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Topic: [2381] Andrew Fisher. Personal logs. (Read 109 times) previous topic - next topic

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  • Swift
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[2381] Andrew Fisher. Personal logs.
STARDATE 57622.68
APRIL 5, 2381
2130 HRS

[ Lt. Cmdr. Andrew Fisher | 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, rolling his head against the hard metal plate that somehow passed for a bed on Klingon vessels. He set aside the small personal PADD he'd brought with him, reaching a hand underneath the small of his back to press against his aching lumbar. Thanks to injuries sustained almost two decades earlier, Fisher was 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, a literal 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 hovering above as he went on with his personal log.

"I don't know what'll kill me first on this voyage. The beds. The food. Or the myriad of drunkards in the barracks across from my modest estate room." He mused a moment, shaking his head as he realized he was whining. In truth, he'd probably have given his left arm to join in on the drunken fun going on just across the corridor. But travelling as he was, he'd been generally confined to quarters. He hadn't been sure if it had been a simple clerical error that listed him as a VIP passenger, but as a result he'd been barred from anywhere that might result in injury, or worse. That confinement order had absolutely included any and all barracks.

Damn he thought as he realized how badly he wanted to share in a pint of Blood Wine, 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. 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 freighter. At least, that's what they'd explained when he'd attempted to sway them from their duties. It'd been easier to get them to spill the beans on some minor classified information regarding their general orders, than it was trying to convince them to ease off their protectiveness.

Finding minor amusement in the answer to his own inquiry, he sneered a little before adding it 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. It all still seems so far-fetched. The very idea. All of it." Pausing a moment, he strained audibly as he sat up straight, and spun his legs out over to stand up. Pacing slow over to the wall-mounted replicator, he hesitated as he remembered the shockingly poor approximations of human cuisine it'd turned out so 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.

"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.

After taking a sip, he set the tankard down on the lone other surface in his quarters; a simple square metal table bolted to the floor with an accompanying simplistic steel stool also 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, Andrew had 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 stand to eat.

"I'm honestly annoyed that I hadn't noticed the signs of this situation before." 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 but chose to ignore them."

Angered with himself, Andrew let the low droning hum of the ship's engines envelope his mind 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 they could 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 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, I won't again in the future." He paused a moment.

"...and should it be impossible to fight this. To stop it before it destroys everything. Then I die trying." The tone of his voice firm with confidence, and defiant in nature.

"End log."
  • Last Edit: June 19, 2020, 05:19:23 PM by Swift
Writer of [ Lt. Cmdr. Andrew Fisher | Chief Intelligence Officer | USS Theurgy NX-79854 ]

  • Swift
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Re: [2381] Andrew Fisher. Personal logs.
Reply #1
STARDATE 57649.71
APRIL 16, 2381
1530 HRS

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

It'd only been a few mere hours since the bombing of Paris. An act of evil so great that it had likely forever tarnished the crown jewel of Federation democracy. Likely hundreds of thousands, if not millions of innocent lives had been ended in horrifying fashion; their bodies literally eroded into nothing more than inert ashes by a lethal dose of thalaron radiation. It was a demonstration of the vicious fangs of their hidden foe, meant to serve as a warning to Theurgy and anyone else who dared defy the will of the 'Nameless Darkness'. A mocking taunt and promise of yet more heinous acts of terror had been delivered not long afterward, through the ship's previous Chief Medical Officer. Pain and suffering would come, and it wouldn't cease until all sentient life in the Galaxy had been annihilated. In every way, the attack had fit the bill of appalling catastrophes that had driven even the most noble of history's figures to a wrathful desire for vengeance and reprisal.

That same wrathful desire now surged to the forefront of the Chief Intelligence Officer as he entered his personal quarters on Deck 10.

In the days since he'd come to Theurgy, he'd struggled mightily to try and find the potential positive outcomes of this assignment, but after having witnessed the horrors of the attack on Paris, Fisher found himself doubting his chances at finding any kind of amicable conclusion. Worse still, a growing part of him no longer desired to find that pleasant end to hostilities. No, he wanted to decimate the enemy that had just murdered so many. He wanted to deform and scar them worse than they had just deformed and scarred the Federation. He desired reprisal of the greatest severity. The kind of reprisal that would damn a soul forever, but in the heat of the moment, he would've been more than willing to make such a trade. The need for vengeance crawled under his skin like an itch that simply couldn't ever be scratched.

After tearing off his duty jacket and throwing it angrily across his quarters, he snatched a PADD up from a nearby table and punched up it's recording software so as to make a log.

"Personal log..." he said through clenched teeth as he tried to remember the time. "...stardate five-seven, six-four-nine, point seven-one."

