he would be, it still ached to know that yet another of his comrades would be left behind and would ultimately make the sacrifice so that he would get to keep going. He couldn’t let this happen. He had to fight it. He had to go back and get Brighton. It was an absurd notion, and he knew it, but he couldn’t stop himself from trying to swim against the current of the raging runoff. Muscles burning as he struggled, he felt a grip around his arms dragging him away and peered back at the roof of the FBA building just as a bright flash and a brilliant plum erupted from it’s rooftop. A spray of shrapnel accompanied the reverberating boom as the signal jammer toppled from where it had been attached, and fell over the edge of the building, destroyed. For the spy however, he felt his heart sink in realization of what it truly meant. Suddenly without anything to rage against, he let himself and Brody be swept away as the rains falling from heavens above seemed to intensify in accordance with the general sorrow he could feel inside.

A few hundred-meters down, the waterway shallowed enough so that they could stand and in fact walk. Climbing out along the shoreline in exhaustion, Fisher collapsed unto it and rolled over onto his back to catch his breath. He didn’t have any words, and despite the fact that he knew he should have been angered over what Brody had done, he couldn’t muster the appropriate emotion. Instead, he just laid there, soaked through to the very core, unable and unwilling to try and fill the void which had consumed him with anything or any thought.

“I see them!” cried out a young and familiar voice as it approached from nearby.
Title: Re: [2374] Operation 'Spark' - Betazed
Post by: stardust on February 07, 2021, 07:28:02 PM
[ Cmdr. Brody Miller (https://uss-theurgy.com/w/index.php?title=Brody_Miller) | Codename: Mason | Ferengi Banking Administration Building | Dalaria City | Betazed] Attn: @Swift
[Show/Hide]

Brighton’s face, when Brody last looked over his shoulder to see the luminous impression of courage and inner peace upon the tall man’s pate, was likely something he wasn’t going to be able to forget. Just like the last impressions of any person he’d ever seen in his life retroactively, seemed to burn itself into his recollection like a phaser wound. It was something likened to a spiritual validation, of someone’s ultimate demise, no matter how far away they’d be. Which was also, in a way, why he always knew his wife back among the fleet was still alright, as her beautiful face haunted him in so many facets of their joined history, and not just the joyful sense of glee, with which she sent him out the door that one morning, before all of this started.  It may have been a notion akin to superstition, sure. But one did not escape the jaws of death time and again not believing into a bigger, more elusive plan, than immediate orders. Drifting down the turbulent river now, keeping both himself and Bishop afloat, he remembered Brighton well … and always would, from now on. For better or worse.

A notion that would occupy his perceptions for far too long, not even fully realizing how he’d steered the two of them toward a calmer, shallower waters, until the grainy slick of ground appeared beneath his feet. Slipping, staggering, at first, while their bodies were still partially afloat, he managed to push the bearded man forward up until he could fall onto his back without the added danger of a wave washing over him. Sinking to all fours, his palms digging into the tiny, wet pebbles, Brody coughed up a few spats of murky brew, that had found their way into his heavily panting esophagus, during their plight. Glancing over at the other man, once his own physical discomfort had quickly subsided, he was glad to see there seemed to be no imminent reprimand or attempts at futile rescue. Obviously the definitiveness of Brighton’s last mission had not only sunk in with himself, ultimately. Instead, the man seemed drenched in a submission of entirely different grandeur. A demeanor that could not be patched up or stitched shut. Yet one that both men had been acquiring a resilience to, that only came from years and years of exposure towards the very sentiment: loss.

Ultimately, they were found by the rescue team, that had scoured the vicinity of the banking building, and their proposed exfil-point downstream. In that sense, Brody felt an almost sarcastic sense of appreciation for that illicit term called luck. After all, his intention when pushing Bishop off the roof had not initially been one to facilitate surefire extraction. Though, in a way, it had done exactly that. There had been no way for the man to go back in a futile attempt to cheat fate. In that regard, it had all worked out according to plan. But saying that with one man dead was, admittedly, morbid and in poor taste. It was something that he could think of in detail, however, while the others worked together to lug his partner back to camp, a last glance of dark eyes moving up to the Jem’Hadar ship, looming over a cloud of smoke and reflections of fire, search lights probing the reflective façade of the emerald building. In no time it had become a distant memory, as they too ventured again into the dark bowels of the Rena resistance camp. Night had fallen over the city and Bishop had been out of it for the most part of the journey and his subsequent putting to rest.

They had placed the man on a folding cot in one of the upper cavities of the hive. A small, single lantern illuminating the room gloomily, while a good bit of moonlight broke through the buffalo sized hole in the rubble, revealing a surprisingly far-reaching view over the city. The clouds and rain had vanished, for once in a long time, like some sort of cosmic sign. So now the random fires and distant floodlights were basked in the cold glow of one of Betazed’s moons. Soon it would be two, when his shuttle would also come back into transporter range. Something he almost longingly looked forward to, casting his squinted eyes at the pale white orb in the sky. Sitting atop a boxy shape of debris, Brody peeled his gloves off delicately. One had been singed by the acid of one of his power cells, when they had opened that manhole to escape the Jem’Hadar, after he originally arrived here. Which now seemed such a long time ago. The gloves had since been virtually useless, one at least, though he hadn’t had the mind to take it off until now. Adding to the gentle reflections of puddles, still persistent in the cracks and crevices of the toppled building, shone a golden glow, beaming from the edges of a delicate wedding band, adorning his ring finger, as he stretched out his fingers and balled them into a fist successively.

There was a small burn to his skin, from the liquid, but not to the ring, fortunately. Skin healed, emotional scars wavered, a notch to the one memento of what he held dear in life would’ve been a far greater wound. Taking the other glove off too - because wearing one was just silly, he wasn’t Luke Skywalker - the man discarded both on the concrete block next to him. Resting his lower arms across his thighs, leaning forward, he arched his aching back with a low grunt. One shortly thereafter matched by Bishop, as he started to stir on his cot. If one were to listen to them from the outside of the cavity, this could’ve been taken entirely out of context. Not even looking, however, Brody simply kept his attention on the intricate details of the city in the night. Even though everything seemed far more peaceful, he knew, that was just an illusion.

“Rise and shine, princess … you’re missing a hell of a view.”
Title: Re: [2374] Operation 'Spark' - Betazed
Post by: Swift on February 13, 2021, 02:26:29 PM
[ Lt. Andrew Fisher (https://uss-theurgy.com/w/index.php?title=Andrew_Fisher) | Codename: Bishop | Rena Resistance Bivouac | Dalaria City (http://uss-theurgy.com/w/images/1/11/DalariaCity2374n.png) | Betazed (https://memory-alpha.fandom.com/wiki/Betazed) ] Attn: @stardust

Exhaustion.

Physically. Mentally. Emotionally. Two solid weeks of running himself ragged along a dangerously thin red line had finally taken a toll on the man, and when it had indeed caught up with him, and only after expending every last store of energy he could muster in a futile attempt to go back for a comrade in arms, did he ultimately allow himself to succumb to the necessity of rest. Having washed ashore against a riverbank not far removed from the rendezvous point, as proverbial tears continued to descend upon him and his fellow survivor with the appropriate sense of brooding, ominous storm clouds still hovering above on high, Fisher had only intended to allow himself an exceedingly brief respite in which he could essentially catch his breath. Yet his eyelids, as though weighed down by lead; when they had clenched tightly shut around his green pools, they did not immediately bound open once more. Instead, the weary warrior was enveloped by an all-encompassing and irresistible urge to just sleep, and so without having given himself the permission to do so, he did anyway. Soaked through to the very core, a pervasive ache in his surgically repaired back, and a bevy of other minor injuries panging him with enough unpleasantness that the very feat should have been something of an impossibility, yet somehow, he did. He slept. For the whole of the journey back to the Rena Resistance Bivouac, and in fact beyond even that as he was taken to a makeshift bunkroom and his injuries tended to.

And while all the right components of nightmare and dreadful dreaming were omnipresent around him, and in fact had been for the previous two weeks, if not even longer, Fisher’s mind was surprisingly not besieged by such an occurrence. Instead he found himself relatively at peace, as for the first time since he had played personal witness to her sorrowful passing, did an image of her in a positive light come to him. Gone was the anguishing visage of her face transfixed in a state of terror as the lifeforce drained from a harrowing wound on her neck, and in its place was a smile and the memory of the first time he had elicited laughter from her. Nassyra hadn’t taken an immediate liking to Fisher, in fact she had reacted with ice-like coolness to him the first time they met, as she had distrusted him and who he was representing at the time. Eventually though, his persistent sense of sardonic humor had frustratingly worn her down, and after she had finally relented that first time, laughter, sometimes even begrudgingly so, became something she afforded only him in shared moments together. And when times had grown darker for him, Fisher knew that he could recall upon that image of her, and that the rest of who she was to him would pour forth from the reservoir of his subconsciousness, instantly rejuvenating his spirit as if reborn. Even if it had been weeks since the last time that they had been together, or if there were lightyears distance between them, he could with vividity remember her scent, the taste of her lips, the smoothness of her skin. All of it would come rushing back to him and spark a light within that drove the darkness away.

As it would do now.

Stirring from his rest at the behest of a distant yet familiar voice, lids finally fulfilled their deferred request and opened to reveal sage-green eyes that peered about the confines of the small room in this particular upper part of the base. Reality had returned to him, and though he immediately remembered each and every detail of what had happened prior to succumbing to his weariness, Fisher didn’t react. Sitting up slowly from the hard improvised mattress that he had been laid out on, an audible grunt escaped him as the constant dull ache in his lower-back surged back to prominence. The pair of in concert groans, his and Brody’s echoed out through the open doorway which led into another room, eliciting something of a confused, concerned and oddly amused look from a random member of the civilian populace that had taken up refuge with the Rena Resistance. The movement of her head as she peered about, catching glimpse of both men that had made such noises, prompted Fisher to appraise her with a confused look of his own. A snap of her fingers later, the demure young blonde woman sighed with an exasperation as if what she saw, hadn’t lived up to her imagination. Raising one of his thick eyebrows higher than the other, Fisher then watched as she turned her attention back to whatever business had been consuming her prior to a fit of fancy taking hold of her.

“What time is it?” it wasn’t the most pressing question he wanted to ask of his fellow spy, but it seemed as good a place as any to start.

Pushing himself up to his feet, he stood tall and casually approached where Brody was perched overlooking the burning cityscape. “Stopped raining, eh?” his eyes peering up into the sky, he knew it was only a matter of time before the skies opened up once more. Rainy season in this area of Betazed was notorious for the month-long period in which heavy downpour was a commonality, and decidedly still skies like now were the rarity. That wouldn’t preclude him from enjoying the momentary break from the near constant assault of water droplets. With a deep breath, he stared past Brody at the apocalyptic scene which had surrounded them in all directions. While not exactly the most sensitive of comments to make regarding the utter destruction of one of the most beautiful cities, on what was supposed to be one of the most beautiful planets in all the Federation, he wasn’t wrong. It was a hell of a view, and one of those that he knew would stick with him throughout the rest of his life. He had in fact once read of the soldiers who had stormed the beaches of Normandy during Earth’s second world war, who had spoken of their deceased friends and comrades washing up onto the shores amidst waves of crimson tinted water, and how that image was forever burned into their minds. For Fisher, he would always remember this moment because of what it similarly represented; the still fresh memory of a now missing comrade, and the true price of this war that Starfleet was forced into waging.

“I wonder if Betazed will ever again be that jewel that it once was.” He said somberly as behind him a pair of footsteps approached.

The spy didn’t need to turn back in order to discern who it was that grew nearer, as the heavy gait and noticeable length between each step meant it could only have been one member of the resistance, since the only other man who could match him in terms of size had gone up in a blaze of courageous glory. “I take it your half of the mission went well, right? No casualties?”

“Yeah.” Ebirone’s deep voice espoused the general sense of sorrow that Fisher imagined the other Rena members were also dealing with, as the loss of Brighton wasn’t likely to have been something so easily forgotten or coped with, even if they had ultimately been successful in rigging up the signal jammers with his ingenious adaptive algorithm. “We got out of there the moment the Jem’Hadar cavalry arrived. Just as planned.” There was a lingering silence which followed, as in the far distance a sudden plum erupted into the sky. An instant later, the faint reverberation of the boom hit, but no one reacted as if it were even slightly out of the ordinary. “Boss Lady’s already sent encrypted transmissions out across our new network, linking up with another resistance element working on the other side of town. That explosion was them hitting a deuterium storage facility that the Jem’Hadar were using to fuel their birds.” The big man explained for the benefit of both spies as he brought a bottle to his lips and took a healthy swig of an amber-colored liquid. “Al’s work already paying off.” He added before setting the bottle down as an offer to either of the two men to accept. “We should have uplink with off-planet contacts at some point soon too. Might be able to give Starfleet an update of how this whole shitshow is going. Let them know you’re alive. The both of you, I mean.”

Another bit of silence persisted, and with a heavy sigh the Betazoid turned away. “I’ve seen enough of my home burning for one lifetime...” his voice trailed off as he left them and the drink, heading back down to the solace of the underground hideout.

“Must be a patient woman, if she puts up with you.” Fished broke that silence a moment later, the vestiges of a wry smirk threatening to cross his face as with a nod he alluded to the ring that Brody had been toying with.
Title: Re: [2374] Operation 'Spark' - Betazed
Post by: stardust on February 27, 2021, 01:37:53 PM
[ Cmdr. Brody Miller (https://uss-theurgy.com/w/index.php?title=Brody_Miller) | Codename: Mason | Ferengi Banking Administration Building | Dalaria City | Betazed] Attn: @Swift
[Show/Hide]

When you were in this environment for an extended period of time, this business, like an old tree in a murky forest, you somewhat adapted to the situation, like moss growing on thick bark, numbing down the influence of the elements. You started to learn to take every ray of sunshine, as if it was the first and the last, without pondering what had been and what was going to. You had to live in a moment, rather than an outlined plan of a future that might never happen. In this line of work, more true so than any other, happiness existed within the cracks of concrete, that allowed life to flourish like a dainty seedling, dragged in by the winds of chance. Within a desert of pavement, you could rest assured that the single existing crevice would be found and populated, by the silent desperation of life, stubbornly prevailing. At least, so much was true for Brody, and he could only assume that the notion transcended the quiet animosity between him and Bishop, as it slowly wore down, like the edges of a rock, in the turbulent stream of time. And out of that riverbed grew the gentle understanding of connection, similarity, as they sat along the shores with thousands others, one grain in a sea of sand. A universe of stars.

Hearing the words of question, raspy and uncertain, as if a child that spoke its first sentence, the operative was starkly reminded of the progression of time and the inevitable measure in which it ran out. Dark eyes fell to the glowing orbit of his chronometer, now freed from the dark crack between his sleeve and glove. “Two hours left.” he replied silently, posing as the stark reminder he himself felt, when watching the gentle white glow on the horizon, suggesting the rebirth of something familiar. Of course he knew Bishop’s view on leaving probably hadn’t changed, just like the orbit of the moon didn’t. But in the same way, Brody’s mission was still the same too. He’d done everything he could to spend the self-imposed stranding helping him bring his affairs into order. And one could argue, he should have. Naturally, for men like them, there were always strings that remained lose, but there was also merit in learning when to simply cut them. If he would have to teach that the hard way, so be it, his first and foremost loyalty still resided with the mission, and he hoped that was clear. No matter what had happened and what feelings had been unearthed.

“Well, I hope not … I’d like to think that there’ll be at least some semblance of a scar, from what these people had to go through, as a reminder.” Brody replied somberly. A notion that instantly fell victim to the irony of such deep contemplations. “But there probably won’t be … business will return to usual quicker than you think. It always does.” Which ironically was the more tragic realization. The past had a habit of becoming ‘history’ all too quickly, in this galaxy, as an integral part of life was moving on. Though men like these two, admittedly, had a tougher time with it than others.

Lowering his pate in abject apathy, the man let Ebirone’s assertion wash over him like the gentle breeze that wafted through the cracks and doorways of the rubble. He didn’t really want to deal with each and everyone’s questions and opinions on what had happened and who had gotten left behind. No, Brody was far too comfortable in the very notion of letting the past be history. Not willing to discuss or contemplate something that was irrevocably carved into the tapestry of time. For he understood the concept of moving on too well, since he himself was a loyal disciple at the temple of oblivion. The kind off faith that granted eternal happiness, on the back of memories, pushed off into the endless darkness of irreversibility. Words and contemplation washing over him that held no merit to him either way. Yet, at the last comment, he could not help but nod definitively, a small chuckle escaping his throat like a leapfrog. For, without saying it, he got what the man was saying: Welcome to the temple of oblivion.

The subtle shuffle of soles against the tiny grains of dust, pebbles scooting across rugged stone, conjured a relaxed breath and sense of relief from Brody, having evaded the topic of the one man they came up short with. Not that his memory was to be purged from the fabric of reality, but the judgment that could get associated with it, he’d rather not deal with now, or ever. If they wanted to hate him for getting them all here, he was fine with that. What mattered in the end was the success of the mission. But regardles of these thoughts, he got the idea that Bishop was there with him, in that sentiment.

Registering the man’s voice belayed, almost like an afterthought, perplexity washed over the commander for a moment, before his eyes fell back to the halo of gold, wrapped around his finger. Unlike his skin, no mark on it, as it signified a calmer part of his life, one that didn’t evoke scars or scratches. Not the bad kind, anyways. Another chuckle, this time more readily identifiable as one, as lips curled into a subconscious smirk, a first among the hours on this tormented rock. There hadn’t been anything to smile over, since coming here. And almost ironically so, it was a reminder of that life away from here, that elicited the first glimmer of joy. Tilting his head back, Brody ran a jagged palm across his face, stretching the membrane of his countenance, before lowering his pate to a sideways glance at the other man. Dare one say, a mischievous glimmer to his dark eyes.

“Who said it’s a woman?”
Title: Re: [2374] Operation 'Spark' - Betazed
Post by: Swift on April 07, 2021, 07:34:28 PM
[ Lt. Andrew Fisher (https://uss-theurgy.com/w/index.php?title=Andrew_Fisher) | Codename: Bishop | Rena Resistance Bivouac | Dalaria City (http://uss-theurgy.com/w/images/1/11/DalariaCity2374n.png) | Betazed (https://memory-alpha.fandom.com/wiki/Betazed) ] Attn: @stardust

There was an ounce of irrefutable truth and wisdom born of turmoil laced among the other spy’s words as he spoke somewhat reassuringly of the recovery which would eventually come to Betazed, and to an extent the rest of the grander Federation. At least, so long as the right side of this war prevailed. It was an odd reality which had been attested to throughout the annals of history, as with each successive war fought and won, society, civilization, and the inescapable ignorance of common folk would soon reclaim their semblance of normality as one chapter gave way to the next. Any lessons learned, and the sacrifices made by those who had fought and died would ultimately be forgotten by most, only for the past to eventually repeat itself in another handful of preciously few years. It was an almost ironic sense of fate the way in which war was always changing, and how at the same time it never changed. Sure, there were those few who would remember, and who would hold memorial, but they were the exception rather than the rule. It was an all-together interesting thing, how soldiers like Fisher, and like Brody would fight to restore that which simply desired to forget their very existence or their need to exist. Still, in a way, returning everything to the faux bliss of ignorance and arrogance was what he and everyone else were in fact working toward.

“Yeah. I guess you’re right.” He admitted simply.

There was no sense it trying to change the nature of sentient beings and the civilizations they built, especially not for a spy. No, he and Brody had their roles to play as part of this great existential pyramid scheme known as society. There had been a time when his idealism would have driven him to rage, rage, rage against the dying of the light, but that naivety had been since been culled from him. Maybe someday it would return, but not now. So it was with a resigned sigh that he took a grasp of the glass bottle of amber-colored liquor that Ebirone had left for them and peered over it inquisitively. Something of a thousand-yard stare settling in as he could only assume it to be some brand of whisky that he was unfamiliar with, before finally bringing it to his lips and throwing back a swig. The burn of real alcohol stinging at his dry throat and burning all the way down his esophagus as his pallet detected the faint notes of wood tannins in addition to hints of cherry and vanilla. A scotch of sorts he surmised as he pulled the bottle away, giving it another once over inspection prior to extending his arm out to offer a drink to his fellow covert operative.

“Call it intuition.” He answered, calling Brody’s veiled bluff without really knowing one way or the other if the paramour that had gifted him the ring in question were a woman or not. Truth be told, he didn’t know much about the man that had been sent to retrieve him, and while there were definitely some stylistic differences between them, he could see himself mirrored in Brody in more ways than just a few.

