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[2381] Andrew Fisher. Personal Logs.

This thread contains a series of ‘Personal Logs’ dictated by Andrew Fisher, starting April 5, 2381.


STARDATE 57622.68
APRIL 5, 2381
2130 HRS

[ Lt. Cmdr. Andrew Fisher | Personal Estate Room | IKS Vor’Nak ]

"Personal log, stardate five-seven-six-two-two... point... point six-eight?" Andrew Fisher asked rhetorically as he sighed with audible exasperation, his head rolling against the hard metal plate which somehow passed for a bed on Klingon vessels. He set aside the Starfleet PADD he'd brought with him on this journey and reached a hand underneath the small of his back to press against his aching lumbar. Even though it’d been nearly two decades since he’d initially sustained the injuries which had left him with a permanently compromised lower spinal column, Fisher was still prone to prolonged episodes of severe back pain; even during the times when he'd had access to a halfway decent standard-issue Starfleet bed. But this Klingon bed, quite literally a flat piece of plate metal, had done him no particular favors over the course of the previous two weeks.

Taking a deep breath, he opened his eyes and tried to focus less on his surging back pain, and instead on the bulkhead which hung just a few meters above him as he went on with dictating this personal log entry.

"I don't know what'll kill me first on this voyage. The beds. The food. Or the myriad of drunkards harbored in the barracks across from my more than modest estate room." He mused a moment, shaking his head as he realized he was verging on the border of whining. In truth, he'd probably have given his left arm to join in on the drunken fun and good times going on just across the corridor. But travelling as he was, he'd been generally confined to his quarters. He hadn't been sure if it had been a simple clerical error which had listed him as a VIP passenger, but as a result he'd been barred from straying far from his estate, and anywhere which might have resulted in injury. And that confinement order had absolutely included any and all barracks, and which also meant no bouts of fun for him to break up the monotony of this trip.

‘Damn!’ he thought as he realized just how badly he wanted to share in a pint of bloodwine. Or six.

Even his new Klingon friends, Torvok and Kaban knew not to risk the ire of their superiors by sneaking Andrew in on the more fun activities. After all If anything happened to the VIP passenger they'd been personally assigned to watch over, they'd wind up in the ass end of Klingon space on some milk-drinking cargo freighter. Or worse. At least, that's what they'd explained when he'd attempted to sway them from their duties with his charm and generally persuasive approach with regard to assets. It'd in fact been far easier to get them to spill the beans on some minor classified information about their general orders, than it had been trying to convince them to ease off of their protectiveness. Finding a notion of minor amusement in the answer to his own inquiry, he sneered audibly before adding an explanation to his log. "Actually, it'll be the boredom that does me in first."

With another deep sigh he pushed the complaints aside and again tried to focus on his log.

"Anyway. We've still got another two days before we arrive, and I've read through the files that were given to me a dozen times. At least the ones I was able to sneak onto my PADD without raising suspicion. It all still seems so far-fetched. The very idea. All of it actually." Pausing a moment, he strained audibly as he sat up straight, spinning his legs out over the edge of his ‘bed’ in order to stand up. Slowly pacing over to the wall-mounted replicator, he hesitated for a second as he remembered the shockingly poor approximations of human cuisine it'd turned out for him thus far; either the Klingon engineers that had programmed it had never tasted traditional human food before, or they'd deliberately sabotaged it in their settings out of spite. Either scenario was equally as likely, he surmised.

"b'IQ. b'Ir." He barked an order in Klingonese to the machine, and after it'd materialized from thin air, he retrieved his steel tankard of cold water.

Taking a sip, he set the tankard down on the lone other surface in his quarters; a simple square metal table bolted straight to the floor with an accompanying simplistic steel stool likewise bolted to the floor. "But when you really read between the lines." He resumed giving his log. "It all begins to fit into place." Settling down onto the stool, he reached for the satchel he'd brought with him and pulled a small foil packet from it. While most Starfleet personnel seemed to gripe endlessly about the unpalatability of standard field rations, Fisher had more than grown accustomed to and had even started liking their overly bland taste. But he wagered most Starfleet officers would've been fighting over them at this point in the journey, as there was only so much raw saber-boar and Gagh a non-Klingon could really stand to eat.

