Chapter 2: On the Ramparts
[ Lt. JG Foval Temporary Central Intelligence Suite: Conference Lounge | Deck 11 | Vector 03, USS Theurgy ] The Vulcan sat cross legged in he silent room attempting to find his focus. He wasn’t sure where he could help – they were way past the need for diplomacy or intel, things were just… crazy.
Memories were filling Foval’s skull like a storm. He remembered his life back on the nameless planet where he had become liberated from the Borg. There life has hard, allegences shifted like the sands of the Vulcan desert near to where he grew up. Some wanted what Foval’s faction had and would insinuate themselves into the group, only to betray them at the first opportunity. Then there were the Lost, who sought reconnection with the Collective at the cost of all else. It seemed with every step forward, there was another disaster that brought them to the blink of oblivion.
Although he had faced mistrust on an almost daily basis, he found himself feeling like those times of his life had been behind him, and he had returned to a world of logic, at least as much as his mutilated brain had allowed him to. Yet now, people were dying. Each sweet fruit of success of victory felt like it was wrapped in the poisonous thorns of disaster. He was reminded of a motion picture that he was shown some decades before at the academy. It featured a fantastical culture based on Earth’s middle ages. A figure in the midst of a desparate battle stood on the ramparts of his castle lamenting what good men could do against such hate. The scene resonated him on the planet. Now it did so again.
Suddenly his dark reverie was broken by the chirp of his combadge
Topic: Chapter 2: On the Ramparts (Read 5393 times)
previous topic - next topic