A slight grin coming to his bearded face, Fisher’s sage-green eyes soon shifted out over the surprisingly desolate cityscape once more. Yet there were no thoughts of buildings, their enemy hidden among them, or the war still waging all around which pervaded his thoughts. Instead he found himself momentarily absorbed into the distinct memory of her, one stirred to the surface of his conscious thought by the recurring stark realization of her now permanent absence. “I guess they have to be patient, though. Part and parcel for anyone close to us, given our line of work.” For a moment, he tried to imagine what Nass might have thought of Brody and let a soft chortle escape as he knew without a doubt that she would have taken a liking to the more serious-minded man, and his no-nonsense approach. Yet despite her own preference for directness, her defenses had been undone by an inherent weakness with regard to Fisher’s penchant for sardonic humor and far more-reserved demeanor. She would often complain about how he could look an impossible scenario in its face, how he could literally stare down the barrel of a gun meant to kill him, and smirk with an almost otherworldly confidence born of the knowledge that he would somehow prevail.

It annoyed her to no end, and she had loved him for it all the same.

“Two hours left.” He repeated Brody’s earlier assertion, settling down atop a box of old crates just adjacent him, the tone of his voice deliberately meant to espouse a neutrality of determination. He knew that the battle between them over their respective missions hadn’t yet been decided, and that the issue would soon rear it’s head once more, but for now, he was willing to let it steep.

As a short period of silence permeated, a thought came to Fisher over an earlier interaction with Brody. Unable to let it go, as it would have nagged him to no end, he couldn’t help by let a broader grin cross his face as he looked to Brody.

“She married you, even though you're a Phillies fan?” he asked with playful incredulousness.
Title: Re: [2374] Operation 'Spark' - Betazed
Post by: stardust on April 17, 2021, 10:55:31 AM
[ Cmdr. Brody Miller (https://uss-theurgy.com/w/index.php?title=Brody_Miller) | Codename: Mason | Rena Resistance Bivouac | Dalaria City | Betazed ] Attn: @Swift
[Show/Hide]

The notion of change was the whetstone for human progress. Yet it also wore on the conviction and patriotism of any individual in equal measure. Because as much as change could leap and jump like a dashing frog through lush green pastures, it could also be a stubborn sloth, slowly and gradually winding its way through the thicket of time. The majority, surely, succumbing to the more gratifying notion of simple acceptance, at one point during their lives, only regretting it in the last moments before death, much, much later. But it was a notion so normal, so widespread, it hardly felt odd or submissive. So to someone like Brody, the true heroes were those who withstood the grind of time and the pressure of community and pursued their penchant for change relentlessly. Potentially people like Sariah, who blindly followed their own conviction, no matter the opposition, to eternity and back.

A two double-edged sword indeed. Because conviction like that could easily turn into obsession. But that was not for him to decide, he told himself, and such reminders lifted the foggy veil of indecision swiftly, unveiling the path of duty, lined with the orders he’d received. Straying from the predetermined alley only when it would serve the better or easier resolution of the mission. A world of black and white he much rather indulged in, than the murky gray of idealism and deceit. Something that always pout him at stark odds with the professional machinations of his wife, who thrived in the undetermined midst between right and wrong. Making an art out of swaying it to one side or another, with the power of words. Which was probably the deciding scheme to eventually end this war, indeed, but as a wolf could not turn its coat, he would have to contribute in whichever way he knew how. And that was by being the very tool he’d been forged into. A weapon created for one purpose. It was then only in the gentle embrace of her, that he could contemplate a different existence.

Yet, as he alluded, it could’ve also been a guy … by sheer assumption at least. A reality he more than gladly entertained to carve whatever frail amusement he could, from a situation that was slowly looking up. The mission to infiltrate the Dominion network had been a success, despite – or because – of it’s sacrifices. And whatever else Bishop harbored in terms of affiliation and perceived debt to this people, or the galaxy, would have to dissolve in whatever time it would take for the stringent perseverance of time to move the planets moon back into vision, and as such the shuttle into transporter range. A measure of time that would best be spent indulging in whatever easement and deception necessary to get Bishop to drop his guard. To make him susceptible to either persuasion or force by surprise. And if that were facilitated by actual bonding of some kind, then Brody was the last one to dissuade it.

Acknowledging his sharp mind with a solemn nod, the man let a small puff of air flare his nostrils in a muffled chuckle of relief. “Gotta have at least that …” he mumbled quietly, omitting the added ‘in this line of work’ parameter. It literally went without saying. Though judging from the short time they spent together, the other operative might’ve been well advised simply sticking to the facts now and then. Looking back up at the man, as Bishop spoke up once more, voicing more of his assumptions, Brody’s eyes narrowed slightly, as he gauged the extent of what he was willing to give away. Yet given the fact that they were both cast from the same block of Starfleet iron –which spoke to their integrity - and that they would likely not cross paths again after this, sat that bar pretty low.

“Not really in this line of work anymore … actually.” he admitted quietly, a certain ring of relief to being able to push forth these words. “… just the most qualified person in a hundred light-years to get you off this rock, I suppose.” A gentle shrug to broad shoulders, fabric drenched in darkness from the neck outward a few inches, where the rain had seeped into the man’s coat, his dark eyes once more shifted to the growing glow on the horizon. “I’m the first officer of a starship, the very fleet that’s been trying to free this place of the Dominion, for the past month … at great expense.” A glimmer of light that extinguished against the dark night, at the unspoken truth that said fleet probably only had one more push in it, before it would have to retreat. A reality neither conducive to the general morale, nor Bishop’s actual ambition to leave. “But I’ve been working the dark corners of the Federation in the past … I guess that’s pretty obvious.” Words alluding both to a sense of pride in his skill and achievements as well as the tragedy of the more personal afflictions it came with.

Silence filled that small overlook once more. At least in the more immediate surroundings, guarded by the muffled sounds of people inside the compound, and the scattered fights and skirmishes in the night streets beyond. A sense of ambience that had become so tragically comfortable and acquainted. Nodding once more at Bishop’s recitation, registering the subtle sense of indecision and deceit betraying the actual conviction to relent, he reminded himself to be on guard and still hold on to the idea of having to stun the man’s ass off this planet. A notion, which brought down the levity of the moment temporarily, back to the cold wet stone of reality, though it was uplifted again mere seconds later.

Letting out a sincere chuckle, Brody shook his head into the top of his chest with a gentle smirk, before looking to the side at the bearded man once more, gentle glee to his dark features. “Plausible deniability.” He stated simply. Alluding to the fact that in their line of work the omission of a truth was not considered a lie, but rather a shaping of reality. Potentially something he shared with his wife’s convictions. Only that he could distinguish still between a professional lie and a personal one.

“What about you, then?” he turned the whole thing around. “I assume it would be a lot harder to account for weeks away on guerilla warfare, than a quick twenty-four hour rescue mission.” he winked playfully … teasingly.
Title: Re: [2374] Operation 'Spark' - Betazed
Post by: Swift on May 07, 2021, 11:38:18 AM
[ Lt. Andrew Fisher (https://uss-theurgy.com/w/index.php?title=Andrew_Fisher) | Codename: Bishop | Rena Resistance Bivouac | Dalaria City (http://uss-theurgy.com/w/images/1/11/DalariaCity2374n.png) | Betazed (https://memory-alpha.fandom.com/wiki/Betazed) ] Attn: @stardust

“Yeah. Gotta have at least that.” He quietly repeated Brody’s words, leaning up against an exposed stanchion beam as it was jutting out from the crumbling façade.

Peering out past his fellow covert operative, there was a weariness clearly evident within the corners of Fisher’s sage green-eyes. It was the look of a man that had seen far too much sorrow in far too short a time. It was the look of a man who had wanted to make a change in his life but hadn’t yet found the internal wherewithal. The fact that Brody had, made Fisher envious of him, because he could see a hint of reverent peace in the other man’s face, no doubt a reward of having made said transition. He had every reason to champion that sense of reverence, because as he’d attested, he’d had someone waiting for him back home. A someone he loved, who loved him, and whom he could find meaning in as he went on in life. For Fisher, that loved one had since passed, her death a result of his inability to stop and turn back before it was too late. Sadly, this wasn’t a new revelation for Fisher, who had been struggling with the role he’d played in Nassyra’s death ever since. The guilt he felt, had fueled him into volunteering for this suicide mission, and had driven him into acting without any thought for his own safety for well-being.

He had decided he’d die a spy as some kind of punishment for having failed to become something else while it still mattered.

“First Officer, eh?” he raised one of his thick eyebrows slightly higher than the other out of curiosity as a wry little smirk crossed his face. “Guess that means you carry the rank of at least Lieutenant Commander. Means I’m guilty of insubordination of a superior officer.” His attempt at levity, the tried-and-true defense mechanism hard at work, did little to assuage him in the moment. All the same, he did his best to not let onto the deeper thoughts running through his mind, calling on his most practiced poker face to protect him from being detected. Yet the allusion to Fisher’s own need for an excuse with regard to a someone who might be waiting for him, caught him a little off-guard, as while he should have expected some kind of a reciprocating inspection, he hadn’t. Glancing back at Brody as the man winked with a semblance of playful teasing, Fisher wondered how he might approach the subject, and whether or not to obfuscate rather than be truthful. He had no way of knowing if Brody was being genuine, or if he was simply trying to batter down any defensive walls which Fisher had put up, a cunning attempt to coerce him into being more cooperative.

His gaze still partially transfixed on Brody, Fisher manifested a series of words right up unto the very periphery of his consciousness; words which were ready to be transformed from mere thought to audible verbalization, but he didn’t formulate a single syllable. Instead, he remained deliberately silent as the will to speak just wasn’t with him, only a long exhale escaping from flared nostrils as he shifted his gaze back to the apocalyptic scene all around them. Part of him had wished to warn Brody against making the same mistakes which Fisher had, to take what he had and cherish it while he still could, but he wouldn’t. It wasn’t his place, and he doubted the other man would even lend much credence to the advice of someone who was as broken as Fisher. Another part of him wanted to bear his soul and lay it all out there, to alleviate the tension and anguish which was still harbored deep within, but he couldn’t. No, Fisher knew that he needed to feel what he still could regardless of how painful it was, because while it drove him to be reckless, it also drove him to be the ultra-effective weapon and tool which could better serve Starfleet and the Federation. It was his abandon of self-concern which may as well have removed any sense of fear that had previously held him back from making the kind of insanely dangerous and fool-hearty plays that others would never have even considered.

It gave him an edge, but it also meant that his survival was heavily based on luck.

Lightning soon flashed overhead again, accompanied a second later by the clap of thunder and the soft pitter-patter of rain as it began to fall. The reprieve was at an end and the storm had returned. Reaching for the bottle of whisky, Fisher threw back another quick swig as he shifted his weight until he’d leant with his back against the stanchion, casting a head on gaze toward Brody. “I imagine Nass would have liked you.” He finally admitted, deciding to embrace the moment, at least in a manner which wouldn’t entirely unseal the tap attached to the black hole in his chest. “Hell, she’d probably be screaming at me to just go along with you. To get as far away from here and the front lines as I can.” Tilting the pate of his head to the right as his eyes narrowed, he felt the sting of droplets as they sprayed against his cheek by the gradually building wind. “If she were here.” The defiant  tone of his voice making it abundantly clear why she wasn’t without having to necessarily spell it out. There was also a hint of challenge in Fisher’s voice, as though he knew where things were leading toward, and that he wouldn’t back down from the promise he had previously made.

“As far as I’m concerned, until that fucking thing is gone, I’m not going anywhere.” Throwing back a thumb over his shoulder in the direction of the Dominion Battlecruiser still hovering over the city, he sought to reiterate his point just in case it had been lost in their short moment of sentimentality.

Fisher had grown to respect, and even to a degree, understand Brody. There were clear parallels between the two spies, having even come from the same training tree, but they still had different concepts as to what they were supposed to be doing. Well, more so they had different understanding of what Fisher was supposed to be doing. Sure, Brody was acting under orders from Anderson to bring Fisher back, which meant that Fisher’s own orders were quite clear, but when he’d volunteered for this suicide mission, he had done so with the understanding that it would only end in either victory or death. Anything else had meant a failure on his part, and he’d been through more than enough of those in recency. “Your shuttle is due overhead soon, and as it is, I still have no intention of going with you.” Holding out a hand as if to pre-empt any immediate retorts, Fisher knew he at least owed Brody a modicum of compromise for having been as lenient with fulfilling his mission parameters as was possible. “But... now that we’ve hijacked the signal jammers, we might be able to get a secure subspace line with Anderson.” Taking a deep breath, because he knew he could ultimately regret the offer he was about to make, he decided to press on anyway. “If he still wants you to bring me in, I’ll go. No resisting. Hell, I’ll even shut up during the trip back.”

Knowing there was an unspoken scenario left undefined by what he was just outlined, he looked around their immediate confines. “...and if we can’t get a line, then you and I can have it out however, wherever you’d like.”

“That’s the best I can do.”
Title: Re: [2374] Operation 'Spark' - Betazed
Post by: stardust on June 02, 2021, 07:17:14 PM
[ Cmdr. Brody Miller (https://uss-theurgy.com/w/index.php?title=Brody_Miller) | Codename: Mason | Rena Resistance Bivouac | Dalaria City | Betazed ] Attn: @Swift
[Show/Hide]

When thinking of how getting married had changed his life, Brody would freely dive into the more superficial waters of complaining about the etiquette and romanticized notions imposed upon him by his wife. But if he were to hold his breath, go under and take the time to dive deeper into the darker hues of his character, he’d find the colorful, glowing creatures of the deep that more partly described the change he’d gone through. No, the change that had shaped him like the very stones dotting the floor of this ethereal ocean. Grinding him down in a swifter notion, however, than eons of back and forth against one another.

Though there had certainly been a lot of rubbing against one another … no doubt.

But deep down he’d find the kind of calm and perspective that only caring for someone else more than about yourself could impose. The kind of purpose that let you coast along on rose-colored clouds when everything was going well and then throw all countenance overboard when protectiveness kicked in at the cusp of things going bad. And while he would’ve attested to probably being far more level-headed before ever meeting Samantha, he couldn’t deny how much he loved the feeling of being grounded to the heavenly shores of marriage. How the good times they had shared so far measured way more than the years and years that had preceded it. A notion that did not dare fathom a world beyond this sensation, a life without, once taken a sip of the ambrosia that was true love.

As sappy as that all sounded, Brody was starkly aware of the reality surrounding his little kingdom, and the dangers lurking there. More so in this very moment, since coming to Betazed. Ever since diving deeper into the dark blue of Bishop’s character, finding a lifeless abyss with the carcasses of happy memories littered around like testaments of death and resignation. It wasn’t a world he enjoyed exploring.

Tilting his head to give the man a quizzical, albeit amused look, Brody shook his pate lightly at the insolence and playfully naïve demeanor of his partner in crime. “Among other things …” he replied calmly. Surely Bishop could remember all the way back when he’d first defied a direct order. One from an even higher rank than Lieutenant Commander. Even on the matter of direct insubordination, one could argue there had been more instances than one, in this past day alone. But he was willing to exact a blanket court martial on all of that. If only for the more agreeable accord they had struck as of recent. Because if he’d learned one thing, then that the bearded man would only leave this planet in one of two ways: Limp as a fish, or by his own volition. And at this point in his career, he rather no carry anymore soldiers out.

But he would …

“Smart gal.” he added quietly, returning his dark eyes to the cityscape beyond, taking a moment to contemplate the implications and revelations of the tidbits relayed. All the dead remains at the pit of his soul and the erratic shadows in his every decision. “See …” Brody started out, turning back to the man with a somewhat curious stance across his face. “… despite my wife not being here, I’d still heed her opinions. Because in the end, time and space is just an idea, if you think about it. No matter what separates you, doesn’t invalidate your feelings, or hers. So, what’s keeping you from taking her advice?”

Sure, he understood that he was talking about a dead woman here. But in the grander scheme, what difference did it make if his significant other was on a starship somewhere or, a realm away a little further. He wasn’t some soulless ghoul, who didn’t know any motivation but duty and righteousness. He had all these memories and references to a better life, it seemed, yet chose to torture himself with defiance of everything he once held dear, in some sort of sick ploy to self-punishment. That much had been evident from the first time he’d thrown himself on a grenade or ran headfirst into a wall of enemies.

Clearly the only saving grace in Bishop’s existence was the fact that fate seemed to have other plans. And despite not knowing how many times that would right his wrongs, he went right ahead and ignored his sheer luck again and again.

Letting out a disgruntled sigh Brody shook his pate into a submissive stance, half hanging between his broad shoulders, eyes transfixed to the rubble beneath. "Not to rub it in or anything, though. But I recall at least two instances in the past day alone that could’ve had you taking the swan dive to eternity while that thing wouldn’t even have noticed.” And what good would that sacrifice have done? At least Brighton’s had a sense of meaning, because it hadn’t been born out of stupid heroism, but necessity.

However, Brody was not above that pesky sense of diplomacy, his wife had instilled upon him, and Bishop just happened to have to meet him halfway, as his body hovered within inches of his own so he could almost feel the heat radiating off the man’s muscles. Or just the sentiment of it. And the sensation wasn’t alleviated by his questionable choice of words either. Instead, it made his skin burn slightly with the sting of second-hand embarrassment. Or was it a different kind of excitement? Either way, the value of his inability to blush could not be overstated right now.

“So, what’s the plan then, until then?” he mused, as if tot ake the olive branch extended into consideration. “I am not going to have it out with you until you’ve had a shower, that’s for sure.”
Title: Re: [2374] Operation 'Spark' - Betazed
Post by: Swift on July 04, 2021, 11:51:09 AM
[ Lt. Andrew Fisher (https://uss-theurgy.com/w/index.php?title=Andrew_Fisher) | Codename: Bishop | Rena Resistance Bivouac | Dalaria City (http://uss-theurgy.com/w/images/1/11/DalariaCity2374n.png) | Betazed (https://memory-alpha.fandom.com/wiki/Betazed) ] Attn: @stardust

Casting a somewhat wry glance at the other man as he pointed out the reality regarding the Jem’Hadar Battlecruiser hovering in the distance, Fisher understood that in the grand scheme of things his stubborn persistence in seeing it gone made him seem like a madman, stuck in his ways until they would ultimately consume him. But what Brody hadn’t factored into the equation, was that when Fisher had accepted this suicide mission, he had been explicitly instructed that there would be no early retreat, or any retreat at all for that matter. The mission would either succeed, and Betazed would be liberated by the Federation and its allies, or the mission would fail, and he and all the other volunteers would have perished in the fight. Sure, the fatalism of Operation ‘Spark’ was something that had naturally attracted someone in the kind of precarious mental state within which he had been mired ever since Nass had bled out in his arms, but Fisher still very much preferred victory to defeat. And despite all of the pain, anguish, and regret which besieged his emotional senses, he wasn’t totally without the will to keep going.

However, as he let Brody’s words seep into his conscious thought, breaking them down and the meanings hidden within them, he couldn’t escape the inherent truth that the man was espousing, perhaps without even intending to. Whether or not Nassyra was still living, meant little when it came to what she would have wanted for him. If anything, her death, which he believed had come as a direct result of his inability to abandon a mission and his sense of duty, only exacerbated the internal conflict raging in his mind.

“You’re not wrong.” He admitted, somewhat begrudgingly, but all the same.

Crossing his arms over his chest he allowed himself a moment wherein he genuine wondered if maybe it was time to give this up. If he had done his part well enough, and that he could finally return behind the lines to recuperate and regather himself. It was an alluring premise, for sure. Every part of Fisher’s body had grown weary over the long haul of two-weeks of hard fighting. His conscious thought a veritable raging torrent of mixed emotions that could have kept the most talented of Counseling Officers occupied for months on end. Doubt began to creep forward into the forefront of his thoughts now, stirred by Brody from where it had been nestled away at the back, and the sage-eyed bearded man began to imagine himself back home in Boston for a respite from all of this. A chance to try and heal the myriad wounds of his body and soul, restoring himself so that he might be a better soldier once more, and more importantly a better man.

Yet the moment it had all started to feel like it was the right thing for him to do, his attention came snapping back from the precipice of where Brody had placed him as the sound of atmospheric turbulence shrieked and howled high overhead.

“They’re here! They found us!” announced Ebirone as he came charging up the stairwell that led down into the main level of the bivouac.

Shooting a look of concern at Brody, Fisher then stormed off past the big Betazed and descended the stairs in a hurry. Behind him he could hear Ebirone hot on his heels, and when he reached the staging-area he saw Sariah corralling her people into action. “How the hell did they track us?! Why didn’t our sensor grid pick them up?!” she shouted at Christine who was nearby, hastily running her hands over a console in an attempt to understand. All about and around them, the panicked and scared people who couldn’t fight were gathering up what little personal affects they could, while the blue-skinned Betrull hustled to divvy out weapons to whomever was sturdy enough to carry one. From behind, Ebirone patted Fisher on his shoulder and offered him a primed Jem’Hadar disruptor, which he accepted.

“I don’t know! The sensor grid is functioning! It just didn’t detect them for some reason!” Christine shouted back.

“Never mind that! We need to get these people into the escape tunnels. Now!” Ebirone retorted.

Nodding in succinct agreement, Fisher began pushing his way through the panicked people toward the escape trunk that would feed down into the tunnels beneath the old building. “C’mon!” he called after Brody, very much in need of the sort of hand he could offer. “Move! Move out of the way!” he shouted at the crowd, most of which was too panicked to even notice his voice calling out them. Soon the ground and everything around them shook with a visceral tremor, and for an instant the spy figured the building about to collapse unto him and everyone else. The people cried out in terror as the walls rumbled, and dust particles fell from the ceiling rafters above them.