"I'm moderately annoyed that I hadn't noticed the signs of this situation prior to being literally told about it." He sighed in self-disappointment as he ripped open a corner of the foil packet exposing the brown ration bar within. But instead of taking a bite of the nutritious yet bland food, he set it down onto the table as his appetite fled.

"Then again. Maybe I did notice the signs but instead chose to ignore them."

Disgusted with the notion, and to an extent with himself, the sage-eyed spy let the low droning hum of the ship's engines envelope the foremost recesses of his conscious thought until the crescendo of roars and laughter erupted from across the corridor. Turning to look at the door to his quarters, he shook his head in amusement at the nightly Klingon routine that had taken place like clockwork at the end of each day. He admired the fact that the Klingons could quite literally drink themselves stupid each and every night, only to seemingly wake up the following morning for duty without so much as a care for the ridiculous hangovers they likely endured. In a way, it was a testament to the Klingon way of living life to the fullest each day, without regret. Never looking back on past mistakes, but instead moving forward with confidence.

In a strange way, it was inspiring.

"If I've failed in the past, letting willful ignorance cloud my perceptions of this plight, then so be it. But I won't let myself be blinded to this stark reality moving forward." He paused a moment. "And in the end, should it prove an impossibility to fight this enigmatic enemy. To stop them and a predestined fate before the whole of Galactic Civilization is consumed and destroyed. Then I wholly intend to at least die trying." The tone of his voice firm with confidence, and defiant in nature. “Rage. Rage. Rage against the dying of the light, and all that good poetic stuff.” Exhaling, he peered back at the ‘bed’ set out before him, and once more considered trying to get some rest. “Might as well sleeping another go.”

"End log."

OOC: This log has had mild edits to it, as there were somethings with it that I wanted to change and finally got around to. The general tone is the same as it was upon original writing.

Re: [2381] Andrew Fisher. Personal logs.

Reply #1
This post originally contained a ‘Personal Log’ entry for April 16, 2381; but said post was made before I’d decided to follow in the footsteps of some other Theurgists and write a log entry for each day this character exists as part of the SIM. I will be moving that post into a hidden spoiler at the bottom of a new entry for the time being, after which it will be slotted into its proper order as Reply #8.


STARDATE 57627.8
APRIL 7, 2381
2220 HRS

[ Lt. Cmdr. Andrew Fisher | Personal Quarters | Deck 10 | Vector 02 | USS Theurgy ] Attn: @Auctor Lucan

“Computer... erm, I’m sorry, Thea. Please open and start recording a new Personal Log entry.” Unzipping the front of his duty jacket, Andrew Fisher stood among his new and essentially pristine quarters aboard the USS Theurgy. He had been cleared through security. He had showered and dressed the part. And he had had his meeting with the Captain. Approaching the wall-mounted replicator, the sage-eyed spy neatly folded and hung the jacket over the back of a chair and began loosening the collar on his crimson red undershirt to let his neck breath a little. “Whisky. Irish single malt. On ice.” There was a whirring of noise as a short glass materialized into existence before him, which he snatched up quickly and brought to his lips. There was a sting of synthehol, which he generally despised when compared to the real thing, but for the most part the approximation was close enough to suffice and he let out an exasperated sigh as he turned about. “Well, stardate five-seven-six-two-seven, point...” thinking for a moment, he peered out past the viewports of his quarters as a Goralis-class Klingon incursion cruiser flew past at about three-hundred-meters distance. “...point eight? Point eight.”

“I’ve arrived in Aldea. Or more specifically, I’ve arrived aboard Theurgy. It’s a hell of a ship.” Sipping again, he set the condensation laden tumbler down on a coffee table situated before a decent-sized couch.

“I can see why the rest of the fleet is so desperate to get a handle of her again. A rogue starship is attention grabbing enough, but when that rogue starship is the first in a new-line of multi-vector dreadnoughts, that’s an entirely different matter of utter importance.” Unzipping his red crimson undershirt the rest of the way, he soon began to snake his arms out of it until he could likewise set it out nearby. “It gets even worse when you factor in the whole intergalactic conspiracy to annihilate the entirety of sentient life.” Scoffing slightly as he shook his head, Fisher slipped a hand up underneath the black athletic form-fitting tank-top he’d been wearing beneath his crimson undershirt, scratching at the modest chestnut hair that ran up the centerline of his toned abdomen. “Sometimes I wonder if I’m being screwed with whenever these assignments come through.” Lifting a leg, he grabbed a hold of the heel of one of his duty boots and slipped it off, then did the same for the other. “But so far, everything appears to be on the level. As ridiculous as that might be, it either means that the situation is genuine, or the crew of this ship, and its Captain believe it to be genuine. I’m not sure which is more disconcerting.”

