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[b][i] "-Romulan refugee ships have begun to filter across the Neutral Zone. Starfleet ships have been dispatched to assist in aid operations, which is becoming the greatest humanitarian crisis of the Alpha Quadrant's history. Here with us is-"

"-Defense Minister Alexander Tobias and Chief of Starfleet Operations Admiral of the Fleet Jean-Luc Picard have announced that the joint Klingon-Federation task force has entered Romulan space and is proceeding to make contact with the Romulan Provisional Government in the Hasseleh system. The Romulan Provisional Government consists of former sen-"

"-Chairman Istvan Cordalis announced today that any action taken by the Federation Council to aid the Romulans in the growing crisis would be tantamount to treason. He added that 'so long as one Bajoran, one Betazoid, one Human remains hungry, not one loaf of bread should go to the Empire.'"

"-in soccer , Vulcan has beat Earth 5-4 in the third round of the Federation Cup. They will proceed onto play the Saurians in the next match tomorrow. We'll now take it to T'Pra for the latest stock exchan-"[/i][/b]

Captain Strenn switched off the newsreader. It was all too much.

The swirling hurricane that was consuming his mind grew in intensity, even in the silence. He sat with his back rigidly against the cushioned couch of his ready room, the smell of a Vulcan herbal team - slowly losing its heat - filling his nostrils with thoughts of home, and more fuel to the burning fire of his heart. The storm of his soul battered furiously against the mental wall that had been carefully constructed over the course of his nearly five-decade life.

They had once been an impregnable fortress. Throughout his youth, and well into his career as a Starfleet officer, he had been nothing but the perfect Vulcan - or as close to perfection as someone can get. He had read the [i]Meditations of Surak[/i] cover-to-cover, with companion commentary from the finest philosophers and writers of the Trahokna t'Ozhika (Institution of Logic). He had gone on a pilgrimage to Mount Seleya, to bear witness to the spot of the Great Surak's martyrdom at the hands of the Raptors. Around his neck hung a rock taken from the Forge, where he spent many months in meditation after the devastating battle over Cardassia.

And at the mere thought of that wretched planet, the Wall cracked as emotions and memories leaked into his mind.

[i]"Helm! Change course to two-four-eight!"

"Change course to two-four-eight, aye!"

The helmsman had not even begun to turn the ship about before it was wracked by a series of Cardassian torpedoes, fired from one of the Galors now circling around the T'Kumbra. An Excelsior-class suddenly exploded on the viewscreen, causing the image to momentarily distort as the bridge team helplessly watched their comrade ship break apart under the weight of Cardassian and Dominion phaser fire.

"Sovik! Prepare for a volley on the Galor, bearing zero-zero-eight! Fire when ready!"

Those would be the last words of Captain Solok, son of Polok. 

Not a second after the words left his mouth, the ship was struck by another volley of torpedoes - fired from a Jem'Hadar warship crossing their bow. This one was more devastating than the last, tearing down the Nebula-class's shields with the first blast. The next made the ship shudder and shake, as conduits exploded over the heads of the bridge team. Just above the Captain's chair, a bulkhead ruptured, coming right down upon Solok's head. 

He didn't even see it coming. Strenn could barely register it before he felt the burning sensation of plasma climb up his cheek. The fire seemed to shoot straight into his blood and into his brain, climbing its way up. He wanted to scream out in rage and pain, to cry out for help. But there would be none today.

"All hands! Abandon ship!" He shouted out, resolute in his voice no matter how much his body cried out against it. The bridge was exploding everywhere. Fires were breaking out at every console, and stoic Vulcans let out wails of agony as the flames consumed them. Strenn reached through the fire, trying to pull Captain Solok's body out of the inferno, but two sets of hands reached out and pulled him away, screaming incomprehensible things into his ear as they pulled him away. He screamed and pulled against them, as his mental barriers collapsed one by one.

But there was nothing he could do. 

Strenn watched with tear-filled eyes as he and the survivors fled the devastated bridge, making their quick escape into the pods.
[/i]

Captain Strenn opened his eyes and let out an audible sigh. The surroundings of his ready room, barebones and lacking anything that wasn't standard-issue Starfleet, did nothing to comfort his thoughts. They bore down upon him with such intensity that he struggled with every spare energy left in his soul to resist screaming out in rage at the heavens for doing this to him. 

Why had he even come back to Starfleet after that dreadful day? Why had he even bothered? The medals he had earned, even the Medal of Honor - the most prestigious medal that could be awarded by the Federation - seemed to be nothing but a trinket. He had failed in every way, shape, and form. He had failed as a Starfleet officer by letting the [i]T'Kumbra[/i] be destroyed. He had failed as a loyal comrade and friend to Captain Solok by allowing him to die. He had failed as a Vulcan by allowing his emotions to overtake him like a flood.