“Bombardment?!” blurted out Betrull.

“No! If it was a bombardment, we’ve have been crushed already.” Fisher replied, peering back at the Bolian.

“Then what was that?!”

“Landing.” Fisher answered simply. “They’re probably setting up a perimeter.” He added.

“We need to go!” Sariah commanded, and Fisher acknowledged with a nod.

“Wait!” cried out another voice. “They won’t kill anyone so long as we don’t run!” explained Aatrah with an alarming reasoning hidden in his voice. “If we drop our weapons, and give up, they promised they wouldn’t kill anyone!” The young Betazed cast the gaze of his black-eyes from his sister, to Ebirone, and lastly to Fisher and Brody.

“What... how... what do you mean, they promised? What’re you talking about, kid?” Ebirone approached where Aatrah stood.

The silence that persisted from Fisher and from Sariah spoke to the realization that they’d already had, which Ebirone didn’t want to himself have out of some sense of heartbreaking disappointment that his pseudo-adopted little brother could have made such a monumental mistake. “We don’t have time for this, we need to get into the tunnels!” Fisher sought to re-clarify the necessity of escape, knowing they had precious few moments to get moving before the Jem’Hadar would overrun the bivouac. He had already understood what was happening and knew that any arrangement that had been made would never be kept in earnest by the Dominion. He just knew that dealing with who had done what was nothing more than a distraction, and that the paramount need to get everyone out was just that.

“No! Don’t! Ebb! I swear, they said they wouldn’t hurt anyone if we didn’t run! Please!?” Aatrah pleaded, holding out his hands to both Ebirone, hoping that his sister would intervene on his behalf. “Sar... please! They only want them!” the young Rena pointed to Brody and Fisher, and then cast a sympathetic glace back to his sister who seemed stuck in her place.

Fisher heard what was said, but didn't react, having already assumed that he'd been offered up in some kind of an arrangement that the younger Rena had struck.
Title: Re: [2374] Operation 'Spark' - Betazed
Post by: stardust on July 16, 2021, 05:19:46 PM
[ Cmdr. Brody Miller (https://uss-theurgy.com/w/index.php?title=Brody_Miller) | Codename: Mason | Rena Resistance Bivouac | Dalaria City | Betazed ] Attn: @Swift
[Show/Hide]

In the grander scheme of things, Brody hoped that Bishop didn’t think him to be a pessimist. Someone who didn’t believe one person could make a difference. Because that was not the truth and would’ve presented him in a light he didn’t care for. As a matter of fact, he was more than convinced that one person alone could tip the scales of time. And there had been many instances of that happening in the past. But self-sacrifice wasn’t some sort of buff, that you could use every time you needed a leg up, it was a rather definitive last-ditch effort to success. And if that didn’t work, then that was it. No second chance. It was all for nothing.

So maybe that was where their views differed, in the matter of grandeur in which that last impact should be going down. The innate certainty with which success had to be implicated, for the man to even consider that path. Not to diminish the bearded man’s life and value thereof, but Brody wasn’t willing to throw his away, just at the off chance of also leaving a mark, while merely numbing the pain and guilt, primarily. He couldn’t say for sure at this point, of course, but he had a feeling that if he was to give his life in the line of duty, somewhere down the line, it would be meaningful and remembered.

But there was also the fifty-fifty chance he’d simply slip in the shower someday.

And while it surely would’ve mattered to his wife, to be able to get reassurance over talking sense into someone, rallying them to her cause, it wasn’t so much for the Commander. He nodded gladly, at Bishop’s agreement, figuring it was a pledge towards considering his own mortality an advantage worth holding on to, from now on. Which was good enough for him. Of course, he still didn’t have an illusion that Bishop would simply give up his crusade simply for him striking a nerve and making some sense. The overall situation hadn’t changed that much, considering how many times they risked their lives the past hours, and there obviously still needed to be some kind of resolution for the operative to leave this planet in any state but being tranquilized.

For the first time, in all this time, Brody could feel like he had developed a kind of understanding over the man and his psyche. And he felt like that feeling was mutual. Tracking the guy’s sage colored eyes with his dark orbs, as they fell to the floor in contemplation once more, he wondered – if only for a moment – what their relationship would’ve been like fi they had met under different circumstances. Maybe years ago, when he still was in this game full-time too. When they both were still idealistic do-gooders under the spell of duty and the grander scheme. He imagined they would’ve been quite similar in character then. And had they been on a similar mission then - considering how close they’d grown over this short term despite both being these closed-off, pessimistic selves – he could only imagine how their relationship would’ve developed in the hot, narrow and moist trenches of a war.

But all those hypothetical went out the window literally with a bang … or the hole in the rubble, for that matter, as Ebirone’s voice echoed up the small staircase leading to the hideout, bellowing like trumpets. Shooting up from his seat, Brody’s limbs tensioned, and his hands clenched around the imaginary grip of his rifle. Where was his rifle?! Looking back at Bishop, as if trying to squeeze a last token of reassurance from the man that this was not just some misguided cock-blocking attempt, the operative quickly dashed over to his backpack and weapon, getting himself into shipshape on their way down the narrow stairs.

The hideout was abuzz with the frantic civilians that pooled out of their caves and corners like ants being alerted by the pheromones of their soldiers. The whole hive was in communal uproar and it was making it hard for those who could actually make a difference to get coordinated. Bishop’s outcries and commands fell on deaf ears, plucked with the wool of panic. Taking a skeptical look at the new cracks forming, in the already fractured debris around them, Brody had to agree with the man. They were probably being surrounded as they spoke. Simply going with the flow for now, as the guerilla leadership seemed to have some sort of plan, which involved their whole posse – and not just Fisher – to get to safety, he was going to roll with that. As long as it didn’t directly contradict his own mission.

But then the bomb went off, figuratively, as the youngest began to speak. His mind instantly went to that dark place that everyone still skirted around simply because this was basically just a kid, that had sold them out. Still, his body couldn’t resist the urge to move forward menacingly but stopping himself a good bit before twisting the teenagers neck. If there was anyone, he’d be able to understand and forgive such a manipulation, however, it was Aatrah. His dark eyes still transfixed on the kid’s counterparts, instilling an icy sensation of dread that would hit the empathetic boy to the core.  And he would’ve continued to reciprocate a feeling of guilt over what he’d done if Bishop hadn’t intervened with a rather succinct assessment.

War tribunals were held when the war was won.

The specification over what was bargained for, however, prompted Brody to turn back and take a step forward that made the younger Betazoid flinch backwards half behind his sister. Thus his glance soon switched to her.

“You better get your brother in the tunnel, or I’ll tie him down to that post, so he can figure out for himself how forgiving the Jem’Hadar really are.” he told her, his voice low and menacing, leaving no doubt by now that he was capable of doing so. Surely some of his resentment for the idealistic woman with the tough exterior went into the venom of his words. Especially since treason had struck so close to her.

Ushering the pair past him, following the flow of civilians to the escape tunnels, Brody cocked his rifle, marking out the last passage on their way they could dig into, in order to give the caravan a head start. Unsurprisingly, Fisher and Ebirone seemed to be with him.

“I hope you didn’t think this was going to grant you an extension.” he told the other operative, against the doorway they were taking cover behind. A gentle glimmer of mischievousness to his dark features.

“I give you ten minutes, not a second more.” Brody added, bringing his rifle up and turning the scope on so he could scan the adjacent passage for cloaked assailants. Ten minutes for the refugees to get the fuck out of there. Ten minutes for Bishop to make up his mind.

And he better came up with a damn fucking good plan to wrap this mess up.
Title: Re: [2374] Operation 'Spark' - Betazed
Post by: Swift on August 30, 2021, 02:02:10 AM
[ Lt. Andrew Fisher (https://uss-theurgy.com/w/index.php?title=Andrew_Fisher) | Codename: Bishop | Rena Resistance Bivouac | Dalaria City (http://uss-theurgy.com/w/images/1/11/DalariaCity2374n.png) | Betazed (https://memory-alpha.fandom.com/wiki/Betazed) ] Attn: @stardust

All about and around him, people scrambled for their lives as Bishop listened to the exchange being had between confused resistance fighters.

There had been a few instances throughout Fisher’s recent, somewhat checkered past wherein he would have been more than pleased to have been the one to have stirred up such a sentiment of disarray and panic among people of this sort; refugees, civilians, the general innocent victims who had found themselves sadly caught in the midst of a most dangerous game of chess know as war. Playing off of the sensitive heartstrings of your opponent’s populace in order to deter a willingness to carry on against you, was a tried-and-true method of sabotage in which he had a surprising knack for. Sure, to an extent he had felt some sense of empathy for those he had manipulated and had at times even regretted his actions in eliciting the kind of terror, which was necessary to a mission’s success, but he had always considered it to be within his particular zone of morality. He had seen it as bending or blurring the lines of what the Federation would have condoned or allowed their operatives to undertake in the name of peace and prosperity; acceptable as it didn’t outright tread over them.

But here and now, as he could see the look of uncertainty; of absolute weariness and dread in the faces of all these poor stricken refugees whom he had been trying to protect and save for the previous two weeks, it began to dawn on him that maybe the ends didn’t truly justify the means.

In an instant, he even imagined Aatrah going through similar mental gymnastics and an attempt to try and make his betrayal seem a correct course of action to have taken. After all, he hadn’t explicitly sold out his friends or loved ones. In a way, he was acting as any civilian might have in trying to exclude themselves from a conflict being waged by two combatants. It mattered not that one of them was technically fighting on behalf of those civilians and their right to live free, while the other was actively seeking to subjugate and oppress them. All that really mattered to the young Rena, was the lives of his friends and family; was saving as many of his people as he possibly could, even if it meant bending the rules. It surely didn’t help matters, that Bishop and Mason were nothing more than a pair of spies to the young lad; literal trained assassins and infiltrators who hadn’t even revealed their real names during their time planet side. They were outsiders, not even to be misconstrued with the other members of Starfleet that had also been fighting the Dominion. No, Betrull, Christine, and Ebirone had been honest about who they were from the very beginning and had no reason to be duplicitous in their dealings.

Again, for an instant Fisher could even imagine a conniving Vorta explaining it all in plain English to the misguided youth via whatever backend communication channel they had managed to establish without his, or anyone else’s knowledge.

Digressing back the thought, just as Mason had also been so inclined, the matter could wait till later to be more fully resolved. For now, they needed to move, and move quick if they were going to have any chance at all of surviving this latest in a long line of catastrophes. “Through the tunnel! Keep going! Remember our drills, and you’ll be fine!” Fisher shouted over the commotion, his voice accented by another rumble of the structure above, dust slipping free from the old cracks wherein it had lay dormant since the initial bombardment of Betazed. A smattering of yelping and cries followed, yet the flow of the helpless out of their various hiding spots continued to progress in earnest. They had no idea how long it would take for the Jem’Hadar to begin storming into the emptying bivouac from the primary entrances that led up into the destroyed structure above. Minutes would be preferable to seconds, Fisher thought as he pushed a pair of panicked men past him to keep the way clear for any suppressing fire he might need to lay down. Ahead of his, he saw Mason trying to speed things up, similarly attempting to shove people past him toward the tunnel entrance.

“Chris! Get down there ahead of us, and make sure they’re following the right path!” Fisher ordered, sensing the need to give instructions since both Sariah and Ebirone had gone silent in the wake of their world being metaphorically destroyed.

“I wouldn’t dream it!” he soon answered his fellow spy, giving him a stern yet wholly understanding nod.

What an absolute mess this had turned out to be. Probably worse than the other Operative could have envisioned when given his orders to come and extract Fisher, and it triggered within the bearded man something of a second guess regarding his decision to stay. Maybe his being here; his very presence was well past prudence, and it was indeed time to call it a complete mission and move on. Would the Rena Resistance have been as effective in their efforts to undermine the Dominion occupation? Probably not, but they also would have been far less of a target for the Jem’Hadar. Maybe, instead of a mission of sabotage, they would have been better served by only keeping and caring after the displaced refugees that were now mired in a most dangerous position. Fisher’s presence had put them in danger. It had turned something small, and insignificant into something that had warranted the close attention of an enemy which would show no hesitance in killing any and all involved. As had been the past, his actions, and the actions of Starfleet Intelligence had put the people they were to serve in the direct path of harm.

“No!” a voice blurted out.

Turning back to where it emanated among the sounds of rumbling concrete and shuffling feet, Fisher saw Aatrah standing just feet from his sister with a frustrated and defiant look in his face; tears streaming down both cheeks. There was an obvious pleading to his expression, mixed with an apologetic incredulousness that struck right to the very core of the spy’s heart.

“I won’t... I won’t let you! I can’t!” he screamed, a desperate creak to his throat as a cacophonous boom reverberated through the concrete structure all around them.

This situation was hastily degrading to the point of an impasse, and Fisher silent prayed that neither he nor Mason would need to be the one to force beyond it. Sage green eyes began to dilate in realization of what such a boom signaled; the Dominion had blown something away with explosives, meaning they were close, if not immediately about to breach the bivouac.

“We absolutely don’t have time for this!” hollered Fisher.

“Sar! Please! They said they’d--” whatever else the young traitor had been about to say was cut short as heavy footsteps encroached from the south entrance, an echoing drumbeat which cut right through any and all quarrels which might have previously been at play, accentuated by the sudden high-pitched staccato of voluminous disruptor fire that caught several unfortunate souls as they were scurrying for the escape tunnel.

Immediately, synapses fired in Fisher’s trained brain, forcing muscles and tendons to constrict in such a manner that his body spun round, a pistol raising to the level of his shoulder, returning fire with utter alacrity. It was an autonomic action, allowed to proceed as any fuses for self-preservation had long since burned out from stress and loss. The only thing that mattered in the minute, was sustaining a suppressive wave of superior firepower on the enemy so that any remaining friends and allies could try and escape a foul fate at the hands of their enemy. As had been the case in every engagement he’d ever been through, the passage of time seemed to speed up and slow down at the same time, a contradiction of reality that only those who had been in such a fight could have ever understood. With steady strides, he moved not for the tunnel to escape, but rather to where the Jem’Hadar were trying to breach, his weapon cycling as quickly as it possibly could, yet not fast enough to meet the demand of his finger against it’s actuator. All around him, the world seemed to grow dim and silent, an unnatural echo to that which he could discernably hear, as his mind was hyper-focused on the task at hand.

Soon enough the weapons fire ceased, a pile of five dead Jem’Hadar lay crumpled at the base of the stairwell that had led in, their bodies dotted with blue glowing holes that had been blown clean through their abdomens, a steady pool of violet blood forming on the concrete flooring beneath them. The tide of their enemy had stymied for just a moment, but the bottleneck wouldn’t hold forever, or for more than just a few seconds. Fisher knew that shock grenades would come prior to the inevitable second wave, and that any chance of defending was a futile one given the inexhaustible numbers their enemy likely had to throw at them.

“No, no, no!” he heard a frantic voice, assuming it to be one of the friends of family members of the poor victims that had just been shot dead.

“No! Shit, no!” exclaimed a baritone counterpart which Fisher recognized instantly.

Allowing his sharp focus on the entryway to wane out of curiosity, and aware that Mason likely had just as keen an eye on the situation, he peered back over a shoulder to ascertain what it was that Ebirone was reacting to. It didn’t take but an instant for the realization to hit him.

“Sar! Sar! No! Sar!” sobbed Aatrah as he clung to his sister, cradling her in his arms as she lay slumped over on the floor, a blank look in her unmoving eyes as the front left side of her forehead was singed by an apparent disruptor bolt that had struck her. In the commotion, she had gone to grab her brother; to try and shield him from the attack, and in doing so had taken a shot meant for him. “Please! You have to help! Please!” the kid frantically looked back and forth from Ebirone to his dead sister, clinging unto her out of a desperate need to hold onto the hope that she could make it. Ebirone could only down on the scene in horror and sadness, his hands barely able to grasp his disruptor rifle, yet he understood the situation, and how there was no time or moment that they could spend dwelling on the dead, regardless of who they had been. Gruffly, he reached down to grab Aatrah by his shoulders, hefting him to his feet, allowing the elder Rena’s body to come to a complete rest on the floor. The kid tried to fight against his friend, to try and grab for his sister, but he couldn’t muster the strength to overwhelm the bigger Betazoid.

“She’s gone. She’s gone! We have to go!” Ebirone explained, pulling Aatrah with him as he made for the tunnel.

Watching it all unfold for him, Fisher could recognize and even understand the pain that Aatrah was feeling; having lost sibling of his own, yet he couldn’t imagine the implicit guilt the boy would have felt for having so directly caused his sister’s death. With a sigh, he caught glimpse of Mason for just a split second before he too reached out to grab at a grieving refugee, beckoning them to move. “Come on. We can’t stay any longer. Come on!” he said softly to a woman, clinging to what he could only assume to be her dead husband. Once more, he tried to mask the gratitude he was feeling in that he wasn’t an Empath, as he knew the shared turmoil of these poor people must have been damn near overwhelming. He was fortunate to have been so jaded; so stonewalled to the world in this particular moment, and he thanked fate for it. Better to feel nothing, than to feel the kind of ache these people were experiencing.

The woman moving on after Ebirone, who himself was effectively carrying an inconsolable Aatrah, Fisher stepped closer to where Sariah’s body was left. He would speak highly of her in whatever report he’d write to summarize his time on Betazed, even if he and her had never once had a moment of mutual respect and understanding. She had only ever acted in what she thought was the best interests of her people and had sadly paid dearly for it.

“Let’s get out of here.” He said softly, once more looking back to Mason before stepping to the tunnel.
Title: Re: [2374] Operation 'Spark' - Betazed
Post by: stardust on August 31, 2021, 12:38:40 PM
[ Cmdr. Brody Miller (https://uss-theurgy.com/w/index.php?title=Brody_Miller) | Codename: Mason | Rena Resistance Bivouac | Dalaria City | Betazed ] Attn: @Swift
[Show/Hide]

Watching the tides of beetles ebb and flow around him, breaking against the corners and protrusions of the intricate labyrinth, Bishop and him like rocks in the midst of it, Brody couldn’t quite honestly say he felt any sense of impending doom over the situation. All that was transpiring over the course of this mission was – especially when taking into account the talents and proclivities of the other operative – only a matter of when, rather than if.

On a historic level, the notion of resistance was one with a checkered past. Some successes, many failures. But in the book of romanticized notions, it was a sentiment venerated by free spirits. A compulsion, born from a subjective sense of justice. And that was the far more dangerous conviction. Had he realized what his companion was thinking, how he viewed his involvement in the plight of these people, in almost retrospect, the Commander would’ve whole-heartedly agreed.

Leaving aside the fact that the man expanded the scope of his orders into some sort of personal crusade, he had inadvertently given the resistance something that was for more dangerous than even hope: reassurance.
Reassurance that this way was the right way. That fighting the unwinnable fight was better than sitting it out and letting fleets and – god forbid for him ever admitting this – diplomats doing the work. For while involving the civilian populous in the dangers of battle was a war crime in regards to the opponent, it implied a similar sense of judgment passed upon those who sought themselves defending what was right.

The danger to the people of Betazed after the initial occupation was debatable, the danger to those siding with the rebellion was factual. There was no benefit from sterilizing entire worlds, but there was from snuffing out the ambers that threatened your power. And this was exactly why people like Bishop – and who Brody HAD been – weren’t tasked with acquainting themselves to the ramifications of politics and judgment. On a galactic scale that was wholly above their paygrade.

And a wonderful thing happened if you followed orders to the T: you could make peace at the sometimes illusory bosom of zero accountability. What was it one of his old instructors at the academy had said? You wouldn’t judge the weapon, but the one who’s wielding it. And that was who Bishop and he were … or had been … weapons.

But once again, the man’s contemplations and justifications were interrupted by someone whining. Dark eyes shifting back to the recently discovered traitor in their midst, Brody had actually already come to peace with the fact, but Aatrah wasn’t exactly helping by being so passionately persistent. And despite his clear instructions, his sister was little to no help either. So if she wasn’t able to restrain the kid, he was more than willing to do so. Not lastly after Fisher reminded them that there was no time for this.

Letting the phrase ‘No kidding!’ wash non-verbally over his face, the man conceded.

But then the first batch of armadillo critters burst from the rodent hole leading towards the surface. A fact that – he had to admit – was happening as a slight surprise to the former operative. He’d actually figured they would have a little bit more time. And before he could actually do more than get a few targeted shots in, Bishop had taken care of the majority of them in that late 20th century action hero fashion only he could.

Pushing the tongue into his cheek over the steaming pile of bodies he still had to admit to the effectiveness of the crazy antics, this time, while their situation hadn’t really improved. Save a zero point infinity drop in overall Dominion forces.

But just as they were about to finally be able and move on, the little puppy started yapping again.