Stopping a moment, he took notice of how empty and devoid of character his quarters were. But that was the norm for him, as he hadn’t the luxury of travelling with keepsakes, and replicating random junk just to clutter it up felt silly, given the fact that there simply wasn’t any guarantee he’d be here for long. It was a bit of a cynical outlook on things, sure, but it was also a pragmatic one. In the past, friends had accused him of keeping his personal space as vague as possible, out of some silly spy trick about remaining mysterious. And while he liked the humor of such an idea, the truth was far more simplistic, and to an extent far more disheartening.

“Speaking of the Captain...” he resumed giving his log, as he plopped down unto the couch and threw up his legs so that his calves could come to a rest across the coffee table. Retrieving his whisky, he took another sip and then continued. “...Ives is... intense? I guess that would be an apt description. Granted, when you’re faced with the stakes that he is, a notion of intensity is to be expected. That said, I don’t think I gave him the answers that he was necessarily hoping to elicit from me during our meeting. Of course, I’m okay with that. I’m not here to play yes man. I’m here to do a job, and I’m going to do it. Again, I understand the concern he has, given what he has to contend with, but it’d have been exceedingly dishonest of me to have just played along with his game. He expects a certain loyalty from his Senior Officers, as is to be expected, but blind faith in someone, especially someone I’ve only just met is asking a lot. In fact, it’s asking an impossibility of me. Maybe others are more trusting from the onset. Maybe the Intelligence training in me is dictating the general distrust I have of anyone, and everyone, but it’s served me well enough to get me through some pretty scary places.” Taking another healthy swig of his chilled, watery beverage, Fisher exhaled deeply as he went over the interaction with Ives in his head for the fifth time.

“Yeah no. Blind obedience isn’t coming from this old-spy.”

“Regardless of whether or not I disappointed Ives’ expectations in terms of how I might abide his command in the face of an exceptionally improbable scenario, we did come to see eye-to-eye on how best to approach the matter of this... nameless darkness... and its intentions of destroying the Federation and well, just about everything else in existence. I’m set to meet with the rest of my team in the morning and will be going over what our plans are then. From what I’ve read on them, they seem to be a capable if not varied bunch. We’ll likely be getting underway with some minor operations, and contingency planning from word one, but I don’t expect any major developments on that front, at least not until the ship gets underway once more. Things have a tendency to happen all at once, and I have the feeling the same is going to be true of this ship, and its mission.” Downing the last of his whisky, Fisher set the glass down on the coffee table before him once more, and laid back unto the comfortable couch, letting eyelids close around sage-orbs. The ache in his back was slowly starting to resettle once more, and he was actively trying not to let it disrupt his ability to think.

“Figures. Just when I got used to sleeping on a metal sheet. Starfleet beds.” Rolling his head over, he looked to the doorway which led into his bedroom and with another sigh dreaded the week or so it would take for him to readjust to sleeping on it.

“This’ll be a fun week.” He said sarcastically.

“Compu-- erm, Thea, end log.”

OOC: Original log entry fort his slot is below for the time being, will eventually be moved.

Re: [2381] Andrew Fisher. Personal Logs.

Reply #2
STARDATE 57630.26
APRIL 8, 2381
2152 HRS


[ Lt. Cmdr. Andrew Fisher | Personal Quarters | Deck 10 | Vector 02 | USS Theurgy ] @Nolan @chXinya @GroundPetrel

With a deeply exasperated sigh, Fisher stepped in through the doorway that led into his personal quarters, a literal stack of PADDs in hand and an obvious exhaustion to his sage green eyes. It had been an exceptionally long day, pouring through the hundreds upon hundreds of documents with regard to this great calamitous enigma that he had now found himself mired within. There still had been little time afforded him to take a moment and personalize any feature of his personal quarters; aside from a paltry few hours of inconsistent sleep, he’d had barely any time at all to focus on anything other than his mission.

