[hider=Strenn's Quest][center][img]https://vignette.wikia.nocookie.net/memoryalpha/images/5/50/Mount_Seleya%2C_2285.jpg/revision/latest?cb=20090919142519&path-prefix=en[/img][/center]

[b]Twelve Years Earlier...[/b]

The journey up Mount Seleya was arduous. The harsh mid-day heat of the Home Sun beat down upon the copper skin of the penitent Vulcan ascending the Ten Thousand Steps, snaking up the holy mountain. Sweat boiled and dripped freely from his face, shrouded under an itchy woolen tan cloak, and he felt his bare soles screaming out against him. But his mind's will won out over his body's weakness, and so he trudged onward. He could hear the prayers of the stations echoing in his mind, calling him ever forward.

[i]There is nothing but Logic.
Emotion must be tempered by Reason.
Rational Thought is the Defense of the Soul.
Feelings are the Destroyer of the Soul.[/i]

He had stopped at every way station from the base of the mountain all the way to the top, and now he was in home stretch. The stations, small one-room chapels, memorialized and ritualized the life of the Great Master. From his humble beginning as a farmer near Shi'Kahr, to his renunciation of the World at age 20, all the way through to his leadership of the Faithful against the Raptors during the Time of Awakening. In each of the chapels were icons of these famed deeds, relics that still held spiritual power, imbued with the energy of the Great Surak.

And now, the only station left was the massive temple, sitting on the cliff-side of the highest peak. It was the most ancient of the buildings along the pilgrims' path, its sandstone walls worn with age. Four great minarets brought themselves up around the square building, piercing into the heavens. He could feel the tug in his heart, the sensations of the energy left here all those centuries ago.

This was the spot of Surak's martyrdom. He had been caught in a brutal battle with the Raptors at the base of Mount Seleya, and his faithful entourage had carried his dying body up the mountain, whereupon he passed into the next realm at the very spot where the temple now sat.

He should've been humbled.

He should've been feeling at peace.

He should've been in awe by the majesty and the spiritual bliss that radiated from this holy ground.

But he felt nothing except his mind and soul becoming undone. They had been falling apart ever since the War started. 

The Vulcan breathed in deeply as he entered into the open wooden doors of the temple sanctuary. It was simple, humble, and did not have the same relics or ostentatious designs as the waystations. The walls were barren, and it contained only one - albeit massive - hall. In the center of the hall was an eternal flame, with a spiraling circle made in mosaic style. Sitting around the edges of the spiral were twelve Vulcans, wearing deep brown robes and murmuring prayers. Besides the eternal flame, torches hung along the walls, illuminating - only a little bit - the hallowed hall.

"Welcome to the Holy Sanctuary, child..." a monk, sitting directly across from him, on the far side of the flame, spoke without standing or opening his eyes. The others continued to murmur their prayers, "you are troubled, yes?"

"Yes, Master," the penitent Vulcan bowed his head, taking a step forward, "I have come seeking answers, for guidance...."

"Brother Sepak, arise and search into our brother," the monk gestured his hand to the one closest to the penitent, "do you consent to a meld, child?"

"I do," the penitent Vulcan bowed. The monk closest to him rose to his feet, as the penitent sank to his knees. Lowering the cloak's hood, it exposed his head. The plasma burn on his face seemed to still be glowing, oozing, aching with the exposure to others. The monk approached him slowly, raising his right hand up to the unblemished side of his face.

He placed his hand onto his own, making the telepathic connection.

"My mind...to your mind..." The monk murmured as the connection was accepted, and the penitent felt his barriers begin to crumble and fall away, "my thoughts...to your thoughts..."

And then the emotions. The feelings. The memories of anger, and rage, and pain came rushing back all at once.

[i]He was on the bridge of his ship. At Barnard's Star.

How had the Dominion gotten so close to Earth? How had they breached the defenses? How had Starfleet failed so spectacularly?

Conduits and panels exploded in a fury around him as enemy fire wracked their ship, zipping in and out of the enemy formation to try to get a good hit on one of the ships. The Galors were slow, and easy to take down, but there were so many of them. And the Jem'Hadar warships...they not only outnumbered Starfleet, but outmatched them. 

They didn't stand a chance.

A conduit exploded beside him, and he felt a tug against his arm. The tug of pain. Of weakness. But out of the corner of his eye, he saw the helmsman collapse in his chair, thrown away by a plasma conduit spraying him with deadly toxins. When the fire stopped, he jumped into action and - pushing the body aside - took control of the ship.

The scene changed.