“Can you finally take care of your …” Brody barked out in a disgruntled twirl, turning back to the rest of the remaining patrons, only to stop mid-track at the sight of the younger Betazoid hunched over his sister’s seemingly lifeless body. And while he had shared a great deal of indifference towards her, death was a judgment that had come far before her time. Undeservedly so.

Watching the hulking Betazoid take care of Aatrah closer and more personally that he could ever do, Brody bit back a silent sense of disillusion over the already dire outlook of the resistance’s odds. For even though he did not share the mawkish sense of hope in their own weight against the overwhelming odds, he had developed an incontrovertible passion for them as people. People who had summoned, but not deserved, what was now coming for them.  Guilt was not on those defending their homes, but on those from off-world, bringing their intergalactic disagreement to the streets of Betazed.

Ultimately readjusting his backpack, slung over one shoulder for ease of access, the former operative pulled out one of the remaining grenades and set the trigger, before throwing it in a skilled curve up into the descending cavity, with the dead Jem’Hadar at its mouth. While the Rena had no further need for the passage leading into the compound, their opponents sure did. And counting on the already precarious state of the caverns and tunnels, it would take very little to seal the entrance.

Kicking up some dust, as his soles slid across the cracked ground while he started off towards the exit, a loud bang drowned up the resurgence of Jem’Hadar voices coming from the tunnel behind him. Followed by a blast of smoke and gravel, flying through the room. Almost sliding into the tunnel after Bishop, one of the larger beams acting as the roof of the cave, cracked and fell too, effectively making this a one-way trip for certain now. Settling into a corner close to the other man, as the wave of air and dust subsided around them, he let out a coughed-up breath, shaking some whisps of ground concrete from his Caesar cut.

Letting dark eyes on the bearded man’s features for a moment, relating a notion caught between judgment and thought, Brody eventually squeezed past him to step into the clearing at the mouth of the escape route where Ebirone, Aatrah and Chris were waiting.

“So, what’s the plan for you guys. What’s the line of succession?” he asked succinctly, now more intent to get this whole mission over with than ever. One way or another.

“I guess he’s out.” He nodded at the younger Rena, in reference to his biological ties with the former leader.

“Where’s your backup camp?” Brody intended to try it another way, hoping someone at least had a plan, so it wasn’t up to Bishop or him to devise one. There was at least hope that with the sacrifice of Sariah they would just bunker down somewhere and let the pros do the work. But it was sadly highly likely that it would go the entirely different way. Especially if Bishops blind ambition had anything to say about it, he supposed.

Turning to look over his shoulder, back at the other officer, one brow cocked expectantly, he sure hoped the man would be able to make the right decision for everyone.
Title: Re: [2374] Operation 'Spark' - Betazed
Post by: Swift on September 14, 2021, 02:11:46 PM
[ Lt. Andrew Fisher (https://uss-theurgy.com/w/index.php?title=Andrew_Fisher) | Codename: Bishop | Rena Resistance Bivouac | Dalaria City (http://uss-theurgy.com/w/images/1/11/DalariaCity2374n.png) | Betazed (https://memory-alpha.fandom.com/wiki/Betazed) ] Attn: @stardust


Old masonry tiles laid down centuries before, that had barely clung to the lining of these sewers throughout that time now finally slipped free from their bonding in chain-reaction to the reverberating report of explosives left in the wake of this hasty evacuation. The Bivouac. Sariah Rena. Nearly a half-dozen others. All left behind, and only uncertainty awaited them and this fledgling resistance movement. In a veritable blink of an eye, the bitter-sweetness of a hard-fought victory over the Dominion had turned utterly and completely sour. Suddenly, it was becoming clear that any and all desperate hopes which Fisher might have previously held onto regarding the fate of these people, and their courageous efforts to turn back the tide were gone. They had been wiped away by desperation which not only rivaled, but far outmatched his own. A desperation born of an overwhelming feeling of hopelessness, and worse, helplessness. It was a sentiment civilians championed out of inexperience, naivety, and ignorance. A sentiment he’d seen before; he’d even capitalized on it before, and now it had come full circle to bite him and everyone else in their asses. Fisher knew he should have been wary of it, but he had allowed himself and his better judgement to be blinded.

‘War isn’t a game for civilians. You think a soldier who’s been cornered or surrounded by a mortal enemy is a dangerous animal? Try taming a helpless and war-torn parent, who’s watched as their child has starved for days on end. No. It’s not us that are the real threat in a conflict. It’s them. All of them, and how they cling onto something as ludicrous as hope for a better tomorrow.’ Hurley’s advisement at the dawn of a prior undercover operation Fisher had been on came to the forefront of his thoughts as he stepped down past a few terrified refugees as they were holding onto each other for support. The man was an absolute prick. The kind of person that you wanted to forget the moment he left your presence, but his teachings and guidance had been instrumental in Fisher’s life as a spy, and what was troubling, was how often his cynical words and warnings proved prudent. ‘I’m telling you. It’s that hope that will drive them to do great and horrible things. Drive them to compromise who they are today, for the promise of maybe being better tomorrow.’ The sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach reminded Fisher just how much he hated Hurley as he approached the front of the pack.

Christine and Betrull were knelt over, checking a diagram of the sewer tunnel network, re-familiarizing themselves with the best path to take. Normally, Sariah and Ebirone would have taken the lead, but neither seemed to be in any kind of shape to do that. The big Betazed hadn’t said a word since everything took a left turn, standing with a blank look on his face as he held a still inconsolable Aatrah by both arms.

“Okay! We’ve got our route. I think.” Announced Christine as she stood, unslung her rifle, and approached Ebirone and Aatrah.

Peering back to Mason, Fisher gave him a simple and almost entirely imperceptible nod that only another spy would’ve picked up on. The gesture spoke volumes about the state of mind Fisher was in and signaled a moment to sidebar with his compatriot. Given how deeply buried they all were now, there was no imminent threat from the Jem’Hadar above, as the very reason they had chosen this place for their operating bivouac was this old sewer system and the logistics nightmare it represented to anyone trying to navigate it without any fore-knowledge. The only method which would provide immediate results, bombarding the entirety of the area until it was little more than a deep crater, was one the Vorta wouldn’t allow the Jem’Hadar to take. No, the allure of capturing two Starfleet spies alive would ironically give Fisher, Brody, and the rest of the surviving resistance members their chance to slip away. Still, Fisher had his doubts as to just how safe their journey ahead would actually be, there were only so many winding sewers to get lost in, and there were thousands of Jem’Hadar to funnel into them in the hope that some might find the prize.

Stepping over and away from an earshot of anyone else as Christine began going about trying to ready everyone for travel, Fisher sighed heavily as he checked the status on his rifle instinctively. “Here’s the deal. You and I aren’t any good to these people... at least, not anymore.” He added the qualifier an instant later, as though he was still trying to convince himself that his initial mission had done some good. “These sewers are, for the most part, relatively safe and secure. They should allow everyone to get away from here and hunker down somewhere until they can make contact with another resistance cell.” There was an obvious tone in Fisher’s voice, which betrayed a newly developed sense of disproval at the idea of any of them continuing the fight elsewhere. “You’ve definitely worn out any kind of a welcome at this point, and the same goes double for me I imagine.” In truth, Fisher could envision a sense of resentment and anger being directed at both him and Brody, as misguided and misplaced it might have been. To these battered people, it was just as much the fault of these Starfleet spies that things had gone so bad so quickly, and in such desperate times people often needed someone to blame.

“Chances are the allure of tomorrow in exchange for you and me will spread now that the idea is out there.” He neglected to add how much he sympathized with such a shared sentiment, given all that these people had been through. “But Ebirone. Christine. Betrull. These people trust them. Believe in them. Everything bad that we represent, disappears when we disappear. I get that now.” It was clear that Fisher was trying to convince himself, more than he was Brody or anyone else at this point. “So you’ve got me.” He glanced back at Ebirone and Christine as they embraced each other, the former seemingly having gotten through to the former finally, and Betrull having replaced the big Betazed as the one to comfort and console the grieving Aatrah. “On one condition.” Fisher added, a sudden spark coming to mind as though he had re-discovered some kind of a reason for his presence on Betazed. “We lead the Dominion on. Get them to follow us out of here, and as far away from them as possible. Once we’re clear, we can beam to your shuttle, and you can complete your orders.” Sage green eyes now shifted back to Brody, knowing that he was again asking a lot of the man, but there was a pleading to his facial expression as he hoped to elicit something as close to a positive affirmation as possible from the fellow spy.

Before he could get a response though, Ebirone stepped closer, rifle held tightly in his big hands as he looked to both Fisher and Brody in turn. “We’re ready to get moving.” To say there was an added seriousness and air of confidence to the big man’s voice would have been an understatement, but there was something more that a seasoned poker-player could pick up on, hiding just beneath the surface of his expression. “I’m sorry about what happened back there. About what Aatrah did. About what he tried to do, to you. Both of you. I should have seen it coming.” Fisher was about to interrupt and reassure the man that there was plenty of fault to go around for not having seen what was going on, but Ebirone continued before he could. “I won’t let something like it happen again. It’s my job now. My time to lead these people. She would’ve wanted it that way.” It was true, that the elder Rena sibling had expressed a trust in Ebirone that went beyond the normal constrains of acquaintance, or even friend. No, Ebirone was every bit the big brother that Sariah and Aatrah never had, and it would fall to him to pick up the mantle of responsibility now that it had slipped from her shoulders.

Digressing back to the point, he shook any sentimental thoughts from his mind and looked to the two spies once more. “Are you two ready to go?”

Fisher looked to Brody for a determination on the matter.
Title: Re: [2374] Operation 'Spark' - Betazed
Post by: stardust on September 15, 2021, 10:52:39 AM
[ Cmdr. Brody Miller (https://uss-theurgy.com/w/index.php?title=Brody_Miller) | Codename: Mason | Rena Resistance Bivouac | Dalaria City | Betazed ] Attn: @Swift
[Show/Hide]

If it came down to it, Brody thought, there wasn’t really a separation that could be made between soldiers and civilians, as much as the distinction of colloquial terms suggested. There were civilians who could fill the role of a soldier more passionately and befittingly than any trained professional. Because it was not the training and skill required to fight, but the profound detachment from the individual struggle, that defined the perfect warrior. The need to rise above the ramification of immediate action, such as snuffing out a potential father, brother or husband, potentially an entire bloodline, with one random shot. Condensing an entire history into one bolt of superheated plasma. Those who weren’t capable of doing that, where the real threat to victory. A determination Bishop himself was - at times - teetering dangerously close to fulfilling. His pitfall wasn’t the lack of proper training and psychological conditioning, but the personification of the war into each and every one of these individuals. For the fight was not won with all the little victories, individual lives saved, but the commitment to the grander cause, at all costs. A distinction at which the two men greatly differed.

A thousand cells like the Rena, spread across the planet, could not rival the combined power of the fleet – physical or symbolic. They were a rash, born from desperation, that paid more in lives – compared to its victories – than any planned out large-scale attack by a proper military ever would. An unpopular reality that the other man seemed to slowly come to terms with … again. A truth that you could hate, for the simple fact that it was the truth. And it seemed to have pushed the man into the favorable position of being open to a compromise, as he beckoned him to the side.

To put it in terms his wife would use: He had him by the balls. Though Brody did not thoroughly enjoy the visual implications of the metaphor.

His initial hope for reciprocation was, however, quickly disarmed by Bishop’s almost adorable inability to admit error. Which prompted the former operative to raise his brows in obvious disbelief, though giving the man the benefit of a few more seconds to circle back down to the reality of it all. And he would also let the part slide where he wasn’t the best thing that ever happened to this entire mission, for now. Yet as he listened on, waiting for any kind of indication that the past hours weren’t just a bunch of toy blocks, Bishop could reorganize to fit his narrative, the man was horrifically disappointed. Disbelief turned into annoyance, turned into gently simmering anger.

Eyes narrowed at the man, as he went on, describing his final demands. Which were an audacity to even ask, in their own rite. The admission of Brody ‘having’ Bishop, however, almost made him break the dense fog of seriousness with an inappropriate chortle. He had him every second of the way, if he wanted to admit that to himself, now or ever, or not. Then came the condition and with it that tiny spark of delight fell back into the dark abyss of duty. He’d been indulging the man’s delusional idea of being in charge of his own fate for long enough. It was what had led them right into this mess in the first place. There was no way he’d follow that lead to jeopardize the outcome of his own mission on the fool’s errand of concluding Bishop’s.

“Not gonna happen.” Brody contemplated in his mind. The words already dancing tango on his tongue, as Ebirone stepped closer, diverting his attention slightly past that of his bearded companion. So he listened. Some more apologies and demands, that didn’t really mean anything to him. He hadn’t taken Aatrah’s “betrayal” personally. Why should he have? All the shit they were quite literally knee deep in, at this point, was because certain individuals – dark eyes briefly flickered back at Bishop – took everything so damn personal!

“Oh good, so we got THAT settled.” Brody commented, slightly sarcastically, pushing past both men with his grip tight around the matte black phaser rifle by his side. The water gushing around his feet and lapping up against the curved perimeter, before he turned to face both once more, his back now to the rest of the group.

“If you really think I am going to sacrifice myself for your crusade or this midget rebellion, then you’re more deluded than I gave you credit for. Both of you.” He proclaimed loudly, intent on having anyone hear it, if only to snuff out that last remaining spark of defiance with which each and every one of them put themselves into unnecessary danger. A danger that now he was expected to alleviate. Not - gonna - happen!

He was supposed to liberate the planet from the deputy seat of a flagship, at the head of a task force, fighting bigger threats than stray Jem Hadar platoons and communication stations. And goddammit with a place to go shower once in a while! Threats that if extinguished would actually make a difference. Threats that could easier and more effectively be snuffed out with the knowledge Bishop had acquired on this rock. So, if there was a crime, it was that he had the foresight to see what really mattered down the line, not only as far as he could throw a grenade. The kind of holistic view that wasn’t trained, or even desired, in an intelligence operative. The kind you got once you stepped out of that fabricated reality that was drip fed to you by your handlers. Shackles that were hard to shake, for sure, even after the crackling intercom voices were long gone. But an insight he hoped Bishop would be able to achieve before it consumed him.

“But we are getting out of here, the two of us.” The man subsequently admitted, voice trickling down to a low rumble, rather than a roaring rapid. “You guys go ahead, I’ll give you guys 5 minutes before I blow the passage behind you. Whether the Jem Hadar decide to follow us instead then is entirely up to them. But for their own sake I hope they think about that course of action real hard.”

Shifting his posture into a demanding stance, he was hoping that little concession was enough to wipe that puppy look off Bishop’s face, that was irritatingly starting to grow on Brody.
Title: Re: [2374] Operation 'Spark' - Betazed
Post by: Swift on October 01, 2021, 01:51:42 AM
[ Lt. Andrew Fisher (https://uss-theurgy.com/w/index.php?title=Andrew_Fisher) | Codename: Bishop | Sewer Network | Dalaria City (http://uss-theurgy.com/w/images/1/11/DalariaCity2374n.png) | Betazed (https://memory-alpha.fandom.com/wiki/Betazed) ] Attn: @stardust

OOC: Mood Music [Show/Hide]

Though he hadn’t even known his real name yet, Fisher had come to recognize a number of similarities between himself and Brody, or at least what might have been similarities were Fisher the same man now that he’d been weeks prior. Hidden behind brown eyes full of scorn, he felt he could rightly see a man who too faithfully trusted in the machine that was Starfleet and the grander Federation. Sure, Fisher was himself committed to the same cause, maybe even to a greater degree than Brody was, but in a manner that was quickly becoming more evident to the both of them. The truth of the matter was, he had grown weary of the company line, and simply following orders from Superior Officers who were often far less than aware of the details and intricacies of a situation like the one on that existed on Betazed. Indeed the broader campaign against the Dominion waged on elsewhere; and among the goals of the Federation and its Allies was the reclaiming of this particular conquered world, a task which would no doubt demand fleets of starships. It was why he and twenty-three other spies like him had been sent here in the first place; to drum up and coordinate resistance cells in advance of an eventual push to retake Betazed.

Starfleet Intelligence knew well that their operatives might lose outward communication with Starfleet, or that they’d suffer even worse fates. But someone, more specifically Admiral Anderson had deemed it necessary to send Brody here and recover Fisher, for reasons he’d not yet understood. To an extent, Fisher’s mission had been completed, as he had after all coordinated with a local resistance element. In fact, prior to his arrival the Rena were carrying out little more than the occasional skirmish with undermanned Dominion patrols. That was the minor nuisance. The rash. But what he, Brody, and the sacrifice of Albert had achieved at the Ferengi Banking Administration was more akin to a full-on epileptic seizure. With adequate communication channels, this fledgling resistance and the others could now better coordinate their efforts. Death tolls would drop substantially as a result, and the Dominion’s vicelike grip on the planet would loosen greatly in advance of the eventual attack that Starfleet would push on with. What Fisher and the Rena had helped to demonstrate, was that an unruly and resistance people could absolutely help to turn the tide in favor of their cause.

Fisher understood that now. He was trained, and like Brody, he was a lethal killing weapon the likes of which most people couldn’t fathom. But he wasn’t above these people and their struggle to fight for their freedom. Not even in the slightest. If anything, he was beholden to them and their fight because he had given an oath to the people of the Federation, just as all did when they put on that damned uniform. The people were the Federation, not some list of ideals written in a PADD somewhere, but that was easy to forget. They were after all, infinitely small cogs in an utterly overwhelming and intricate machine which seemed to go on without any awareness of their existence or plight. He himself had been blind to it before, a realization he was coming to thanks to seeing an interpretation of himself mirrored in Brody’s obviously annoyed face. It well enough could have been him standing where Brody was now, committed to his orders, and so totally filled with righteous indignation. Instead, Fisher was the one that’d had enough of the typical apathy of Starfleet Intelligence and had now chosen to actually care about the people he had invested time and energy into.

Listening to Brody’s response, he knew better than to expect some kind of revelation from him; no that came only from pain and loss the likes of which Fisher had been through in recency. But he still felt some semblance of disappointment in his fellow operative because it was Brody’s willful ignorance of the plight of these people; a cold and emotionless non-caring that had also once been a part of Fisher. “It’s not ‘MY’ crusade.” He spat back at the man with disgust that had been re-directed away from himself and the man he used to be. He wanted to expand and elaborate on the meaning in words left unsaid; that this wasn’t a crusade, rather it was the right thing to do, but he decided against it. No matter what he would say at this point, nor how poignant he might say it, it wouldn’t make a difference. Brody had to come to understand this on his own. If he ever would. For now though, any kind of ‘puppy’ look was gone from Fisher’s face, replaced with stern determination to do what he knew was absolutely necessary.

Glaring at Brody, clearly having had enough of his spiteful sarcasm, Ebirone offered no parting words or sentiment to the man. He’d simply not warranted any, for as far as he was concerned, and as far as his Betazoid empathic abilities could detect, the man offered none of his own. Aware however that this was going to be a parting of ways for himself and the other spy, he cast a glance to Fisher and gave him an acknowledging and appreciative nod. “Thank you.” He said simply as way of verbally conveying the gratitude he’d felt for the bearded man and the fight he’d helped orchestrate during the two-weeks he’d been planet side. With nothing else, he spun on heel away from both of the spies and began to muster what was left of their resistance cell to move. The others, Betrull and Kennedy took up herding duties as well, working to get the people motivated, neither of them looking back as they disappeared round a bend of the sewer tunnel, only the sounds of sloshing footprints growing more dim by the passing second serving as any reminder of them.

Once it was clear that the remainder of the Rena Resistance Cell was gone, Fisher looked down to check at his weapon once more, and without another word stepped in the direction of the tunnel that would lead himself and Brody away. “About seventy meters this way, tunnel opens up to the surface.” He explained, not really giving a damn whether or not Brody was listening at this point. “Once we’re clear, we can piggy-back communications off of the Dominion jammers and get a signal out to your shuttle.” Peering above him at the dirty tiled surface of the sewer tunnel, he could faintly hear the tremor of footsteps, a sign that the Jem’Hadar were attempting to follow the spiderweb like layout of tunnels that they likely had outdated schematics on. It would take some time, but not forever for them to home in on the specific path that he and Brody were about to head out of, regardless of how confusing those schematics were; the benefit of having a literal army to disperse throughout the maze in search of their prey.

“Let’s get on with this.” He said, shouldering his weapon.
Title: Re: [2374] Operation 'Spark' - Betazed
Post by: stardust on October 03, 2021, 11:03:02 AM
[ Cmdr. Brody Miller (https://uss-theurgy.com/w/index.php?title=Brody_Miller) | Codename: Mason | Rena Resistance Bivouac | Dalaria City | Betazed ] Attn: @Swift
[Show/Hide]

There was no denying that, as the murky water that washed around his feet in a steady current – relentless – washing away the grime and scum, time too had washed away whatever had been dark and tainted about the former operative. Like a stone at the shore of a grand ocean it had worn him down, smoothed him out, leaving nothing but the inner most core of his former self. The essence of who he had been before Starfleet Intelligence, before a life of solitary deceit. There sure were the cracks filled with dark tar, that ran much deeper and only slowly faded, if ever, but the majority of what he could still see cladding Bishop into a cast-iron shell of idealized conviction and small-minded focus, was gone. Something he had only later understood to be tools designed to turn them into machines, rather than individual beings. A fake sense of free will they could cling to, as to not completely fall into the dark abyss of pointlessness, becoming wholesomely irrelevant to the grander machinery that had created them. He didn’t intend to outright say so, but he felt as if the bearded man was teetering dangerously close to the precipice of that undoing, if he hadn’t already set one foot across it.