Another swelling tide of rage entered into his heart, and he pushed back against it vainly. There was no stopping this wave - only lessening its impact. He had gone to Mount Seleya to find answers, consulted with the most learned and wise Vulcans around, but he had found nothing but religious platitudes under the guise of "logic" and "reason." The only thing that he had been able to learn on his sabbatical back to his home planet was an ancient technique of the Followers of Surak, who used the mind's energy to erect a protective barrier from intrusion by others. 

But the answers he was really looking for, the answers to all of his problems and how to solve them, eluded him. The priests and the philosophers could only tell him to center himself on the teachings of the Great Surak, advising him to consult the [i]Meditations of Surak [/i]and to follow his precepts. 

But with just that single thought, he felt the rusty chains that had bound his heart together all those years ago - as a child on Vulcan - begin to pull under tension and snap. He felt the rage boiling like hot water in a kettle, surging and bubbling and hissing. Strenn clenched his fists with ill-hidden anger, his mind lashing out at the priests light years away. They had failed him. The ancient institutions of Vulcan - the very cornerstone of their society and their way of life - had failed him.

And his world collapsed around him, piece by piece. And with it, the wall that held his fragile mind together fell away brick by brick.

The door buzzed, breaking through the clouded thoughts of the Vulcan captain. 

"Enter."

[center][h1][b]***[/b][/h1][/center]

Commander Udrus Ahrume, Executive Officer of USS [i]Vigilance[/i], entered into the ready room of his Commanding Officer. It would be his first time meeting face-to-face with Captain Strenn, who had suspiciously secluded himself in the two weeks that they had been on the ship, getting the heavy cruiser shook down in preparation for what the papers were now calling "Operation Vanguard," the largest peacekeeping mission in known history. It sounded like horse-shit to him, but what did he know? He had spent his early years of youth fighting a war of survival against occupiers. Integrating with Starfleet and its 'missions of peace' had been...difficult...to say the least.

[i]The only peace that we ever knew was the one that came after death...[/i] He had seen two Cardassian occupations in his life, and had fought against them both in equal measure. They had taken away his mother and his sisters never to be seen again. They had blinded his father for speaking out against the Vorta. They had killed his brother in cold blood for daring to rise up against them. 

But, now, since apparently the Cardassian Government had been "co-opted by rogue elements," they were now supposed to be friends with them! It made him angry - angry at the world and, specifically, angry with the Government. They had failed Bajor from the moment they had entered the Federation. His war-torn home was no better than it had been a decade ago. There was still so much work to be done - but none of them cared. No one cared about them. 

No one ever did.

"Good afternoon, sir," Commander Udrus, banishing the thoughts that swirled in his head in the seconds before, stood at attention as he entered into the cramped ready room, which was little more than an office desk, a settee with a coffee table, and a replicator mounted to a wall. Nothing adorned those walls, typically spartan as most Vulcans tended to be. Udrus made notes of his surroundings as he stood in those brief seconds before reporting, and did a glance down upon his own uniform. His Service Uniform was immaculate, pressed with no lint or dust hairs, and his shoes were so polished you could see the streaking stars on the toes. Not that if mattered if he was unsat, since he couldn't change it by then anyway, "We've crossed the Neutral Zone, and entered Romulan Space."

The Vulcan looked up from his gaze, firmly set upon the tea cup sitting on the table, and locked eyes with his First Officer. Udrus could see the contours on the man's face, the serious looking chisel-marks that bore his age and his weariness. On his right cheek, a nasty plasma burn cut across his face, greenish hues mixing in subtly with the scarred tanned copper tissue. His eyes could betray nothing of his thoughts, except a steely mind that struck into the Bajoran like a dagger. Commander Udrus, though no telepath, knew the thoughts running through that analytical Vulcan's mind. He would, by now, be recalling that this Bajoran Rebel-turned-Starfleet Officer had a track record the size of some small holonovels, most of all that damned business on the [i]Albatross [/i]with that Cardie frigate. 

[i]If the Vulcan asks for an explanation then I'll simply tell him that I only regret that I did not kill the lot of them when I had the chance.[/i]

But instead of demanding that he explained in detail why he hated the Cardassian Race so much, the Vulcan simply rose to his feet and spoke one word, "Good...." and without further discussion led the way back onto the bridge. Udrus noted, in the back of his mind, that this Vulcan was perhaps the most peculiar he had ever known. Even more strange than that bastard Stavath. 