He was in the passage ways of the ship. He held tightly to a phaser rifle. Fear gripped his heart as he felt the jolt of the Jem'Hadar ships' blasts. The shields were failing. The emergency red lights began to flicker, and he tried to summon as much strength as he could. All of a sudden there were white flashes. Transporter beams. Jem'Hadar soldiers appeared in the passage ways.

And, through his fear, he did not hesitate. His fear turned to rage as he pointed his rifle, and began to fire. And he did not stop.

And then he was there over Cardassia. On the bridge. Captain Solok's lifeless body lay feet away from him, as the Third Officer and the Chief of Security pulled him away from the valiant Captain's body, his screams of agony carrying themselves away from the memory, and into reality.[/i]

The connection was severed.

The penitent Vulcan opened his eyes and could see that all of the monks were now staring at him. Was it in horror? Shame? Embarrassment? Pity? He did not know. Brother Sepak, standing over him, held in his eyes a look of sympathy - but the kind of objective sympathy, the kind that is removed from emotion. Like a true Vulcan.

"You are troubled...deeply troubled...you have seen much..." the head monk spoke again, his voice careful and precise, "have you consulted the Meditations?"

"I have, Master. I've read them...studied them...but it does not help!" The Vulcan's tone soared. He could feel rage making his voice tremble, "I need help!"

"All the help you require can be found with the Great Surak, child," the master replied. His voice, instead of fatherly, was stern. Cold. Unfeeling, "you must consult them."

"No!" His rage flew out, not only out of his mouth but through his spiritual energy. His abilities heightened by the spiritual place, the candles blew out with the anger that emanated out of him. Only the eternal flame in the center remained flickering, waving in the wind of this hatred, "it failed me! And if you cannot help me, except to tell me to read what I have already read, then you have failed me too!"

"Child! You must contain yourself!" The master called back, but the Vulcan did not hear him. He turned heel, throwing his cloak over his head, and began his descent of Mount Seleya. He passed by other pilgrims on their way up the mountain, and was glad that his hood hung heavy over his head.

For he did not want them to see the tears that were now streaming from his face.[/hider]

This is Captain Strenn.

He is standing in his ready room, watching the stars flutter past at warp speed, feeling the tension brewing inside of him like a kettle boiling for tea. With every second that passes, he feels the loose threads of his emotional control begin to fall away from the cloth. He isn't sure if the momentary tension is because of the mission now forked upon him, or if it is just another one of his turns - another battle waged in the war for his soul.

A war that he knows, deep within him, he will lose.

At once, he feels a flurry of emotions. Cold as ice pressing against his heart, sharp as razorblades cutting his throat and drenching himself in his unworthy green blood, and a peculiar sensation tugging within him - deep within him. Deeper than he can even imagine. The Vulcan, having long forsaken the boyish names for emotions, cannot quite pin down what this feeling is.

Is it destiny coming to meet him?

Is it the feeling of utter hopelessness in the face of the future?

[i]Am I coming home?[/i]

The last thought crashes into him like a speeder out of control, smashing through his wall with casual abandon. [i]Vulcana Regar is my home...[/i] another voice implores him, far different from the probing inner-voice that asked the question to begin with. 

[i]Is Vulcan really home?[/i]

The voice asks again, and this time, the Vulcan cannot answer. He knows the answer - he knew the answer to that question for a long time now; it had been answered long ago - but cannot bring himself to face the truth of it, and all of the ramifications the admittance would bring.

So he boils, hissing and sizzling, watching the stars pass before him.

This is Captain Strenn.

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

[hider=Udrus' Past][center][img]https://i0.wp.com/wilderness-society.org/wp-content/uploads/2017/07/IMG_6552.jpg[/img][/center]

[b]Twenty One Years Ago...[/b]

For a Bajoran boy in the height of the Cardassian Occupation, youth was not a time of escape. It was not a time of carefree wonder, nor was it a time for frolic and laughter.

For already, at the age of twelve, Udrus Ahrume had seen disaster and carnage beyond his age. When he was only a youngling, no older than five, he watched as the Cardassians stole away his mother and his two sister. He stood there, powerless as a child is, watching as the Cardassian soldiers tore the women of his village away. They promised, with smiles like serpents, that they would be treated well.

But a burning fire had been lit within him. And at the age of five, he knew true rage. He knew true fury, consuming his soul like a bonfire consumes the wood that feeds it. He remembered, too well and too vividly, standing at the doorframe as the soldiers stole away his mother and his sisters. And he swore then, an oath of fury to the Prophets, that he would never be that powerless again.