Clearly Anderson had bigger plans for him in mind, than becoming a forgotten footnote, simply redacted from some internal list, in a larger war that did not glamourize the pawns sacrificed, but the heroes that prevailed against adversity. Because the gift that Bishop had yet to receive was perspective, and it was only poetic that this could not be achieved from the thick of the mud of the battlefield beneath, but the lofty veil beyond the sky. There was no denying that the Betazoid rebellion was chipping away at the stronghold the Dominion had on their world. Fragment by fragment. And maybe they had achieved a bigger crack, by giving them a stronger foothold. Or, what Brody was more inclined to believe, a semblance of more false hope. The resistance was not going to liberate the planet. And even if he had known, that the next push of the fleet was going to be its last in this theatre, and that it would not be successful, hell, even then he would’ve not changed his views on the grander plan in motion: to end the war. Even though the plight of those in the dirt below had become more apparent, more real, in the past few hours, his ideals were unwavering. And it wasn’t only the mission, or the thought of a wife to return to, but the steadfast believe in a grander victory, that led him to push on no matter what anyone thought of him.

As Ebirone left without as much as a cordial 'thank you', the commander didn’t even let his dark eyes trail after him with contempt. The reality of it was that their little ‘plan’ would’ve seen the odd couple dead three times or more, all over the course of a mere day, had it not been for Brody’s intervention. But it was fine, he didn’t need a medal. He had come here for a mission and had been foolish enough to submit to some sort of bargain, rather than tranquilizing and beaming Bishop’s ass back to the shuttle right then. He had bought into the ideals, of the man, like these people had, if only for a second. But had to learn quickly that it was rather a semblance of guilt, that drove him forward. And while that in itself was both tragic and in a poetic way admirable, it wasn’t a dead-end he wanted to follow into. And he wasn’t going to try his luck a fourth time, at cheating fate. Not when his own life too was on the line. Because unlike Fisher, he actually had shit to lose. Or more precisely, there were people that relied on him, waited for him, needed him, that he too had a responsibility over. More so than the man before him, or any of these folks. And maybe that came across as being egoistic or deaf to the plight of all of them. Which ultimately only served as another judgment he was entirely okay with having bestowed upon him.

But there was still a modicum of understanding for who the other man was and what he was going through, how he could forget what light felt like, sitting in the dark for this long. “Isn’t it, though?” the man voiced quietly, as soon as the sound of the fleeing civilians echoed further and further down the tunnel, all the while unshouldering his backpack, pulling out one of the last remote explosives and arming it. “I understand trying to find a meaning in all of this shit, something you can control. But being so desperate for purpose, it blinds your judgment on how much is too much. Whether YOUR path is worth all of this.” Nodding first at Bishop, and then down the tunnel, the tall man pushed the explosive into a crack of the tunnel wall, wedging it tight. “Starfleet’s advisory is to hide, to wait this out and not draw unnecessary attention to yourself, while those who are trained for this take care of it. I wouldn’t give a flying fuck if you ran around here all by yourself like a damn vigilante not caring whether you die or not. But dragging these people into it? Making them believe you’re going to save them … that’s not only obviously a promise you can’t keep but a dangerous delusion.”

Readying the detonator remote, Brody swung the dark duffle back over his shoulders and moved to follow Bishop into the proclaimed escape route. He could’ve just let it sit, as it seemed he was finally getting his way, but the matter was, there was no telling when the man was going to throw himself into the next lost cause, hoping to make a difference or at the very least finally get absolved of this pitiful existence. Which was not only a disregard of his value as an operative, but as a person just the same. “Just tell me, man, was it a success? Will you leave this planet feeling like you accomplished something?” he thus asked with his voice slightly raised. Against the distance, against the water swirling, against the roaring sound of the other man’s inner daemons. But no such immediate affirmation came, instead waves of frustration washed over the former operative. Transforming his vigor into anger, to the point where his voice became as daunting a roar as the closing Jem Hadar.

“WAS IT WORTH IT?!” he yelled, mad, pleading, clenching his fists in a fit of unbridled rage, sending a spark of electrons through the air that ignited not only within him, but the tunnel downstream, an explosion that left the entire underworld tremble in fear. And with the shockwave of air molecules came the power of all these pent-up fears and emotions, that he’d been harboring since leaving the Poseidon. The ever-looming possibility that he might not have returned. That he had gambled his bright future away in a last worship of duty. That his legacy ended here, at the heels of an idealistic maniac. Buried in the rubble of history forever. So, he at least needed to know that it had been worth it. That all he had done here today would somehow, somewhere down the line make a difference for someone, help someone he loved.

Because if not, he was going to be lost to the darkness right then and there. If there was no purpose to anything, then just like Fisher, he was just a biochemical process happening until it was extinguished.
Title: Re: [2374] Operation 'Spark' - Betazed
Post by: Swift on October 12, 2021, 07:47:39 AM
[ Lt. Andrew Fisher (https://uss-theurgy.com/w/index.php?title=Andrew_Fisher) | Codename: Bishop | Sewer Network | Dalaria City (http://uss-theurgy.com/w/images/1/11/DalariaCity2374n.png) | Betazed (https://memory-alpha.fandom.com/wiki/Betazed) ] Attn: @stardust

Rounding a long bend in the tunnel that seemed to stretch onward for quite a while, Fisher could faintly make out a disruption in the fractured tiled facade, most likely some kind of a hole had been blown down into the sewer during the earliest days of the bombardment. At least, that was his operating assumption. This was their way to the surface, and if he would have his way about it, the place where he could hopefully make enough of a racket to draw the attention of their pursuers away from the fledgling resistance trying to make their own escape. Behind him a few paces, the wet boot falls of Brody as he followed reminded the sage eyed spy of an impending dilemma, for as far as Brody had made it clear, he was beyond the point of making any further sacrifice or service on this mission and planet. Again, to a degree Fisher could understand the utter annoyance of the other man; he had after all been sent behind enemy lines to track down a lost operative, only to wind up mired to his ankles in literal shit. But while he felt an empathy for the other man, and also no small amount of gratitude for what he’d done to help thus far, Fisher couldn’t and wouldn’t change his mind on the importance of helping these people in their struggle. Sure, maybe Starfleet would indeed someday come along to drive the Dominion back, and liberate Betazed; but until that happened, their struggle was real and worth merit.

Besides, what else was Fisher supposed to do in this war? What greater plans could there possibly have been for a lone spy, lost in a great massive effort, especially when that spy had a known proficiency at this very kind of assignment. He’d led other resistance movements before; ran shadow games of the tradecraft against superior enemies and seen them driven to the point of breaking.

It was why he’d been one of the people approached with this mission.

But then there was the element in the equation he’d not seen, or rather had chosen to ignore: the recklessness with which he’d been operating. Naturally, the other man was there to remind him of it once more, and it did indeed strike true to a chink in Fisher’s proverbial armor. Stopping in his approach, he turned his shoulder inward from the tunnel so that he might better face Brody and listen to what he’d had to say, he owed him that much at least. And where the weakness of a reckless approach was deftly hit upon by Brody, so to did he further capitalize on the fact that indeed these people were not trained fighters. They were civilians, and while the both of them knew well of the dangers a desperate civilian could present, it didn’t change the matter that they lacked the knowledge of how to properly and effectively resist. Fisher could afford to be reckless, because his training and skills would make up for any gaps, seeing him through even the worst of it; but these people, if they acted fool-hearty, they’d wind up dead a dozen times over. He couldn’t deny the sound reasoning behind what Starfleet and the Federation had advised it’s people to do in the event of capture and or subjugation. But at the same time, the people in charge who had made such an advisement, lacked an understanding of just how effective an angered and defiant populace could actually be in such a scenario.

Hence the reason behind Operation ‘Spark’, which had likely been criticized greatly by members of the Admiralty.

Keeping silent, Fisher felt the last little bit of Brody’s diatribe strike true, triggering a greater sense of introspection regarding what he’d accomplished while on Betazed, leaning him toward a wavering on the subject. Quietly he remembered his first days after crashing to the surface in his escape pod, dodging patrols of Jem’Hadar who sought to capture and or kill anyone who’d made it through alive. That alone was a difficult enough task, but Fisher had also been charged with finding any pockets of resistance; organizing them, and then ensuring that they were appropriately coordinated with Starfleet’s grander efforts. When he’d first encountered Ebirone, who brought Fisher back to meet with the rest of the Rena Resistance Cell, he was surprised by how dysfunctional they were; if anything the Rena were more of a simple refuge than they were any kind of civilian uprising. Even those which had prior Starfleet experience, or were in fact still active in Starfleet, seemed to lack the kind of wherewithal necessary to be effective as combatants. Still, his orders had been to try and organize them into something better, which he had done, with surprising success he remembered. At that point, his mission would have surely ended, as the final aspect was to link them up with Starfleet, but that’s when outside communications had been cut off entirely. So, Fisher did what he had to, which was still technically part of his orders, and he led them to re-establish a connection, though perhaps in a far more ambitious and ultimately costly manner.

Realistically, they could have probably hitched an outside line to Starfleet without taking much of a risk at all, without drawing the interest of Dominion Forces so committed to the hunting and elimination of resistance cells. In fact, in retrospective, Fisher imagined that had he established some kind of simpler communication, Starfleet would have advised the Rena to quiet down, and wait for rescue. Hell, now he was wondering if maybe the real objective of Operation ‘Spark’ had actually been to save the lives of an impatient populace by encouraging them to acquiesce and go along with their subjugators for some time, and to placate them with the idea that they would do their part later when the opportunity arose, especially since they were now somewhat organized. Had the Admiralty known the occupation of Betazed would continue for the foreseeable future, and also known that the people would grow restless as a result? Was this their grand plan at saving lives in the hope that eventually, indeed sometime further on down the line, the fleets would come and rescue them? If that was the case, then why leave that out of his briefing prior to being set to Betazed? Questions like these came about whenever the chain of command broke down, and when orders became less clear, concise, or when someone came close to disregard of them. They also arose when you lost faith in leadership, of which had absolutely been a reality of Fisher in recency thanks to the loss he’d incurred.

But as Brody pressed on, a scarier thought soon crossed Fisher’s mind as he wondered if maybe he had stirred up this proverbial hornet’s nest out of some personal need to fight for something in the wake of having lost everything.

When the detonator clacked off, a reverberating boom blowing past him and Brody like a gust of wind, Fisher just stared at the other man in deafening silence for what felt like a prolonged period of time but was really less than five seconds. His bout of momentary questioning and self-reflection halted as he could now detect within Brody’s angered voice, something beyond just annoyance, he could sense fear. Understandable; empathetical fear. Not for himself, but fear for the life he had back wherever he had come from. Fear for the wife he’d mentioned earlier, and how he might hurt her if he didn’t make it back to her. Fear that his absence would have drastic and dire consequences on the lives of so many who were waiting and depending on him. Fisher remembered how he was envious of Brody because he still had something worth living for, worth making it home for. It was because of the simple fact that Brody still felt that fear of loss, whereas Fisher had been searching for it ever since Nass had died. Worse still, he began to legitimately wonder if the unspoken answer to the other man’s ultimate question was one which would negate any sense of self-worth that he might have found on Betazed. Unable to immediately answer, Fisher let his eyelids close over those green pools as he took a deep breath, the scent of detonated explosives stinging at his nostrils. When his eyes opened again, he sought to find those of Brody’s once more.

“I don’t know.” He answered truthfully. Painfully.

The reality was, Fisher knew he wouldn’t have an answer until the fate of Betazed was ultimately determined, and unfortunately for him it was becoming ever more evident that he had played out his part in shaping that determination to the nth degree. Whatever became of Betazed now, would be decided by the people he was leaving, and perhaps they were in a better condition to resist and fight than before he had arrived. But they were also in a far more precarious and dangerous position because of the bold moves he and they had made together. What he was starting to believe however, was that it had truly become time for himself to exit stage left on Betazed and Operation ‘Spark’. “C’mon. We need to get moving.” The tone in his voice was as good an indicator of any affirmation that Brody was likely to get at this point. “That explosion’s going to draw their interest. We should get to your shuttle and get out of here.” Raising his weapon again, he spun round toward the tunnel that would lead them back to the surface, aware that though his time on Betazed was drawing to an end, the threat still persisted until he and Brody were safely aboard his shuttlecraft, headed back in the direction of Starfleet territory.

Clenching the grip of his disruptor tightly, he tried to push aside all of the doubt and lingering questions running through his mind, that he might be an effective soldier for just a little while longer and do one last good deed as part of his mission: to get Brody out of here and back to the life that he still had worth living.

One more cause, which might give himself some further sense of meaning.

OOC: ...and one more piece of mood music for the end of this post. ;) [Show/Hide]
Title: Re: [2374] Operation 'Spark' - Betazed
Post by: stardust on October 19, 2021, 12:02:27 PM
[ Cmdr. Brody Miller (https://uss-theurgy.com/w/index.php?title=Brody_Miller) | Codename: Mason | Rena Resistance Bivouac | Dalaria City | Betazed ] Attn: @Swift
[Show/Hide]

Seedy caverns slowly filling with the biting stench of sulfur, a heavy haze of dark smoke billowing across the churning olive waters like heralds of death, one could half expect the ferryman rounding the corner at any moment, taking anyone away lucky enough to have two coins for fare. They themselves had created this tormented underworld they were confined in now, even though Brody believed credit solely lay with his bearded companion. They had challenged the daemons of war, and now found themselves trapped not only in their physical realm, but the moral stranglehold of their corrupted values. And with that venom in his blood, that adrenalin poisoning his thoughts and emotions, he was enchanted by the prospect of more conflict and – as a result – vied for it more so than a peaceful resolution, in this instance. That was the manipulation he had fallen victim to, as the sinister forces egged him on from every dark corner, their scornful titters, clicking against the grimy walls. Playing into his every preconceived notion, wielding them like battle axes, against his better judgment. And under that spell he wished for Bishop to just give him the excuse he needed to end this here.

But no such absolution was bestowed upon him.

As the man confessed that he had no answer to his question, his voice stagnating with the pain of doubt, every nuance weighed by the heavy honey of honesty, the other operative felt his anger fall away like terracotta armor, shattered by a single arrow. In his mind he could even hear the pieces heavily splashing into the muck at his feet, lapping back and forth between him and the walls of the tunnel. He suddenly felt raw and exposed, in the faint glimmer of pretense falling away, leaving him naked in the cold dark for a moment, until he found a way to claw his way back to a familiar light he knew. Still feeling a sense of dread over letting go of an anger that felt like a second skin, like an old coat you used to wear, that still fit perfectly. But that just wasn’t your style anymore. And the realization only came in the similarities shared among these men, not their differences. For as much as Bishop saw a man he had been in Brody, the other could say with absolute certainty that it wasn’t that. It was the vision of a man he could become, rather than who he was. Which should’ve turned regret into hope, and that was the light he wanted to shine, to illuminate the path to salvation for the man himself.

The silence did not only fill the caverns like pressurized gas because of the void left by the recent bang, but rather because it signified the unspoken truth between them, more so than any verbal acknowledgments ever could. And in that way, pulling Bishop out of this mess, was much more than the simple act of beaming back to the shuttle, it was an opportunity to ascend to the next realm of existence, a live beyond all of this. Not because this was beneath either of them, not worthy of a fight, but because they both had paid their dues to the underworld, in order to support the grander cause above, without anyone ever even knowing. Something that was only a life’s work if one failed to know when their duty was done, thus gambling their existence away on a premature note. Not even realizing the opportunities fate held obscured beyond the vail of immediate responsibility. He knew what that was like, to take the dainty hand of destiny and stepping through the foggy curtain, into a different world. The only faint irony being, he was being led over the threshold by a beautiful blond, and if Brody were to be that headman for Bishop, well … the similarity would hopefully end there. As polygamy was still very much frowned upon in the human faction of the Federation, aside of some backwards hick-colonies maybe.

And while all of this silence was going on, the men’s eyes were locked, some kind of non-verbal communication happening that even the Betazoid populous would’ve been proud of. Ultimately seeing a sense of relenting in the other man, the hope for improvement, Brody nodded faintly. A sharp tug of his pate as validation for an entire myriad of unspoken sentiments that needed no further verbal discourse. But even then, the tone in Bishop’s voice was a welcome one, that ignited Brody’s muscles once more, following onto the last stretch of their journey … hopefully. “Well, that was the plan.” he simply replied, quietly, if only for the faintest of gratitude that he’d been going through with whatever Bishop had wanted him to do after all, in the grander scheme of getting this thing done satisfactorily for both men. And it didn’t even need to be a verbal acknowledgment or a kiss on the forehead. The mere knowledge that his contributions hadn’t been reduced to being that annoying gnat would suffice. And in thinking that, it became rather evident that in this short amount of time, the man had learned to respect the other enough to value his approval. Which was probably the most genuine show of comradery he knew how to express. Even if only inwardly so.

Ultimately reaching a stairwell, by the side of the tunnel, the two men cautiously ascended towards the surface, being even more careful, slowly creeping from the access hatch at the side of the road, into more of the same old rubble and wreckage. The rain had subsided, ironically, as they were just about to leave this more cultured version of Ferenginar. Bringing his rifle back up to his side in a defensive position, Brody immediately peeled the tricorder from his backpack, which still hung loosely over one shoulder. The third moon of Betazed was just dancing across the cityscape on the horizon, down the boulevard they had come up onto. A pale gray sphere, distorted by the haze of the planet’s thin layer of air. Directing his scanner that way, the man tried to establish the uplink with the shuttle again, but just after moonrise, the interference at this angle, through the atmosphere and dampening field, were too much for a safe transmission. But luckily, they still had one ace up their sleeves. Letting dark eyes skim the surroundings, the broken-down buildings and burnt-out vehicle, until noticing something nearby.

“There. A Jem’Hadar transmitter.” He altered Bishop, pointing at the upper rim of a dish, hidden mostly behind a nearby building. Obstructed enough to not allow a direct connection either. “We got to get higher up.” Brody thus concluded, venturing toward an opposite building that looked high enough to give a direct line of sight. Scrambling over some rubble to reach a second-floor window the man only stopped to look after his hopefully pursuing companion, as well as the road beneath them, for possible stragglers, as the floor started to vibrate subtly. A sensation that made the man’s inner ear tickle with excitement, before slowly picking up on the ensuing low hum, that eventually turned into the muffled roar of nearby engines. Not immediately picking up any visuals matching the noise nearby, Brody opted to simply duck into the window and check the perimeter of the floor, ultimately diving behind a half-wall at the glistening strike of two Jem’Hadar attack craft coming off the ground one block behind their position. So close that the windows of the building could not contain their full shape, let alone the trail of excited hot air, that they left in their roaring ascend.
Title: Re: [2374] Operation 'Spark' - Betazed
Post by: Swift on November 02, 2021, 03:27:14 PM
[ Lt. Andrew Fisher (https://uss-theurgy.com/w/index.php?title=Andrew_Fisher) | Codename: Bishop | City Streets | Dalaria City (http://uss-theurgy.com/w/images/1/11/DalariaCity2374n.png) | Betazed (https://memory-alpha.fandom.com/wiki/Betazed) ] Attn: @stardust

Splish-splashing loudly as he trudged onward through ankle-high muck and grime, not all of which was simple debris and or plant refuse, Fisher peered back at his reluctant compatriot only once, and in doing so detected something akin to an outward change. It was almost imperceptible, the manner in which his facial expression and body language had shifted, and were it not for his trained keen eyes, he too would’ve missed it. Gone, or rather slipping, was the near persistent veil of indignant rage, and the armor which had been trimmed and brimming with venomous scorn; the same armor that had once adorned Fisher’s shoulders, though they’d been blunted and dulled over years of wear and tear, the last drops of venom having long since run dry. It signaled once more, at least in his mind, that there was a commonality between them, regardless of how much they might have openly protested otherwise, and it meant that their understanding of one another was strengthening. Given enough time, he imagined they might’ve even grown to be cordial and or friendly, though such a commodity was exceedingly rare in a place and situation like this one, and that was something he was certain they could’ve both agreed upon, regardless of how cursory their discovery of one another was at this present moment.