[i]One thing's certain, Vulcans are hard to get along with, and even harder to understand.[/i]

[center][h1][b]***[/b][/h1][/center]

Command Master Chief Byn Ch'oviaval rubbed his eyes as he walked through the passage ways of the [i]Vigilance[/i], feeling exhaustion already. He had just conducted a tour of some of the Engineering Division berthings. He was required - at least once a week - to make a personal tour of one of the berthings across the ship. Truth be told, he hated the whole thing about the inspections, even moreso than when he was a junior sailor dealing with an irate petty officer, eager to hit him on everything and anything.

At least, now, he could affect change - and save a junior sailor from the trouble of reinspecting while already dealing with his own troubles in his division.

The ancient ship that he walked through was not like the ones he had once served under. The blue two-piece uniforms felt out of place to the aged Master Chief, who had been used to the flowery colors and tight-fitting uniforms of the last age. There had once been a time when civilians - family and honored guests of the crew - would wander the passage ways of these ships. There had once, a long time and yet not so very far into the past, been children aboard starships!

Those years had gone by now. All that was left of them were the memories of officers and senior-enlisted sailors who could still remember how things were before the War changed everything. Before Starfleet was bloodied and nearly brought to heel. Before the very fabric of the Federation was torn asunder and threatened with total annihilation.

He contented himself that all the sacrifices that had been made - all the luxuries that had been lost - were necessary to keep the Federation free and secure. He reminded himself, as he walked into the turbolift to take him up to the bridge, that the Federation had nearly been destroyed by the Borg and the Dominion and that they needed to think of themselves less as explorers armed for self-defense, and more as sailors and soldiers who could explore when necessary.

The days of Starfleet as a vehicle for space exploration and good-faith diplomacy had been brought to an end by the Dominion War, replaced by the need for a capable military force utilizing power projection and not-so-subtle gunboat diplomacy to force its way in the Quadrant. For the last ten years, it had held up well. The Congress of Bajor, as shaky as it seemed to be, was holding out. He even thought, for a moment, that things would be getting better. Maybe not as good as they once had been, but at least better.

Then the news of Romulus' destruction came. And then the confusion. Then the panic. Then the reaction. Starfleet was sending a task force into the region to "secure the peace" but what did that really mean? [i]Well, what does it really mean, Master Chief?[/i] He chided himself as the turbolift shot up, opening on the bridge. 

He was unable to find an answer for himself.

The silver hexagonal bridge was a flurry of activity as enlisted sailors rushed around to the department heads gathered at their stations. The CMC looked briefly at the consoles as he walked towards one of the railings, admiring how much work had been done to bring his old girl up to speed. He could see the different department heads, hanging their heads over the junior watch officers assigned to man the departmental stations on the bridge. 

Even the Chief Engineer hung over the Engineering Officer of the Watch with some anxiety in his eyes. The CMC knew how poorly the ship was - how much work had been short-cutted to bring her out to space - and he knew that CHENG was having a heart attack. The last thing they needed was the warp engines cutting out in the middle of the Neutral Zone.

[i]Then again, I don't think we need to worry about the Romulan Navy anymore.[/i]

The CMC's eyes turned to one of the sliding doors, opening for the CO and the XO walking out of the passage way that led towards the Captain's ready room and the briefing room. The tall Vulcan, standing well above most of the crew, was an imposing figure. But he was also a mysterious one. The two had exchanged maybe only a handful of words in the two weeks they had been aboard.

The Andorian had known many Vulcans, and he knew how stand-offish they could be at times, but this was something else. He made a mental note to remember it.

The XO seemed like a genuinely good guy though, although his record seemed spotty to say the least. But what could one do about such things, the old Chief wondered. The Cardassians had taken so much from him...and he was now supposed to pretend as though he loved them? That he wanted to be their friend? He could understand Starfleet policy - that was one thing - but the Master Chief knew that for some of them, he could never agree to them.

"I have the bridge," the Vulcan Captain spoke to the Saurian Chief of Ship's Security.

"Yes, sir," the Saurian nodded, "attention on the bridge! Captain Strenn has the bridge."

"Sir, we're getting a transmission request from the [i]Courageous[/i]," Chief Operations Specialist Kernaghan, on the Communications Station, turned towards the Captain from his seat, "should I put her through?"

"Do it," the Vulcan replied simply.

"Aye, sir."

Suddenly, the screen came to life with the image of the grizzled Commodore Doma. He was a Bolian, and a well-decorated war hero from the Dominion War. [i]Seems like everyone's some kinda war hero...except me...[/i] he grumbled under his deepest thoughts. He had nothing but respect for the Commodore and the Captain and all the rest, but he couldn't help but feel that he had...missed something. His thoughts, however, were quickly dashed by the Commodore, who began speaking.

"All Starfleet and Federation vessels, we are about to undertake a mission unlike any other in the Alpha Quadrant's history. The eyes of thousands of species are upon you today, the hopes and dreams of billions of souls depending upon your adherence to duty. I expect every sailor in my task force to be model Starfleet servicemembers, and to act in accordance with the Starfleet Creed. We represent the Federation, and we cannot let these people down. Captains, you will receive a coded transmission detailing your specific operational goals." The Commodore paused, "I wish you all the best of luck. Godspeed!"