[i]Never again...[/i]

The young Bajoran boy now clutched a rifle - a Cardassian rifle, stolen from one of their depots by the older men - laying in an embankment with other fighters as they awaited a Cardasssian convoy. They were told it was a supply convoy, to resupply the local outpost. There would be food for the starving, medicine for the sick, and weapons for the fighters. 

In the woods of the Tozhat Province, the resistance fighters were shielded well. They wore camouflaged uniforms, a mix-matched set of garbs that - in unison - provided all of them shelter in the thick forests that they now hid in. On their faces, they wore face-paint that hid their features. But above it all, they still felt their nose-ridges. And on their ears hung the traditional rings. On Udrus', his father's - from when he was a boy - hung around his. It imbued him with strength, and forced him onward.

"Here they come..." one of the fighters whispered beside Udrus. And it came into view. Cardassian soldiers surrounded a hover-truck, led on by Bajorans pulling it with rope. It was their way to try to stop attacks on the caravans. Udrus bit his lip, knowing that - at the end of the day - Bajorans would die. The hover-truck was large, its cargo storage unit sizable even for the supposed cargo. But he banished these inconsequential thoughts, and centered himself on the task at hand.

"Attack!"

The scream came from someone that Udrus could not place, but the command was clear. Suddenly the forest was ablaze with phaser fire. Shots rang out in the midday air, cutting through the peaceful forest with abandon. Cardassian soldiers fell one by one, but as they did, the soldiers turned their weapons on the Bajoran pack mules. Udrus watched helplessly as the slaves were shot.

One by one.

Their screams of agony, their last utterances alive, filled his ears, and filled his soul with resolve to fight. The Bajoran resistance fighters charged out of the embankment, their screams of rage filling the forest. The remaining Cardassians tried to put up some kind of fight, but it was in vain. Udrus could see the fear in their eyes, he could feel their impotent rage glimmer off of them. They knew they had been beaten.

And they would die here, on the planet that they had tried to enslave, by the hands of men who refused to become slaves.

He pulled the trigger against a Cardassian, watching as the phaser bolt cut into his armor. It burned a hole into his chest, and he fell to his knees. The Cardassian looked up helplessly at the boy - as if to apologize, as if in sorrow. What if he was just a conscript? What if he did not want to be here? The treasonous thoughts were banished from the young Bajoran, as he pushed onward.

One of the Cardassians, one of the last still standing, fired a shot not at the fighters, but at the cargo truck. With his well-aimed shot, it hit the anti-grav generator and caused it to exploded. A Bajoran went to shoot him down, his shot well aimed at his chest, but it was too late. Soon the whole cargo truck was in flames, consumed from the generator's explosion.

"Get the cargo! Go!" The leader of the band commanded Udrus and the other young boys. Obediently, Udrus ran over towards the door and, reaching through the fire, he pulled the door open. He was expecting a full container of crates - weapons, medicine, food - that they could loot. It would be hard to carry it through the forest to their base camp, but they could do it. 

But he wasn't expecting the sight he glimpsed.

The entire cargo hold was ablaze. The generator had been right next to it, and the flames had already begun to overtake and consume the hold. It was as if the Fire Caves had found incarnation here, in that very hover-truck. Peering through the growing black smoke, he felt his heart sink to his chest. He felt fear grip his heart. Anguish. Sadness. Regret. Rage.

"No!" His boyish voice cried out, taking a tone far beyond his years.

Inside the cargo hold were slaves. Men, women, and children. All of them consumed by the blaze. And in between the faces of the Bajorans, he could see his mother. His sisters. He blinked once to confirm the sight, as if the Prophets were playing a sick joke on him.

They weren't.

"No!" He cried out again, as he dropped the rifle and tried to climb in, to grab their dead bodies from the inferno consuming them. A set of arms - older, more worn, wearing traditional Bajoran tattoos - grasped him and pulled him away from the blaze.

"It's too late! It's too late!" The voice cried behind him as he was pulled away. [i]No! I have to save them! Mom! No![/i] But as much as he fought against the grasp, he could see the cargo hold be fully consumed with the fire. They ate away at the skin and the flesh of the Bajorans inside - long dead.

He was too late.

"Never forget this sight, young one," the older Bajoran turned to face him, his old and weary face now filled with sorrow. He could see it in the old man's eyes, "never forget your anger. Never forget your hatred. This is what they have done to us. Never let it happen again."

The boy was pulled away from the carnage, marching with the rest of the solemn freedom fighters back to their camp. The words continued to echo in his head, the words of the wise old fighter. He felt a rage burn inside him, but it was a different kind of rage than before. It was directed, ordered. It was as if he was controlling it, leading it towards its destination. 