Their eventual joint emergence from the underground, facilitated by a lone stairwell that led up from the tunnel network, availed them of the opportunity to once more breathe the free air of an utterly oppressed world. The rains had yet again abated and save for a patch of ominous clouds hovering near the far western edge of the city, the skies were clear; stars and moons alike shone down upon them with some brilliance. Were it any other moment in history, Fisher imagined he would have enjoyed the beauty of the night above as it contrasted against the skyline, though as it was now, the ambient light sadly served to aid their many enemies in pursuit. Though, the luminescence wasn’t entirely a negative factor, as the Jem’Hadar and their unique ability to shroud themselves was lessened to a degree in which Fisher and Brody would surely notice as they made their way. It was amusing to the bearded spy, how sometimes fate could be unintentionally fair in how it might affect the outcome of a situation, and for that he was irrationally grateful. Still, he kept his weapon raised at the level of his shoulder, a focus to his sage green eyes as they swept from side to side for the telltale shimmer of the scaly monsters.

Thus far though, it was surprisingly quiet.

“I see it.” Fisher acknowledged Brody as they dropped to a knee beside some defilade, the crumpled remnants of a building’s façade that had been blown loose during the initial bombardment. Scanning the mountainous debris pile that had been cascaded down across a good portion of the street, Fisher hoped to find some path or means of scaling to the transmitter they’d had in mind. Instead however, his companion darted off for another adjacent structure, which would afford them some measure of line-of-sight, and hopefully the ability to route access out to the shuttle somewhere in orbit. Chasing after, as Fisher was currently acquiescent to the other man, he kept hot on his heels as they ascended into the second story, a sudden vibration rising from somewhere nearby shaking free a veritable cloud of dust from the decrepit interior flooring. The Jem’Hadar, their landed attack ships within distance, were on the move again. Immediately, he and Brody dove for concealment, the latter opting for a half-wall, while Fisher scampered along a carpeted office space until he came to a rest, hidden in the nook of said room’s corner. From his position, he could see out through the framed windows as a purple glow intensified with commensurate proximity. Had their steps been detected so readily?

Swearing silently, he glanced at Brody as several of the few remaining panes of glass were quite literally jostled into shattered pieces, a steady clatter of shards falling down from their sills, making quite a racket as it mixed with the high-pitched whine of atmospheric thrusters. Fighting the compulsion to shield his ears from the immensity of the sound, he was rewarded with a measure of relief as the noise of the engines gradually began to fade, as did the radiant hue of violet bathing their surroundings. Ten-seconds later, the sound had met a certain modularity of steadiness, indicating that the Jem’Hadar weren’t in fact leaving the area completely, rather their immediate attention had been drawn elsewhere. Regardless, as the remnant ringing in his ears dipped well enough to allow him to hear with clarity once more, he soon detected the faint tremors of shuffling boots echoing against the opposing structure. With prominence, his and Brody’s acute senses would have discerned the incoming footfalls, a signal from the proverbial conductor that an operatic crescendo was nigh. This movement, one in which they’d been cast together in for little less than a day, was coming to an end, and would be lost among the greater symphony that was the Dominion War, and which they would experience separately.

Peering past Brody, he could see an emergency access stairwell at the far end of this office building, one which would most certainly lead to an upper portion and facilitate their attempt at achieving LOS with the transmitter. The encroachment of a pursuant enemy made no difference, other than to force them into acting with haste, lest they would be overrun.

“Shall we?” Fisher asked, the tone in his voice even-keeled, perhaps slightly bordering on excited in defiance of their impending skirmish.

Stepping out of the corner he’d sought refuge in, Fisher moved past Brody toward the stairwell with alacritous intent, his shoulder meeting the door with enough momentum that it smashed open, splinters of the doorframe erupting from it as it cracked in submission to his will. For all he knew, the door might have been unlocked, but careful consideration really didn’t matter at this point. Thankfully, his assumption that it would lead up also proved prudent, as he could see up to the level above, and in fact even felt the rush of cool air breezing past him, the door to the roof evidently having been left open or blown open at some point in the past. His weapon raised, he waited a second to afford his compatriot a chance to take up tactical positioning near him, and assuming he was there, he began the ascent two steps at a time until they reached the top, peaking out to ensure they were clear. The roof seemed barely stable enough to support his weight, it crunching and sagging with each step Fisher took as he moved out unto it, stopping him with tepid concern. “Alright... new plan...” He commented as he turned back toward Brody, holding up a hand to stop him before his added weight caused a structural failure. “...you take the roof, establish contact with the shuttle, and I’ll cover the stairwe--” his voice was cut off as white-hot disruptor bolts scorched the air just inched in front of him, then splashing against a retaining wall some ten-meters to his left where they left emberlike impact markings.

Across the street, a lone Jem’Hadar sniper had already taken up defensive positioning at the foot of the transmitter and was attempting to lay down a base of fire. Spinning on a heel, Fisher returned fire with a snapshot that lanced across the distance and found the one assailant, burning a hole clean through the center of his scaly face. The immediate threat dealt with, Fisher knew, just as well as Brody would have, that the momentary exchange of fire meant their exact location would easily be homed in on now. “Damnit! Better get started. Do your thing, I’ll provide cover!” Fisher dropped to a knee, his positioning between where the stairwell exited out onto the roof, and the short wall that ran along the edge of the building’s upper most level. From there, he could effectively provide some element of overwatch on the street below and before them, while also keeping an eye on the approach from the stairwell. Important considering the Jem’Hadar would now effectively besiege them and their little rundown office building, essentially their fort of sheer happenstance. That is, as long as the structure didn’t collapse beneath their feet due to the modest weight the two of them represented. “How much you weigh?” Fisher asked amusedly of Brody as the sounds of encroaching footsteps grew louder.

“Never mind.” He quickly added, catching glimmer of something that just wasn’t quite right in the street, his weapon reflexively finding zero as he squeezed the trigger, and downed a shrouded Jem’Hadar, who upon being struck returned to the world of the visible as it dropped like a heap.

OOC: ...keeping the tradition going. [Show/Hide]
Title: Re: [2374] Operation 'Spark' - Betazed
Post by: stardust on November 03, 2021, 12:29:12 AM
[ Cmdr. Brody Miller (https://uss-theurgy.com/w/index.php?title=Brody_Miller) | Codename: Mason | Rena Resistance Bivouac | Dalaria City | Betazed] Attn: @Swift
[Show/Hide]

To Brody’s understanding, there were three inevitable kinds of judgments in live, and beyond. The kind of weighed esteem that defined your place in the grander scheme of the universe. The first based in religion or faith, grounded in century old beliefs of grander designs and higher beings, on an eventual tribunal, weighing your every decision and action, eventually determining your path beyond the veil of this reality. And while decidedly elusive, this kind of sentence was only marginally less palpable than the second one, passed onto you by your peers. Or, if you were so lucky, a partner in love and trust. A decidedly more personal valuation, though out of the realm of one’s own reach all the same. A tangent you could only mold through the steps you took, in traversing the ethical wasteland of mortal being. It was one of the few standards the man had learned to measure himself by, to an incremental extent. Not even as much as the professional code, or moral complexity of his duty, as the personal conflictions and quandaries in between. As it ultimately came down to the most prominent of verdicts, the value of thy self. Which you passed upon the decisions after you made them, within a sort of spiritual mechanism, designed to pass absolution upon deeds you deserved no personal ruling over. Yet it was this highly flawed and subjective notion that weighed the most, in the end.

So, in a moment of stretching reality, as the stale ether of the tunnels gave way to a surge of fresh air, he pondered the judgment he would pass on his own merit, over the past day. Dark eyes transfixed on the bearded bard, as every thick follicle on his face gently swayed in the wind, like soft coral, in a troubled sea. How ponds reflecting spring birch gently quivered, sending ripple waves across the glimmering surface, as their confines slowly dashed around to convey the perimeter of being cautiously. And in that moment he wondered, if a man who had no one, who believed in nothing but morality itself, was exempt from any kind of proper ruling, as he had no one to pass it upon him. Not until the final court, held over the demise of his verve, would hold up the mirror of contemplation, upon the past deeds of his existence. Was it in this absence of arbitration, that Bishop felt most welcome? And could he not commiserate with such sentiments himself? He who was thriving in the golden glow of his own moral commandments, etched into the granite façade of his being like a deterrent. The stronghold of unwavering conviction, wielded as an abject excuse to evade a just sentence, other than one’s own. Wasn’t that the true community they shared in?

Be it so, the unwavering cogs of fate had brought them here, the most fitting of pairs, to glean upon the echo of their most adverse facets. Dancing across the keys of contempt and aggravation, like a devil over a flame, fiendishly gloating over the mutual revelation of commonality. Two men who would not trust anyone’s judgment on their own volitions, if not cast from a spiritual kin. Realization born from a gaze into the looking glass, one’s own decree cast back upon one’s self. And it was then that he realized why he was here. Why his journey, against better judgment, had followed Bishop through the dark desert of this tormented place. Because there was an ever shifting duality in nature, opposing forces as the only powers that could cancel each other out. And in this moment in time, this stretch of their lives, these two men were the opposite ends of a tether, strung through the fabric of existence. Only together, could they save one another, from the turn of events that was predestined to happen, around the next bend of their stories. And only if these two components came together at this specific instant, would they be able to set in motion the future that was meant to be. A spark that spread like invigorating wildfire, through the essence of Brody’s being in that moment. A fire he reveled to burn in. Nothing else mattered then, if he just followed the path, for he would be safe, in the embrace of destiny.

In a matter of minutes, the scales tipped from bad to worse, but it didn’t matter. He had embraced the call of fate in a way that felt like he was floating through adversity, if only on the mementos passed, from when they fought together. The universe couldn’t be as twisted, as to dangle hope before you, a bright future looming, only to pull the rug from beneath you, plunging you into eternal nothing. No, this couldn’t be how it ended. In the caress of indigo hue he waited out the foreboding tremors, turning into tippytoes by comparison, as the garrisons started to draw in. He couldn’t help but consider them like ants, in his ethereal haze, who posed no threat any more real than the pebbles that had been dancing across the dusty floors like excited tribbles. Catching those sage crystals once more, as the other man spoke, the wildfire within Brody’s muscles flared up like dry winds blowing into the arid underbrush. A devilish grin, suddenly creasing his left cheek, as the hint of white teeth broke from beneath his lips.

“Hell yeah.”

Shouldering his backpack over one shoulder anew, not taking fate’s hint to just wear it over both instead, the man tightened the grip around his rifle while the other held the nylon strap in place over his rain jacket. They rushed out of cover, scampering down low through the floorplan to a barrel leading into the dark sky, clouds illuminated from the turmoil below, like the roof of a Bedouin tent, gently moving with the wind. A spiral of stairs, winding around the walls into the abyss above. An ascension which felt like heading down into the bowels of hell, head first, though invigorating. And as they emerged on the top side of the architectural carcass, looking across its mauled surface, an unspoken sense of levity, filled their lungs alongside the altitude air. Enough removed from the debris and fires that it actually resembled reaching the summit of a holy mountain, the pinnacle of their journey, it seemed, as the Jem’Hadar relay was just in their sight. But between them and that modicum of salvations till lay the thin veil of cracked concrete, like worn cardboard across evenly spaced toothpicks. Which in itself did not initially alert the former operative. But he still heeded his companion’s judgment on the matter. Even if he would’ve contested, the argument would’ve been cut short, as a bolt of silver venom cut through the ether between them. 

“Holy f…” Brody exhaled on half a breath, his lungs deflating into thin sheets, as his body recoiled into the feeble cover of the first few steps. Taking no cue to wallow himself in safety, however, Bishop placed a well skilled shot across the chams that sent a Jem’Hadar’s brain like obsidian fireworks, spraying the construct behind him like a work of sadistic art. Gasping for a new breath, feeling the sting of the oxygen in his capillaries, the other man looked back at his companion with virginal reverence, betrothing with him a nod of genuine appreciation. Ultimately taking solace in the fact that they were so close to their terminus that only the worst kind of providence could derail their riding into the sunset together. So, he simply nodded, in the absence of judgment on the bearded man’s orders, slowly drifting into the holy river of complacency, over their most fortunate conclusion dawning. With every inch closer to getting off this rock, his spirit merged not the golden light of tranquility. A little prematurely, perhaps.

“Excuse me. This is all just padding!” Brody quipped almost lightheartedly, letting his free hand roam the general vicinity of his midst, looking back at the other operative taking up defensive position. For a moment their eyes met in a measure of levity, driven by the gentlest of smiles shared between their scruff lined lips. One beyond the weighted memories of their individual pasts, and those spent together. And for the briefest of butterfly flutters, it was as if that part did not exist, and the only link between them was that solemn revelation that they were mirrors of each other. Maybe from different realms in time. And that by acknowledging that, in all its intricate implications, they could move on. That and getting an uplink established to the shuttle, of course. Thus, in blinking away that moment of sentimentality, he managed to refocus on the task at hand, as did his compatriot. Letting his backpack fall onto the ground, resting his rifle delicately next to it, grip slightly elevated so he could quickly wrap his palm around it, if need be, he rummaged through his equipment.

Pulling out the now slightly worn, but still better for wear, tricorder, Brody flicked the device open with its characteristic ‘cog-wheels’ sound and gentle chirp, soon dipping into a crescendo of synthesizer waves. Pulling up the communications function he first attempted to go the easy route and dial directly into the shuttle’s subspace transceiver. Yet despite his best efforts at waving the device around, making a mockery of himself, he could not establish a stable connection through the low angle of atmosphere. “Well, that dance was for nothing.” he grumbled, readjusting the matrix to the protocols Brighton had fed into the Dominion network, before directing his tricorder directly at the alien array. After diving through a few barriers, they had already punctured previously, he ultimately managed tot ap into the network. “Halfway there.” he thus updated Bishop, his voice but a mere whisper on the prevailing winds across the rooftop. He now had to marry the transceiver location with that of the shuttle. Pushing in the last coordinates, hitting execute, squinted eyes gleaned across the urban canyon onto the satellite dish that, after a few tense seconds, started to reorient itself as if driven by ghostly premonition.

“Yes, ye … no, NO. Fucking no!” Brody exclaimed, hitting his fist into the tail end of the retaining wall, instantly knowing better at the easily cracking plaster, like brittle old biscuit. The communications antenna had, in its way of readjusting, moved slightly out of direct sight once more, behind the superstructure of the adjacent building, as was relayed by the disruption of connection on his tricorder. “Alright …” he contemplated, eyes darting around his equipment and his attire. “Alright!” he repeated, slipping off the heavy jacket and utility harness swiftly. Leaving everything where it lay, tacking nothing but his tricorder, Brody gave Bishop one last encouraging, thin lipped look, before making his way out across a line of dampness darkened concrete that indicated a retaining structurer beneath it, probably one of the walls beneath. “Slow is smooth and smooth is fast …” he preached to himself, almost like a mantra, over and over, while precariously balancing on an imaginary balancing beam – which he always hated as a child. Accelerating the last few crouched steps to a small concrete stud, emerging from the floor at the head end of column, he lulled himself into a feeble sense of security.

Bringing up the tricorder once more, this time in a better position, the screen finally turned green, and he could log in remotely into the shuttle’s systems. “I got it!” he cheered almost enthusiastically. Bypassing the Starfleet security measures for unrecognized relay connections the commander pulled up the ship’s sensors in an attempt to establish the transporter lock … which at this angle and perigee was a challenge in its own. He was so caught up in the task, as a matter of fact, he did not realize the minute cracks forming at his feet, fanning out from his soles like sunrays in a cave painting. “I got it.” he reiterated silently, all to himself, bathing in the anticipation of that vibrant blue glimmer, that was going to take them away from here, finally. And back to his beloved.

And just in the moment that their two life signs logged into the transporter array, the buffers beginning to charge, his left foot gave way into a chasm, growing at his side. Wrapping his arms around the stump of the column, sticking out of the roof, holding tight to his device, Brody was able to keep himself tethered to the intact side of the structure, while the gorge quickly expanded away from him, faster than his eyes could follow it. As he caught sight of Bishop again, however, it had already drawn him into its abysmal maw, sending the other operative down a sloping plane, two levels into the crumbled building. Alongside all of Brody’s own equipment and weaponry, that he didn’t have on himself. And in the same moment, his tricorder chirped abjectly, having lost track of one of the two life signs, and it wasn’t him. But as it so went, when the mighty soured across the sky, their fall wasn’t going to be just one thing. No, it would all come crashing own before it got better. IF it got better.

Alerted by the commotion, the two Jem’Hadar attack ships appeared from behind two buildings nearby, a few hundred yards away, turning slowly on their invisible cushions of levity, into their direction. The first hit almost imperceptibly later, as a thunderbolt of white light smashed into the side of the building. And the moment slowed down once more, dust evolving into the sky beside him like a universe born from nothing. Specks of cinder and stone within like stars and planets, slowly drifting away from their origin. The bang nothing but a tide of air, wind gusts, sending waves of excited dust, across the remainder of the building. The device in his hand but a token of his liberation, his opportunity to live that life that he’d been dreaming off, ever since meeting the one. A life he’d promised himself to protect with everything he had. Even if it meant to consume him. The lonely signal on its screen, missing its other half, the single push of a gently pulsating light symbolizing salvation. Tantalizing him, seducing him, coercing him to betray his values, like devilish sirens of the deep.

One push for the rest of eternity.
Title: Re: [2374] Operation 'Spark' - Betazed
Post by: Swift on November 17, 2021, 06:17:40 AM
[ Lt. Andrew Fisher (https://uss-theurgy.com/w/index.php?title=Andrew_Fisher) | Codename: Bishop | City Streets | Dalaria City (http://uss-theurgy.com/w/images/1/11/DalariaCity2374n.png) | Betazed (https://memory-alpha.fandom.com/wiki/Betazed) ] Attn: @stardust

The as to yet unyielding search for deeper meaning behind his actions hadn’t always been a motivating force for Fisher, in fact there had long been a period of his service as an SFI Operative wherein he cared not for such frivolities. The only thing that had ever really mattered was the bottom-line success of, and or the completion of whatever orders had been given to him. Concerns over the impact of actions he had directly committed, and the sometimes-abject misery he had therein witnessed and even caused never really passed personal muster or introspection, but they had always been there, lurking along the ethereal periphery of his psyche like a stalking wraith ready to swoop in an assail him unendingly into personal madness. He had been shielded by an overriding sense of righteousness, and a belief in the grander scheme at play, in which he existed as little more than a footnote; but that barrier against the demons which had haunted him, had weakened by the gradually onset of apathy, only to then be raised to the ground by personal loss. The illusions that been instilled in him upon his enrollment with SFI some years earlier had all but faded into the distant memory, replaced by a black hole of emotional nothingness which threatened to draw the very last remnants of Fisher’s humanity into it’s pit, never to resurface again.

Fisher knew this. He had recognized how he had grown dour and unfeeling in recency, the lapse in his defenses having given way to the forthright of harrowing sentiment that seemed to permeate with near absolution now. It was a terrifying realization, because he could very clearly visualize how he would end up, if he continued this downward spiral into the abyss; he would end up like Hurley. Darkly cynical and distrusting of everything and everyone, never willing to open up and expose his vulnerabilities, locking them away forever in a prison of indifference until they were ultimately forgotten. Somewhere along the line, the man had been left as little more than an unfeeling and uncaring golem, though he had no master who could truly command or contain him. It was in Hurley, where Fisher had seen the very worst aspects of himself reflected back, those traits exemplified to the extreme, and all the positives abandoned out of a painful necessity, and it terrified him to an immeasurable degree because he remembered how Hurley professed Fisher to be the best he’d ever met. The spymaster even going so far as to prophecy a time wherein his protégé would supplant him upon the throne of shadows that existed in the underworld of Starfleet Intelligence, though he had also warned Fisher of other rogue elements which might compete for such a crown of thorns.

Still, it was upon seeing how he could end up like Hurley, or rather an even worse version of him, that Fisher had begun searching for an anchor to tether himself to and turn back the transformation.

Once again, a reason which had prompted his decision to volunteer for this particular suicide mission.

Yet, while he had mostly understood and could rationalize the reasons which had brought him here, he was still coming to know why his companion had similarly risked himself and the life he had built elsewhere. From what he had gathered, be it from outright disclosure or subtle hints of dialogue, Brody no longer owed any hard allegiances to their mutual tribal lineage, having put it behind him in favor of something more fulfilling, albeit slightly more mundane. His insistence to follow orders, simply because they were orders, wasn’t absolute, otherwise he wouldn’t have afforded Fisher the degree of leeway he had. He would have carried out his promise to bring him back by any means and put an early end to any parlays Fisher might have made for delay. As such, there was a modicum of envy for Brody that had persisted in Fisher, but there was also a deep worry that the man wasn’t as free from his own demons as he outwardly exuded. What lies had he been fed by the high-brass in order to elicit his consent and acceptant of such a dangerous task? What had been the fulcrum upon which Anderson had so deftly leveraged his request of Brody, and was it the sort that had manipulated the man, more so than it had genuinely convinced him of it’s importance? There were so many lies that could be spun, an utterly unnavigable web of confusion and coercion.

The simplicity of following orders was never a reality when it came to men like them, regardless of how stubbornly they sought to ignore the ghostly apparitions residing in the aforementioned corners of their soul.