As it continued to record, Fisher tossed the PADD onto his bed and laid down beside it to rest for just a moment. He needed to quell the volcano of rage building inside him before it erupted. Before he lost a piece of his humanity to a rage that would consume him. Inhaling deeply, slowly, he allowed his eyelids to drift closed over his green irises. He tried to clear his mind, thinking of something else, anything really, so long as it didn't intensify the anger in his mind, and like an all-enveloping blanket the black void of sleep soon consumed his consciousness. With vividity, a dream of his home began to set in; he could see the small pub in Boston that bared his surname on the outside in old-english script, and the face of his mother as she welcomed visiting Starfleet Officers in to try her latest culinary creations. Her face smiling sweetly as she offered them a sampling of the various beers produced in the attached micro-brewery.

Immediately he recognized that he was one of those visiting Starfleet Officers, having finally gone home after all these years. But he wasn't alone. With him were some of the friends he'd made during his short time aboard Theurgy. His mother doted happily upon Avi with copious amounts of food and drink, enjoying the Risan's particular brand of charming sarcasm and poignant wit. The other imagined companion of his dream was someone he'd discovered a deeper connection to a few nights prior, during a pleasant evening of conversation; it was Sam. He was sharing a bit of his home life with her. Letting her know more of who he was, at least when he wasn't the Chief Intelligence Officer. She smiled with him. Laughed with him. He found himself lost in the sea of her azure eyes again, as they sat across from one another at a table. There was a tension between them again, an attraction that pulled them as they leant in close together.

But as he felt the heat of her breath against his lips, the light in her eyes dimmed, and the smooth skin of her beautiful face turned gray. Pulling back, he watched as her flesh cracked and she seemingly turned to dull stone before his very eyes. "Sam?! SAM?!" he cried out as he reached to touch her, only for her to crumble and wither into nothing more than ash. Panic set in, and he pushed away from the table, turning to see Avi, his mother, and all the other patrons similarly turn gray and crumble. Compelled to flee from the pub, he emerged onto the street and looked up into the darkened sky, where he saw a massive ship hovering overhead, a blazing green glow nearly blinding him as the ship seemed about to fire a weapon. As he raised his hands up to shield his eyes, he saw the ship more clearly, and recognized it as Theurgy. An instant later a pulse of green energy swept down the street toward him, growing nearer, and he felt only the cold embrace of death approaching. And as the energy overtook him, he saw his own hands turn gray, and wither.

"Shit!" Fisher jolted from the nightmare, breathing rapidly as he recovered from the vivid imagery that have played in his mind.

After a minute, he reached for the PADD that had been set to log his words, and saw that it had recorded his cries, as they had indeed been made verbally as he'd slept. With a simple command he deleted it and set the PADD to record a second time.

"Personal log, stardate five-seven, six-four-nine, point seven-four. Paris is gone. Destroyed in an explosion. It was a thalaron weapon of sorts. Tal'Aura, Praetor of the Romulan Star Empire has claimed responsibility for it." He slipped off of his bed, needing to splash some cold water in his face to mitigate the lingering sensations of sleep. "A state of war now exists between the Federation and Romulans. It's been made clear that the parasites have manufactured this war as part of their ongoing effort to eliminate all sentient life." Stopping before the sink, Fisher cupped his hands underneath the faucet and felt the rush of cold water run down over them. "We're also now forced to flea from the Epsilon Mynos system, as the Klingon High Chancellor's political rivals have revealed our location to the Galaxy in a bid to undermine him. It's now only a matter of time until the hunters arrive with their harpoons, ready to claim this white whale as a prize."

Splashing the water against his face, Fisher then caught his reflection in the mirror and went silent for a minute.

He'd been about to leave when the visage of the nightmare he'd just endured flashed through his mind, and the very sight of his own face sickened him to his very core. With a grunt of unbridled rage slipping free, he lanced a clenched fist out at his reflection. The mirror spider-webbed out to its edges, distorting the image it had been reflecting. As an exhale escaped him, Fisher pulled his fist away from the epicenter of where he'd struck. Upon the knuckles of his hand, he saw crimson beginning to seep from abrasions and small lacerations he'd just inflicted on them. After running the back of said hand under the faucet to wash away any micro shards of glass that might have lingered, he emerged from the bathroom and retrieved the PADD from where he had let it lay.

"As a result of all this, my meeting with Dr. Nicander, the ship's previous Chief Medical Officer has been moved up to seventeen-hundred hours today. I'm headed there now, to get an early appraisal of the man before the other parties involved in this... interview... arrive. Maybe he'll know something that can put us on a better path. Otherwise..." he hesitated a moment, realizing how much he didn't want to finish the rest of that thought.

"End log." He said simply, as he tossed the PADD back onto his bed.

OOC: Tagging the respective writers of characters featured in Fisher's dream sequence.
Writer of [ Lt. Cmdr. Andrew Fisher | Chief Intelligence Officer | USS Theurgy NX-79854 ]