“Thea, start recording new Personal Log entry.”

Setting the stack down unto the coffee table beside the whisky tumbler from the night previous, Fisher brought his arms high above his head in order to stretch out against the aching muscles in his lower back. “This whole bed situation is going to be worse than I’d anticipated. We’re talking one night of fitful sleep on this pillowy thing, and it feels like I tried to deadlift a damned shuttlepod. Might not be a bad idea to speak to someone from Medical and try to get my hands on a muscle relaxant of some kind.” Tossing his duty jacket haphazardly into the same chair he’d neatly folded it onto yesterday, it was clear he was of little mind to pay attention to general cleanliness tonight. Turning back to the replicator, he pressed an index finger against the display and brought up a list of the pre-programmed meals available. “Hmm... let’s see, umm... there we go! Computer, a bowl of Cajun Jambalaya and an American Amber Lager.” An instant later, the choice of meal whirred into existence from nothing, and the spy retrieved it from the cubby, carrying it over to the couch, upon which he plopped down into, throwing his legs up so that they might rest against the coffee table, inadvertently knocking over the stack of PADDs which clattered to the carpeted decking.

“Whatever.” He exclaimed before taking a long swig of the cold beer.

“Right, well I had a chance to meet the members of my Intelligence Team today, in our state-of-the-art Suite.” Taking a bite of the Jambalaya with a spoon, Fisher chewed hastily before wishing he’d specified the spiciness of the dish, finding this particular concoction to be quite lacking. “They seem a capable bunch. Definitely varied in their personalities, and backgrounds; and different than almost anyone else I’ve worked with before. Lieutenant Arn will be acting as my second, and I think he’s the right choice. The man has a pretty extensive history, and that’s not even factoring the experiences of his Symbiont’s previous hosts. I get the feeling that if I hadn’t come along, he might well have been the Captain’s choice to head up the department. Some might be intimidated by such a factor, but I find it to be a boon to our effectiveness. It’ll allow me to act without having to worry about the minor details of our operations and affords me the chance to entrust someone who is capable with sensitive matters.” Taking another bite of his Jambalaya, he soon found it too bland to even continue on with, setting the bowl down in favor of the pint of cold lager.

“Sometimes I wonder if Starfleet cooks even have tastebuds.” he commented absently.

“Also met our resident infiltration expert, a Lieutenant Byrne. Apparently, Byrne spent something like a few years living among the Aldean population. I’m not overly familiar with the specifics of it, as much of the details are hidden behind encryption walls. I could have our resident decoding whiz take a crack at the files; she might even get a kick out of it, given what I read of her profile. Speaking of which, Miss Ravenholm might be the most intriguing and capable communications specialist I’ve ever had at my disposal. Putting aside her wholly unique physical situation, she has a dossier that reads like an old Bond film at times, and I imagine that her wide skillset would be wasted in such a simple task as data encryption and decoding.” With another long sip of his beer, Fisher finished the last of it and stood to return the dissatisfying bowl of food to the replimat for recycling disintegration. Turning back, he peered out of the large viewport window at a passing Klingon freighter as it came into view. “So far away from the Empire, yet still surrounded by Klingons.” He remarked aloud.

“The rest of the Team, mostly made up of support staff, I’ve not had a chance to meet yet. I’ll try and set up some introductory interviews tomorrow morning. Figure it makes sense to meet them once they’ve all arrived, and I think we’re still waiting for an analyst or two.” Unzipping the front of his crimson red undershirt, he hastily pulled it off of his shoulders and set it down on his bed, hopeful that a hot shower might ease some of the ache in his back. “I Outlined my approach for our mission. How I like to operate, and my plans to destabilize the support system surrounding the infected at Starfleet. I imagine they’re probably a little unsure of it all. Uncertain of what the effect might be, and I suppose I can’t blame them for that. I’m an unknown to them. A new face brought in to try and pick up the pieces of an Intelligence Cell in general disarray and without any clear direction or directive.” Unclasping his belt, Fisher began to step out of his boots at the same time.

“Hopefully they’ll get what I’m about in due time.” Stepping out of the last of his clothes, he entered his bathroom and actuated the shower, setting it to its hottest available temperature within safety limits. “Hopefully I get what they’re about too.”

“Comp-- Thea, end Log.” Sighing again, he entered the shower.

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