It was all on the proverbial table for dissection for Fisher as they climbed up to the roof of this compromised structure consumed, his ancillary thought process working it over out of a presiding sense of implicit responsibility for the other man. From gratitude over a chance reprieve from an execution at the hands of the Jem’Hadar, to sheer annoyance and contempt for the disregard of technically innocent life, and now to an almost begrudging admiration mixed with a genuine abiding concern for his fate and well-being, Fisher had run through the full gamut of emotional judgements when it came to his fellow. Call it a most hastened evolution, born of mutual discovery through forced cooperation and survival, which had led them this far in their dynamic. It had also availed something entirely different for Fisher, in that he had found another ramshackle harbor for which he could cast a line out in desperation, furthering his hopes at denying inevitable descent into the raging whirlpool which beckoned him down, always down. In acquiescing to Brody on the matter of his mission, Fisher had inadvertently tied the man’s fate to his own, and that was something he couldn’t take for granted.

Cutting through all the deeper bull shit running at him though, was that adrenaline induced expression that preceded the sort of vicious combative state that he and Brody could champion better than most. A surge of power and inspiration that was better than any drug in existence, and which was far more addictive in it’s sheer potency, but given how far both of them had come, they had long since learned to master and tame it. Still, such an enthusiastic acknowledgement of the fight to come from Brody elicited a sort of bonding that only could only be forged amongst brothers in battle and brought to the corners of Fisher’s scruffy face a smirk which echoed lasting sentiment. It was time to kick some ass. Apart, men like he and Brody were deadly enough, but when their efforts were combined, they would summon a tempest of agony the likes of which the Jem’Hadar would never have imagined two humans could. Their disillusions of superiority, and an adherence to a belief structure that would reward them with death in the absence of victory would be an undoing, just it always had been from the very onset of this devastating war, and these two trade assassins would now exploit it to the nth degree.

“More lovin’ for the shovin’, eh?” Fisher said tauntingly, a bemused glance peeking out from the corner of his eye at Brody as he prepared to lay down a base of fire on encroaching soldiers which sought to evict them from this temporary refuge. That shared moment of levity, however, stirred forth a chortle from Fisher while Brody got to work establishing a connection, his sage-green gaze shifting back in advance of the oncoming assault.

“That’s good, because they’re just about halfway here.” He commented succinctly, having caught sight of tumbling bits of debris, no doubt loosened by the foot falls of their enemy drawing nearer. Leaning out over the edge of the retaining wall he’d been knelt beside, Fisher peered down in hopes of getting a count on the number of Jem’Hadar that were about to besiege their position, but before he could, his attention shifted back by Brody’s profoundly negative exclamation, causing him to perch one thick eyebrow higher than the other. “That, however, doesn’t sound good.” Watching as his companion stripped off his heavy coat, and anything else which might’ve further weighed him down, it dawned on Fisher what the problem was, and looking back across the chasm to the adjacent structure confirmed his suspicion. “This just gets better and better.” He whispered barely audible under his breath, knowing that the crux of the moment was drawing near, and that it was do-or-die time. But whatever apprehensions and anticipation had built up so quickly inside, gave way in a wash of relief as Brody soon cried out in apparent success, meaning this fight that had seemed like an inevitability just an instant earlier, was going to be avoided all together.

There were seldom other feelings better to a spy, than the one of satisfaction you got after escaping from a pursuant enemy just in the nick of time, leaving them in the wake of wherever you had been just a moment before. In this case, the Jem’Hadar would arrive just in time to watch as he and Brody disappeared into the signature blue swirling light of a Federation transporter beam.

“Whoa! Whoa, shit!” Fisher exclaimed as he felt the building lurch like a giant waking from a great slumber, it literally shifting and groaning beneath his feet as sign of the calamity to follow. The loss of balance as the structure began to settle into a full-on subsidence, caused by the change in weight distribution that he and Brody represented, Fisher attempted to make a play for something to hold onto, but whereas his comrade had found a handhold, he found nothing, and as the roof gave way, Fisher went with it. Cascading down a huge chunk of the pitch when it sloped inward, he was soon enveloped by a cloud of dust and debris, the utter commotion of it all obscuring the sound he made when he landed. Hitting boot first against the pancaking floor a level down, momentum caused him to roll forward and tumble over his right shoulder, his body slamming hard against an obstruction where it came to a halt. Wood and plasterboard began to lay over him as though they were stacked sheets of paper, effectively shielding him from harder objects like brick, stone, and steel which had broken free during the structural failure and were now raining down atop him.

When the bulk of the noise had waned, only the skittering of small fragments tumbling could be heard all about and around Fisher, a cough escaping him as his lungs worked to expel particles he’d inadvertently inhaled in sudden shock. His body ached, but he wasn’t dead, and though the weight atop him was immense, he could tell just by moving his shoulders that he could free himself with mild effort. Though, before he could, a thundering explosion rocked the foundations of what was left of this building, the roar of reverberation nearly jostling his body apart in the process. Immediately he imagined that the rest of the structure was coming down, and that this would be how he died, but life seemed to persist, however dark it was buried in this pile. Respite would not be his though as sound drew ever nearer, those of footfalls, dozens of them. The Jem’Hadar, coming to find whoever had shot and killed their lookout across the way, and to capture the resistance fighters that had eluded capture. If Brody hadn’t made it out, which he doubted given this decidedly frustrating turn, they’d have him in no time, and that was something he couldn’t allow.

His life wasn’t his to give, it belonged to his wife, whoever and wherever she was.

Grunting as he mustered the burst of strength necessary to emerge from underneath all of the refuse that had amassed over him, Fisher exploded forth among a cloud shit, the disruptor rifle he’d death-gripped onto still in his hands, now raised level with his shoulder and cycling as fast as he could work the trigger, firing white hot bolts of plasma into the backs of three Jem’Hadar that had run past him and his lump of debris. Scaly bodies sent slumping forward, brimstone holes burned clean through from aft to fore in their torsos, Fisher breathed hard and fast as he scanned his surroundings for evidence of where Brody might have fell, desperate to get the other spy back on the move so that they could make another escape. “Mason!” he called out, unaware that the man had managed to find grip of something up above, stifling his own fall. It dawned on him late, such an idea, which Fisher confirmed with a glance upward, finding him there, though a spray of disruptor bolts streamed in over his shoulder, forcing the bearded spy to duck and roll for cover, his weapon trained aft and firing in random staccato to lay down that base of cover he’d originally intended to provide before the world fell out from underneath him.

“Fucking go!” he hollered without so much as a hesitation, his awareness of Brody’s ability to escape omnipresent in his mind. “I’ve got this!” Backing away from a jutting piece of wall just ahead of a barrage of disruptor bolts splashing against, burning, and destroying it in a spray of shrapnel, Fisher knew he had little room left for additional retreat as he dropped two more rushing Jem’Hadar when they tried to climb over the deluge of debris in front of the building. Howling loudly, the atmospheric engines of the Attack Craft flared as they maneuvered for an angle to fire on the remnants of their building in succession of the one, they’d only just destroyed a minute prior. Sighting in another lizard like assailant, Fisher lanced a hole clean through it’s scaly face the instant it peeked up over top of the mound of refuse, and when it’s body slumped down lifelessly, he found the black-bag of party-tricks that Brody had been hefting around with him all this time, the flap slightly askew enough to reveal a number of improvised explosive charges that had been gathered up from the Rena Resistance Bivouac. An idea born entirely out of desperation beginning to formulate in his mind as the situation had suddenly grown exceedingly dire.

Affording Brody the benefit of momentary delay, Fisher’s expression shifted to one of pleading, though behind it was the implicit threat that such a delay would not go on forever. With a nod, he non-verbally signaled all the requisite understanding and absolution of any guilt that Brody might’ve needed in order to push the control on his tricorder and spare himself the fate that now seemed all but inescapable for Fisher.

Sensing a dwindling of suppressive fire, Fisher took a deep breath in order to ready himself to take a shot which would likely be his last.
Title: Re: [2374] Operation 'Spark' - Betazed
Post by: stardust on November 30, 2021, 10:56:32 AM
[ Cmdr. Brody Miller (https://uss-theurgy.com/w/index.php?title=Brody_Miller) | Codename: Mason | City Streets | Dalaria City | Betazed] Attn: @Swift
[Show/Hide]

The roof gave way as if nothing more than a brittle cracker, spewing dust and pebbles from its cracks like little gray geysers, Brody had to watch his companion swallowed up by the erupting plume of sand, as if a sandworm was gobbling him up whole. The moment slowing, stalagmites of frozen smoke, like an ash powdered forest after a volcanic eruption, while the world beneath gave way to the depth of hell. And while the notion was common, for a man of Bishop’s reputation to be sent straight there, the former operative allowed himself the divine power to judge this being utterly premature. Not only because it conflicted with his orders in such a catastrophic manner, but because whatever sentiments had started to blossom between them like fresh grass breaking through barren cinder, was acting as if a tether, that was trying to pull him into the abyss as well. Just as it had with every cold-hearted action and every cynical spat, since he got to this rock, in search of a sense of valor. But rather finding a part of him he had not missed and was slowly wondering if it had ever left. Or if it had merely been a sleeping dragon, deep in the mountain, guarding whatever treasure his character held far within. A treasure which to many - including himself at days - was nothing more but a fairy tale.

Ultimately, where there had been light and levity, there was none left. Where there had been hope and relief, there was none either. And where Bishop had hunched, there was now a one-story deep chasm, filed with abject remnants of what used to be the roof, and no sight of the other man. A measure of dread, filling Brody’s chest, as if feeling the notion of weightlessness, despite being anchored to the top of the pillar still. Hands gripping tighter than he could fathom, tendons and muscles tensioning beyond their limits. Just as he found his heart to constrict, at the mere implication that the other man had been turned into a crêpe, this close to the finish line. Of course that sentiment was not only born from the new found affection, he begrudgingly seemed to harbor for the man, now prominent in his absence, but also because of an untainted track record, in getting his missions done to a level of perfection that others found almost manic. Bringing back a body, instead of a valuable asset, or worse, nothing at all, was a personal failure he was not willing to file as a dark stain into a long line of triumphant mementos. That was not the kind of man he was, not the kind of officer he was. Unlike his wife, he did not know how to settle, he did not know how to make concessions to get the job done. No – fucking – way.

Readjusting his stance towards the column, out of one born from sheer circumstance and primal instinct for survival, like a monkey clinging to a tree trunk, into a more relaxing and safe grip on the concrete, Brody peered over the side of the broken off floor as best as he could, while the dust further settled. But what eventually broke from the haze was not a glimpse of the other man’s jacket, or his pants, or a blood splatter seeping out from beneath the rubble, but rather the sound of his name being called, like a siren’s song amidst the turmoil of white lightning, zipping through the floor below. He could hear the potential, in the other man’s words, as the measure of salvation was just lingering there in his tight grip, a button push away. Wondering how many times in one life a man could be faced with the ethereal crossroads of destiny, forced to make a decision on where to place their wager, and what they wanted their future to be, and who with. And even though he venerated the implied offer of the man’s life for his, something in that moment convinced him, that if he let Bishop go, if he let the man slip into an obscure death, reduced to an unmarked, charred corps in the rubble of a war that would cost millions of lives, then he would change the switch that would derail the train he was on, somewhere down the line. That this was not the last chapter the man would appear in, in the story of his life, and it was not the last time he would help him out either, even if only inadvertently so. No, this guy still had a role to play. He was sure of it.

And what too broke from the dusty cave, illuminated by random bolts of white light, was the thumping of more encroaching troops. A stampede unwavering in light of recent collapses within the structure. Not even seemingly bothered by the fighters having no issue performing target practice on the building. A structure which was already shifting precariously, a tilt even noticeable in the unharmed floors and walls, as it threatened to come down around them. Which didn’t seem to impress the military might imposed upon them. They had ticked off the enemy one too many times. The Dominion truly didn’t care about the individual at all, just the end result, which was intended to be total domination. As said the name. And in that revelation Brody fought really hard to not draw any parallels to his own credo. Albeit totalitarian on a slightly smaller scale … slightly. And even if just to prove this particular point, as a last pinch of motivation, adding to the final decision, he pushed his tricorder into his jacket and detached himself from the safe harbor, to plunge right into the depth of the abyss.

It was just as he landed, slipping a few inches down a sloping boulder of torn concrete, that he could get a swift lay of the land and ducked behind a cover close to where he soon found Fisher lurking. Setting his rifle from sniper power to volley shots, he took a moment to inhale a deep breath of courage, as dust scraped across his esophagus. “I think it’s been established: You ain’t got shit.” the man replied, slightly snarky, his voice hoarse with adrenaline and vibrant with the fire of his renewed passion to see this thing through, till the end of the line. Peeking out from behind his cover if only for the blink of an eye, Brody sent a series of rapid phaser bursts into the direction of the moving shadows. Not intent on really bringing anyone down, but to scare them into hiding, if only for a moment, so he could device a new plan that went beyond the endgame, but dealt with how to actually get there. He caught Bishop’s desperate plea for the bag of explosives, that had landed halfway between them and the Jem’Hadar. Undoubtedly a fulminant finale, yet slightly too close for comfort. Something had to change, either their position, or that of the party favors.

“Cover me!” the man thus instructed, ducking out the opposite side of his cover, to confuse the assailants, and slipping right into the next series of blocky debris, allowing him to quarter circle around the center of the skirmish. Chances were, these scaly bastards didn’t even notice, considering how blindly they pushed onward at this point. Finding himself a mere few feet from the bag, Brody shifted like a kitten, ready to pounce, as soon as he saw an opening. And as Bishop lay down another volley of covering fire, he dove forward to grab the treats and roll out of harm’s way on the other side. At which point, of course, the Jem’Hadar started to catch up with his ploy and pushed forward even more eagerly. But that was quite alright, he didn’t need much time. Sifting a grenade from the rustling bunch of remaining knickknack, he armed it and quickly shoved the explosive back deep into the bag, before hurling it as far as he could into the direction of the troops, down a narrow hallway that funneled the armadillos towards them. Not taking any more time than he had to, the commander started to sprint into the opposite direction, stumbling over the debris here and there, having to use his free hand to steady his quickening stride.

“Move, move, MOVE!” he beckoned Bishop, his free hand waving towards the other side of the building, towards the Dominions’ communications array. Dropping his rifle too, gaining further momentum, Brody grabbed the tricorder from his jacket in one last ditch effort of placing his fate into the lap of chance. A flash from behind, illuminated the floor ahead, split in half by a clean-cut shadow, quietly. The two men just moving close to the edge of the building, one after the other, as the shockwave hit Brody from behind like a freight train, propelling him forward into Bishop’s back, while he held on to the little device in his hand with all his might, as his other arm soon snaked around the man’s waist, as his momentum pushed the guy over the edge … literally. Ejected from the building like a bullet from a chamber, the two men soon became weightless, high above the streets of Dalaria, as time slowed to a crawl once more. In plain view, the satellite dish on the building across, followed by the tricorder chiming with anticipation, just as gravity asserted its hold on the two, pulling them down. “Fuuucking sheeeeeeet …” the man’s vocal cords exuded as the last measure of air was expelled from his lungs like water from a pipe. The streets closing in on them fast, while destiny did its work.

He hadn’t even fully realized that his thumb had skillfully found the right spot to push on, activating the already primed sequence in the shuttle’s transporter system. And while it was a matter of split seconds - for the signal to reach the transmitter, before rushing off the planet and onto the moon, into the ship’s communications antenna and on-board systems, being processed an relayed until it set in motion the actual transporter function – it actually felt like the longest time of his life, as the plummeted through the cold breeze, the heat of the building going up in a plume of fire behind them, as its tilt to the side increased drastically. All of which eventually dissolved into the glimmer of a tropical lagoon, swarms of silvery blue fish swirling around them, before they came to land on the transporter pad of the Type-11 mere moments later. Bishop face down and Brody snug on top of his back, his forearm painfully wedged underneath the man-sandwich. Rolling off the man and on to his own back beside him, with the first inhale since jumping from the building, Brody exhaled the conditioned air with abject pleasure, as the inaudible rushing noise turned into hilarious laughter. Only slowly regaining his composure and regular rate of breathing.

“Oh man …” he exhaled once more, words carrying airily over his breath. “That’s how you got it!” he reassured finally, looking at Bishop next to him with a gleeful grin, one that hadn’t seemed possible until now, that the weight and the danger had washed away in the blue vortex of energy, filtered out by the ships transporter buffers like krill.
Title: Re: [2374] Operation 'Spark' - Betazed
Post by: Swift on January 21, 2022, 04:01:01 AM
[ Lt. Andrew Fisher (https://uss-theurgy.com/w/index.php?title=Andrew_Fisher) | Codename: Bishop | City Streets | Dalaria City (http://uss-theurgy.com/w/images/1/11/DalariaCity2374n.png) | Betazed (https://memory-alpha.fandom.com/wiki/Betazed) ] Attn: @stardust 

The blaze of glory.

Throughout the annals of history, warriors had in one way or another, curried with them the idea that if they were to meet their end in the midst of a fight, that they’d do so in some ultimate heroic act that would make a prominent and positive effect on the world they were leaving behind; that somehow, they could transcend death by being remembered, or having meant something to someone. It was as lasting a commonality among brothers born in battle, as the genuine and abiding care which they held for one another. To some, especially if examined outside of the confines of active conflict, it would seem an overly romanticized and pitiful concept, but in the proverbial heat of the moment, it could fill the hollows of your heart with warmth, and steel you against the fear of inevitability. For Fisher, whom the walls had quite literally collapsed in on, now surrounded by a nigh insurmountable enemy, and with the life of a comrade hanging in the balance, his mind and subsequent thinking had gone to that very place. It imbued him with the iron will to fight on, even when odds were stacked high against, and ultimately would have fueled him into diving feet first into the fiery depths of hell had the scenario such demanded it.

So it was, that after he’d emerged from a pile of debris among a dust cloud, adrenaline pumping through his veins like nitro-enriched gasoline, he’d so hastily and deftly dispatched a trio of Jem’Hadar, leaving their scaly, crimson-pocked bodies in a heap on the desolation of the building in which he and Brody had come to mastermind their escape.

He’d subsequently implored his fellow to go; to make a retreat most of utmost haste and leave him behind to deal with the mess that this situation had been. Yet, as Fisher cycled the trigger on his borrowed disruptor as rapidly as the weapon and his finger could possibly muster, firing a hailstorm of white-hot plasma bolts into the direction of assuredly advancing troops, he heard a voice holler to him from behind, affirming a reality which he’d not expected, nor wanted to accept, but couldn’t deny an appreciation of. Mason hadn’t taken the easy road out; hadn’t punched his golden ticket off of this oppressed planet, but rather he’d made the decision to buck up, and dive into the hellish abyss alongside Fisher. The sentiment of comradery, what little had been established during their fleeting time together, now went into overdrive as the significance of such a sacrifice couldn’t appropriately be described in words, lest you were a laureate poet of the most profound kind. And while Fisher failed in that regard, he succeeded in another, letting his alternative art flourish in such a way that paid some recompence to the heroic actions of the other man.

“Rip and tear! Come and get it motherfuckers!” he raged as he unleased indiscriminate hatred upon the enemy.

OOC: Insert appropriate kickass music here...[Show/Hide]

One by one, Jem’Hadar began surging forth into the dilapidated structure, and as glowing orbs of ruby lanced out to strike at shadows which moved in a most menacing manner, a fervent gift imparted upon the enemy by a most generous Brody, Fisher too felt the surge of attenuated nerves hit him, the weapon held in his hand a mere extension of his body as he enjoined in the slaughter. Like a great tidal wave smashing against a hardened harbor wall built to endure, so too did this initial insurgent wave of Dominion troops break and scatter under a barrage of combined arms. Of what may have been a dozen, maybe more Jem’Hadar come to push and eliminate these spies, these defiant enemies of their beloved Founders, only one made it through without a series of holes bore clean through his body, and though he charged onward, bladed disruptor at the ready in an effort to skewer one of them, he soon met an end far more gruesome as a thrown blade, spinning violently through the air as it cross the distance of a hallway, implanted itself deeply into the crux of his scaly forehead with a stomach-curdling crunch.

“Go!” Fisher replied to Brody as the other demanded cover, his free hand returning to grip his disruptor after it had launched a knife at the lone surviving enemy trooper, sending him away from this existence with absolute prejudice.

Immediately, Fisher stormed forward to the edge of their collapsed humble abode, his rifle shouldered and firing out into the street before in order to provide the sort of covering fire a team of trained marksman would’ve approved of. The orchestra of chaos and mayhem in which he and Brody had unleashed thus far had been one of a perfect concert, but as his fellow scrambled after the party-bag of tricks that lay nearby, it soon became evident to their audience what the plan was, prompting something of a stage-crash as another wave of Jem’Hadar emerged from behind their cover. With the target rich environment ahead of him, Fisher once more began to fire from where he had been ducked, picking one off her, another there, but even a lethal weapon of his ilk had it’s limitations. He’d considered calling out to Brody, to warn him of how they were about to be overwhelmed, but he saw that it was clear that they were still on the same page, their internal battle metronomes still in perfect synchronicity.