The screen was replaced by the eternal starscape of deep space, displaying a region of space that had not been traveled by Starfleet since the days of the Earth-Romulan War. "I'll be in my ready room. Commander, you have the bridge." Strenn turned heel, and without doing the formal trade-off of the conn with the Executive Officer, disappeared into his ready room as quickly as he had come onto the bridge. The bridge staff was stupefied by the quick disappearance of their Captain into the ready room, none moreso than Ch'oviaval, who had been used to ostentatious and eccentric Captains using every opportunity to "show their feathers."

[center][h1][b]***[/b][/h1][/center]

"I'll take a rum and coke, thank you very much."

The mixed drink phased into existence on the replicator dispenser tray in the Officers' Wardroom, and was eagerly taken in hand by Lieutenant Commander Tremblay. He was thankful that the Starfleet replicators ensured that the beverage was distinctly nonalcoholic. If it wasn't, well, he would probably be stuck back on that Starbase in Terminal Holds.

[i]It's a wonder that they let me back into space at all, after that whole business on Risa, [/i] he mused to himself as he sauntered his way through the gunmetal haze grey wardroom, empty of any souls except his own. As he took a seat in the desolate wardroom, he chuckled quietly to himself about the crazy turn of events that led him here at all. An adventure while on leave in Bajor made such a shock in the new Member State that politics forced Starfleet Command to re-evaluate the troublesome Lieutenant. A reassignment to a tinpot cruiser was one thing, but a promotion? When the Commodore gave him his official certificate, he could've hardly believed it possible.

[i]Smug bastard told me that he'd see to it that my career ended there! That look on his face when he promoted me...I'd die to see it again.[/i]

Politics was the name of the game, after all, and Tremblay played it exceedingly well. He even got a nice medal from the Republic of Bajor to show for it too. How many non-Bajorans had been able to get anything from their government, even a thank you for liberating us? Very few, so few that they could all be counted on a human's hands.

As the ship sped at warp speed into Romulan Space, the Chief of Ship's Operations downed his synthetic mixed drink and slammed the glass on the table, and debated within himself on whether or not he wanted another drink. In the end, he decided that he did, ordering the same drink as before and throwing it back as quickly as the last. There was something, naturally, missing within the synthetic alcohol. What was it? Was it the natural ingredients of handmade, old fashioned, traditional rum? Was it the lack of intoxicating chemicals that made the drink seem hollow?

[i]It has no soul.[/i]

He shook his head bitterly as he rose to his feet, walking out of the wardroom and into the haze grey passage ways, passing by enlisted and fellow officers alike with little care to either. His head was somewhere else, as it usually was. He was an excellent officer - or so he thought to himself that he was - and knew his job well, but the feeling that Starfleet had wronged him pervaded his thoughts, and soured any good working relationship with his ship and his shipmates.

[i]You were the one that made the mistakes to begin with.[/i]

His conscience reared its ugly head as he boarded a turbolift and summoned it up to the bridge, where he was awfully late already. The Captain had wanted the senior officers - as many as their duties could permit - to be on the bridge for the entry into the Neutral Zone. But Tremblay had figured his Operations Officer of the Watch had it covered. The Lieutenant Junior Grade, a Zakdorn whose name escaped him, had it under control he reckoned. What purpose would his presence serve, except to crowd the room?

As the turbolift went up, he couldn't help but look back in his mind's eye fondly on those months spent on Bajor. It was the time of his life, and those brief weeks - which flew by like paper from a fan - were the highlight of his memories. There was not one sour emotion associated with them, and all of them were more pleasant than the last. Even those dark times in the mountainous jungles, when all hope seemed lost, were washed away by the exhilarating moment when they came across the fabled Walls of Ito. 

[i]And, there was Eerjo...[/i] 

The young Bajoran girl, who had stolen his heart like it was hers to take. A girl who seemed untouched by the trauma that her race had suffered for generations. She had been born only a few years before the Cardassian Occupation ended, and had come of age during the Dominion's brutal subjugation of the planet, but yet...her soul remained pure. The way her eyes fluttered in sunlight of Bajora, the way her auburn hair swayed in the whistling wind of the peaks, the way her skin seemed to open itself to his touch...

[i]Why did I come back at all?[/i]

He sighed deeply as the turbolift opened, clearly late as he saw the Captain disappear into his ready room. The eyes on the bridge team betrayed all of their thoughts, and indeed they resembled his own. [i]There's something about that man...but if I ever find out what it is, I'll probably have to hop off the wagon![/i]