“Shit!” Fisher exclaimed once Brody had plucked from the glorious bag a delightful gift, only to arm it, and then so unceremoniously shove it back inside. He’d not needed the other man’s imploring in order to move, as his legs began to peddle him away with great alacrity in advance of what he instinctively knew would be quite the bang.

Catching in stride beside his fellow, Fisher felt the muscles in his legs pump battery acid in an effort to elicit the sort of speed that was absolutely necessary for a miniscule chance at survival. He had no concrete ideas what sort of peril lay ahead of him as he and Brody ran for little more than a second before they’d reached the edge of the building, their heavy framed bursting forth from windowsill and wall with momentum that carried them into the air as though they’d been catapulted. Time, as was common for such an instance, appeared to slow to a crawl as he and the man to his left hurtled forth, while an explosion to rival the Hiroshima bombing seemed to go off in their wake, the illumination of which stung the cornea of his eyes despite not looking in it’s immediate direction. A fall was before them, and though it would be a painful to endure, the chances that they’d survive the burst of shockwave when it hit their bodies were next to slim if best. Blaze of glory, he thought once more, and what a blaze it surely had been.

Eyelids quickly clenched around sage-orbs as he expected the infinite blackness to finally overtake him, and the question as to the veracity of an afterlife to be answered or remain an eternal mystery as his existence came to an abrupt end.

Blue-shimmering light.

“Ooooof...” escaped Fisher as he landed in a heap atop the pronounced plinth that was a transporter pad, his body compressed by the weight of something, or rather someone before they rolled off of him. Blinking his eyes open, Fisher peered about the moderately comfortable confines of a Type-11 shuttlecraft, the dingy, moldy, mildew laden stench of a dilapidated building having been substituted by the dull, if not pleasantly mild scent of recycled air. “Son of a Bitch.” He remarked, shaking his head in amused approval of Brody’s improvised yet obviously successful play. Unable to contain his own positive elation at having not only survived but having left a lovely parting gift for the Jem’Hadar in the process, Fisher let a short bout of laughter leave him as he shifted around, leaning back on his arms as he peered out beyond the viewport at the jewel that was Betazed in the near distance. “I’d have been fine.” He peered at Mason, an obvious sense of levity to his tone of voice as he offered a wry, yet reassuring wink meant to extoll a whole bevy of emotions that men like them could pick up on with the ease of a telepath, chief among which was genuine gratitude.

As he held out a hand to help the other man to his feet, Fisher heard a persistent chirp coming from the comms station to his right, prompting him to peak back over his shoulder in its direction.
Title: Re: [2374] Operation 'Spark' - Betazed
Post by: stardust on February 15, 2022, 02:26:53 PM
[ Cmdr. Brody Miller (https://uss-theurgy.com/w/index.php?title=Brody_Miller) | Codename: Mason | City Streets | Dalaria City | Betazed] Attn: @Swift
[Show/Hide]

For a man who had dealt with the specter of death one too many times in his career, and all too closely, the concept of ‘heaven’ had always been an intriguing companion that shared those lonely corners of the galaxy with Brody, nurturing his imagination whenever he needed a means of escape from the physical realm. Be it in captivity or under extreme interrogation, there was reprieve to be had in this tiny sliver of paradise, that such considerations afforded, if only for a moment. But things had changed considerably, for the young spy, since those days, and he found himself less and less in moments where he needed to consider an existence beyond this one. The need wasn’t entirely gone, at times, given his wife was a headstrong woman with distinct opinions, but it also served as somewhat of a comfort, to reconcile his past and potential future.

At any rate, this concept of ‘heaven’ was a deeply ingrained sentiment in human culture, throughout various religions long sunken into the sands of history. The idea of a a realm beyond the imaginable, the palpable – at the time, the sky. And even long since humanity had ventured beyond that surly veil, the idea of such a place had not immediately dissipated, like the clouds, the oxygen and the tender sky blue. It was almost like a piece of home, an era long past, that they had taken with them. Because it spoke to more than just the prospect of the unknown behind physical limitations, but rather to an innate craving for an answer to the question of all questions. Even though he found himself closer and closer to this measure of nirvana, than he ever had in any brush with death throughout his elicit career, by the mere measure of bliss he wallowed in day by day, Brody had not yet found an ascend as closely resembling that of actual death and rebirth as this short trip through the transporter of his shuttle.

Picked up from the surface, a drop to sure demise, a bright light beckoning him towards calmer pastures, warm light, gentle hum, comfortable air, beyond the precipice of pain and suffering, that was Betazed’s surface. A metaphor loaded with meaning through its close resemblance to actual death, and how closely related they were. A life and existence that had almost grown into a casual comfort, while wholly engulfed in it, and which was only once again elevated to a semblance of paradise, as it stood in stark contrast to the mementos of days past, that were now just a figment in the man’s mind. And as his soul flushed with the relief of the perceived safety of the shuttle cockpit, the man let a ginger huff of expired oxygen puff into the conditioned interior. Expelling molecules of cinder and ash, he had brought with him along the trip through the skies. Just as he had the stirring heap of muscles beneath him. Bodies merged flush by the matching contours of their bodies, like fleshy Legos.

Eventually gathering himself by the bootstraps of his composure, the commander swiftly pulled himself to his feet, by the sturdy aid of his short-term companion. A man whom he had gone not only through hell and back with, in a short amount of time, but also a sentimental rollercoaster through the entire spectrum of emotions - from loathing and dismissal to respect - that two humans could potentially hold for one another, in a platonic setting. Thus, he let the last defiant measure of pride slide off his broad shoulders as Bishop complained about having ‘been fine’. Yes, sure, in a matter of speaking he would’ve been. If death and the existence beyond were to be considered ‘fine’. But Brody was almost certain that, at the absence of sure fire proof what heaven really looked like, he would rather take a closely resembling existence to it that was real, until he was truly out of choices. Consequently, he simply acknowledge him with a gentle “Sure would.” and a decisive pat on the shoulder, as he passed to follow the siren song of the communications console.

Lifting the lock on the shuttle’s system, the commander pulled up the channel to the fleet, letting the transcripts of all past communications trickle in across the screen. All the while taking off his jacket and letting it slide into the co-pilot’s seat. Dark eyes filtering through the last message briefly, the man placed both his hands on the precipice of the console, triceps flexing beneath elastic compound fabric, as brows furrowed ever so gently. “Looks like the fleet is assembling for a final push on Betazed.” he relayed, voice marred by the concern over the potential for success, after what he’d seen on and around the planet, and the limitations of the remaining task force, after the first two attempts had failed. “We’re instructed to meet with them at the gathering point.” Composing a short reply back, relaying the success of the mission, in the most factual terms at least, Brody eventually slipped into the pilot’s seat and brought the engines online. A change in the hum of the energy grid ultimately complemented the change in the mood as the elation of nirvana was slowly giving way to the still dire outlook of reality.

With a gentle shake the ship broke the feeble gravity that kept it snuck to the moon’s surface and in an ethereal flurry of white dust it ascended into the shadow of the planetoid, towards the speckled dark of space, before slipping into a vortex of streaking spectra of lights. “Once we arrive you’ll transport to the Hood … I don’t know what their plans for you are beyond that.” Finishing up his course calculations for the short trip Brody ultimately rose from the seat once more, giving Bishop a weary, albeit comforting glance, before moving towards the back compartment. “I’ll just be a minute.” And once he’d left, doors closing behind him, there was nothing left but the melodic hum of the warp engines, as they zipped away from a place they might soon return to, in some capacity, one last time. On the screen of the communications station the last communique from admiralty … and just before that, a sliver of a message from Samantha. Lines of care of concern, wondering over his return from the strategic conclave on the task force’s flagship, and the promise of a lush dinner, if he so make it in a timely manner. Hidden beneath the implicit trepidation over a love in times of war. An outcome unpredictable.

But it was only a short moment before Brody returned to the cockpit, fixing the last pip of three to his red collar, on a uniform fresh and crisp from the replicator. Hoping to cover the fact that he’d only had time for a brief sonic rinse and no shave. “Shower’s all warmed up if you want to give it a quick go around.” he smiled delicately. A show of emotion on his lips that seemed unnatural in the scope of the time knowing one another. Moving back to the pilot seat the commander gave Bishop one more glance over the precipice of his backrest, however. “It’s Brody, by the way.” he finally introduced himself properly. A name that even in his own mouth felt foreign now, after days of being called ‘Mason’. He’d have to get used to that again. Remembering that for a time back in the intelligence service, he even forgot what his real name was, for weeks on end, while undercover. But he had no intention to go that far back, ever again.

It wouldn’t take them long to reach the nearby fleet, dropping out of warp just as Andrew returned to the cockpit as well. Dipping into the outer fringes of a large amalgamation of different types of Starfleet ships, the shuttle dove through the school of silver hulls and glowy nacelles like a kingfisher in dark waters. They passed intrepid classes, nova classes, nebulas and the odd Mark 1 Saber class - sticking out like a sore thumb with it’s almost ornate design, heralding from a long-lost era of tranquil exploration. Yet even they found themselves in the cold embrace of reality now. “There she is …” Brody beamed with almost unabashed glee, as the shuttle swung around the side of a magnificent sovereign class, bearing the name of ancient Greek gods, light bouncing off its intricate chevron hull design like dancing fireflies on a pond. “… never get tired of that view.” He added, as if he could watch upon beauty beyond that of a shiny hull and delicate design. Right before not only icing his own sentimentality off the ship as well as the shuttle’s trajectory, heading for the galaxy class spearheading the fleet.

“There’s your stop.” Voice growing pale as they slowly approached from the ventral axis. The mood grew somber, even though the encroaching moment signified the successful outcome of this mission. It would only be a blimp on the course of history and the ongoing conflict within which this was just another drop to hollow the stone. Yet for Brody it would be far more significant than that, even if he didn’t realize it yet. Rising from his seat, there wasn’t much space to cross between them, which would’ve prevented an initial sense of awkwardness, that quickly dissolved into a tight hug. “It was a pleasure, man.” he admitted quietly, holding the embrace maybe a little longer than socially acceptable, before pulling back in abject reverence.

“And you would’ve been toast.”
Title: Re: [2374] Operation 'Spark' - Betazed
Post by: Swift on March 28, 2022, 09:15:12 AM
[ Lt. Andrew Fisher (https://uss-theurgy.com/w/index.php?title=Andrew_Fisher) | Codename: Bishop | Type-11 Shuttlecraft ‘Areion’ | 3rd Moon of Betazed | Betazed System ] Attn: @stardust

‘May God Prosper You!’

Even now, all these years later, those words rang true, echoing somewhere in the far-off recesses of Fisher’s conscious thought every time he’d embarked upon any sort of mission or operation which saw him placed directly in the path of harm’s way. He’d first heard them uttered by Captain Musgrave aboard the Diamondback, the man’s unique way of wishing well of his people wherever they would venture forth. Clearly of biblical significance, Fisher had since come to find comfort in them, even if he weren’t such an ardent believer as his former Commanding Officer had been. Therein were times it seemed all too appropriate to impart them upon a fellow at the onset of a journey, or the parting of ways, and in this moment, Fisher beckoned the sentiment forward in regard of the people he’d just left behind in that battered and beleaguered city, fighting for the freedom of their home world. Though however genuine the wishing was, and how deeply he emphasized it with every ounce his being, he still knew those words to be hollow were they not followed upon by continual effort from Starfleet in coming to the rescue of Betazed and its people.

He’d come to this world to help coordinate resistance operations with those efforts set forth by Starfleet, and in a very real way, he had accomplished just that. The Dominion signal jammers, which were now acting as boosters thanks to the ingeniousness of his late comrade, would allow the many resistance cells dotting Betazed to not only work with one another, but to also keep in contact with Starfleet in advance of whatever future attempts to dislodge the Dominion they would make. While not necessarily a major step in the direction of winning this damnable war, it was still a step, and one in which Fisher knew would make a difference. Yet in spite of it all, he felt a dourness that went bone deep. Not because he felt he could’ve done more, or any ridiculous assertion of similar sort, after all, Fisher wasn’t an egotist, he understood well that there was only so much one man could really do. He just couldn’t convince himself that the tide was really turning in the favor of Betazed, Starfleet, or the Federation.

Though perhaps it wasn’t his place to be convinced, rather instead it was his job to aid in the convincing. By now News of the victory won by the Rena Resistance Movement would be spreading among the other Resistance cells like wildfire, and in turn, inspiring them to fight with renewed hope for a brighter tomorrow.

The spark had been made.

And while it had nearly cost Fisher his life, on a multitude of occasions in-fact, he had seen the operation through. In no small part thanks to the man who’d been there to save his ass on no-less than two occasions, and who had now brought Fisher back from behind the lines of war, or rather was about to now that they’d materialized on his shuttlecraft.

Gone was the incessant rain. So too was the high-pitched whine of atmospheric thrusters that had kicked up a storm-like spray, and the unending tide Jem’Hadar troopers come to claim a prize they could present to their Founders. The whole of Fisher ached as if he’d run back-to-back-to-back marathons, and then a ten-k just because, yet as tired and worn out as he felt, here and now in the comfort of a Starfleet shuttlecraft, he knew no semblance of discomfort. Even the fact that he lay atop of Brody on the small transporter pad, at least until he’d been unceremoniously shoved off, didn’t seem to bother the sage-eyed spy. It was a remarkable thing how a safe return could temporarily alleviate the ailments of soul which had only so suddenly manifested, replaced with a sense of fateful gratitude for a chance at tomorrow, and what it could bring. In fact, Fisher knew well what his tomorrow would likely bring, and even with that realization in mind, and the lingering memory of his friends still on Betazed, he found himself surprisingly at ease over it. At ease with his being plucked away from a struggle he’d been so heavily invested in.

His comrade had adjourned the immediate area of the transporter, re-establishing secure connections with Starfleet now that his mission had essentially been fulfilled. The relaying of an impeding push on Betazed was an utter salve for the exhausted spy, who felt a burden slip free from his shoulders. He had no reason to believe that this ‘final push’ as Brody had called it, would indeed be final, but for some strange reason he couldn’t rightly explain, he decided to believe it. The Rena, and the rest of Betazed would soon find themselves liberated from an oppressive heel, brought back into the light of the Federation. Stepping forward, the green in his eyes flickered with the reflection of a billion pinpoints of luminescence just as they began to elongate and streak across the visible spectrum beyond the shuttlecraft’s canopy. Settling down into the tactical position, he instinctively gazed over the systems of their craft in the highly likely event they were waylaid in route to the rendezvous point. The further relay of what would become of Fisher upon reaching the amassed fleet, he paid Brody an acknowledging nod.

“Of course. I’ll keep an eye on things up here.” He said, though the other man had already disappeared into the aft-compartment.

With a deep sigh, the events of the previous two-weeks began to replay in Fisher’s mind, triggering his blood-pressure to spike and his breathing to shallow with haste. The onset of an anxiety attack he immediately surmised, a visibly shaky hand reaching out to grasp at the edge of the console to his right for momentary support. It was hard, nay impossible for him to effectively recall all of what had transpired during his time on Betazed, especially in any easily discernable timeline. It all seemed like a blur stretched out over a harrowingly elongated day, pock-marked with an occasional bout of fitful sleep. Blinking slowly in an effort to calm himself, and stave off the advancement of his sudden panic, Fisher let his eyelids fall closed and his head come to a rest against the back of his seat. An instant later, or what felt like an instant to Fisher, his new ‘friend’ re-emerged from the aft-compartment of the shuttle, a crisp and clean uniform adorning him as though it had been tailor made, and the grime of a days-worth of trudging around the sewer-system of Dalaria City seemingly gone from all traces.

Standing from the tactical console, Fisher turned to head aft-ward, intent on similarly washing away the filth of his decidedly longer stay planet side. As he neared the door however, he heard an additional bit of information imparted. Brody. The name. For a second, he was reminded of the codenames he and his like often wore, rarely ever existing without one in fact. He’d not even considered asking Brody to divulge his, as it simply wasn’t customary. No, it was generally considered a faux-pas. But here, at the end of their respective missions, about to part with little chance they’d run into one another again, it wasn’t unwarranted. Especially considering what he and Brody had just been through together, however begrudgingly so. Therefore, with a single motion of acknowledgement, Fisher decided it prudent to similarly confide in his fellow before disappearing through the door which left aft.

“Drew.”

A short while later, he too re-entered the cockpit, a freshly replicated uniform hugging his form, the gold collar, and two-solid pips a further divulging of his rank and the department to which he technically belonged, though he’d not fulfilled the role of a Security Officer in quite some time.

Taking a seat at the tactical console once more, Fisher felt like a new man, at least physically anyway. The rest of the short journey to the rendezvous point, he kept mostly quiet, a hand working the controls as he read a number of routed Intelligence reports that had been uploaded into the shuttlecraft. Anderson had wasted no time in resuming the unending feed of information he expected his operatives to familiarize themselves with, habits dying hard even though he knew well that Fisher was utterly and completely spent from his time in the field. Little respite would truly be afforded to him while the war continued in earnest, and Fisher wouldn’t have wanted it any other way; his refusal to rest while there was still something he could do, unyielding. It didn’t long for their traversal to come to an end however, as Brody brought the ship out of Warp amongst a sea of Starfleet vessels, ready to surge on and dislodge the Dominion from their foothold on Betazed.

“She’s a beauty.” Fisher lamented; his gaze focused on said ship of a Greek naming convention. He’d never been aboard a Sovereign-class starship, though he of course had read all the declassified, and classified files on it. The design was impeccable. A starship which would usher in a new era for Starfleet, once this war came to an end he assumed.

Passing by the magnificently sculpted Poseidon, the once pinnacle of Starfleet deigns loomed onward; a precursor to the Sovereign in many respects, though produced in far greater numbers. There was the USS Hood, an Excelsior-class starship renowned for the history she’d made through nearly sixty-years of service, and the flagship of Admiral DeSoto. Once aboard, Fisher would be given the standard debriefing by whatever SFI handler was aboard, acting in an advisory role to the Admiral. Afterward, well, Fisher didn’t have the faintest idea of where he’d wind up next, but he had little doubt that he’d rotated back into duty somewhere. At this point in the conflict, Intelligence Operatives of his kind were exceedingly valuable, and nearly impossible to replace. Hence why Brody had been sent ahead in order to bring him back, alive, by any and all necessary means.

“Thanks. For everything. You take care of yourself, Brody.” He said, not looking over to the man as he’d said it.

Not wasting any time, Fisher stood from the console and approached the transporter pad, spinning on heel that he might face the man who’d come to get him at least one more time in parting. Eating away at him now, just as it had before, and just as it had ever since she’d died quite literally in his arms was a reminder of what he’d lost. It was inescapable, and ever since he’d discovered that Brody had someone waiting for him, on that beautiful starship they’d just flown by a minute earlier, he’d been searching for the right way to express what he knew he had to, and what Nassyra would’ve wanted him to. Sighing heavily as he glanced beyond the viewport over Brody’s shoulder, he considered the very real prospect that he might not find such a way before he was dematerialized so unceremoniously.

“And don’t ever take her for granted.” He said flatly. “Ever.”

Letting a bit of silence permeate the fore-compartment of the shuttlecraft, he knew he didn’t have to necessarily expand upon what it was he was trying to intimate, or why he found it so necessary to do so. It was that shared moment of silence which said it all, and which made the point as clear as if it had been written on a PADD. “Energize.” There was a momentary hum as the transporter spun up its power matrix before a blue shimmering field enveloped the totality of Fisher for a scant few seconds until it dissipated, and no trace was left of him aboard the shuttlecraft. Just a memory, and the solemn responsibility he’d hoped to extoll on a man whom he’d found to be surprisingly similar to himself.

[ Transporter Room | Deck 07 | USS Hood ]

For Fisher, the scenery changed to that of a full-size transporter room, wherein he was greeted by an Engineer at the control station, and a red colored Officer bearing two and a half solid pips. “Welcome aboard, Lieutenant. I’m Commander Raynor. I’ve been instructed to escort you for immediate debriefing. If you’ll follow me.” Falling in tow behind Raynor, Fisher wasn’t sure if he was being debriefed by the man before him, or if there was someone else aboard that he was being presented to. Regardless, he kept his thoughts to himself as they rounded a number of corridors, passing dozens of armed security personnel making preparations for battle. Maybe his estimation that he’d be so surreptitiously shipped elsewhere had been incorrect, and he would indeed remain aboard the Hood for the duration of the push for Betazed.

Stopping just outside of a closed doorway, Raynor motioned for Fisher to continue on without him, and the spy cast a modestly confused glance at the man before approaching the doors. Immediately, as they opened, Fisher was greeted with an utterly familiar acrid burning scent, his nostrils wrinkling instinctively.

“Welcome back, Bishop.” A gravelly weathered voice exclaimed as a figure emerged from an adjoining room, lit cigarette in his lips.

“Hurley.” Fisher said.

“Pack your bags, bud! You’re going back to Setlik Three.”



OOC: One last piece of music, to fit the feel of the fleet amassing as it moves on for Betazed.
[Show/Hide]

~FIN
Simple Audio Video Embedder