[i]I will never let it happen again.[/i][/hider]

This is Commander Udrus.

He is pacing back and forth on the bridge, watching the officers and the enlisted run themselves ragged without clear direction. He never trained for this - he never wanted this - and thus he cannot even begin to approach the situation. An absent Captain? He could handle that, there had been many missions on Bajor with the resistance fighters where their leaders were killed and someone had to step up. But what he couldn't handle was the mission.

The Bajoran was a warrior - is a warrior - and always will be a warrior. His soul was forged in the fires of holy war against invaders, whether they be Cardassians or Jem'Hadar, and thus every lesson taught to him had been one of war. Of fighting. Peace was never an option on Bajor during those dark days. Peace would only be won through the barrel of a phaser rifle, and the only peace would be met with an unconditional surrender of the Occupiers.

But now he was being asked to lead a mission of peace. [i]Peace! What is peace?[/i] And for that, he doesn't quite have an answer. In fact, he has nothing. His life, up until he was a young man, was spent in war. Spent fighting against a dreaded and ancient enemy of his people. He had failed, up until this point, to assimilate into Starfleet's way of life. To its mission of peace, of its humanitarian aid missions and its peacekeeping ventures.

The Commander lets out a sigh, watching hopelessly from the center of the bridge as the other Starfleet sailors move around. [i]They know the mission better than I do...how can I hope to ever lead them?[/i]

He contents himself that, one day, he will be able to prove his abilities to them. To the Captain. And most of all, himself.

This is Commander Udrus

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

[hider=Byn's Dreams]
[center][img]https://cdna.artstation.com/p/assets/images/images/013/603/824/large/rodrigo-gaitan-bar.jpg?1540366838[/img][/center]
[b]Five Years Earlier...[/b]

[i]The stars seemed to be a little dimmer tonight...[/i]

The Chief Master-at-Arms looked out of the great windows in the [i]Saucy Yolanda[/i], one of the many seedy bars located on Starbase 74. The massive station, a waypoint for both merchant shipping and Starfleet vessels, was spinning away from the ocean world of Tarsis and now faced into the darkness of space. The chattering in the bar, growing a little louder by the minute as the hour rolled closer and closer to midnight, was not a comfort to the Andorian, but rather only served to sadden his soul.

When he looked around at the Starfleet personnel in uniform, he almost could imagine himself back all those years ago - when things made sense. But so much had changed since the Dominion War, and he felt like he was too old to keep up with it. But for a brief moment, he could see the uniforms - [i]they're the service uniform now[/i] - and imagine that he was back on the Idaho. He remembered, quite fondly, the memories of the Idaho's deep space deployment, hitting all the ports from Starbase 305 to Deneb IV. The biggest worry back then was Cardassians, and he remembered how joyous it felt to know that they had left Bajor for good.

"Byn! You old dog!" A familiar voice brought an instant smile to the Chief's face, as he spun around in his chair to see none other than Paul Orlan. The last time he had seen him, it was on the [i]Tonawanda[/i]. Paul was a Torpedoman's Mate, First Class back then, and was ready to rotate out to shore duty as a recruiter on Paradiso, the main planet of the Alpha Centauri system, "I'd recognize those antennas anywhere!"

"Paul!" The smile faded as the Chief took in the sight of his long-lost friend. His eye had been replaced with an ocular implant, and he held a firm wooden cane as he hobbled over to sit down with Byn. He quickly recovered the smile, trying to hide his inner feelings, "do you want a drink? Old friends drink on me."

"Well, if you're paying..." Paul looked over to the holographic waitress, a olive-skinned human woman wearing a red cocktail dress, utilizing new-found technology brought to the Federation by USS [i]Voyager[/i], "I'll take a Romulan ale. And don't give me that synthetic shit, I want the real thing."

"Of course, sir," the waitress bowed and disappeared towards the bar.

"Are you stationed here?" The Chief raised his eyebrow. He hadn't heard anything from his old friend in years, and had thought - quite mournfully - that he perished in the War, "are we at the same position as we were on the [i]Tonawanda[/i], you going out to space and me coming ashore?"

"Oh! Of course not, Byn!" Paul laughed from his stomach, a wide and jovial expression on his face - as if the Andorian had told the funniest joke in the world, "I left Starfleet after the War. You see this?" He pointed to his eye, almost unsettingly inhuman in its mechanical appearance, "a parting gift from the Jem'Hadar," he remarked bitterly, turning his head towards the space out the window, "I had some business on Tarsis to take care of. I'm working in politics right now."

"You?! Politics?!" It was now the Andorian's turn to laugh. [i]Paul in politics...the last thing I would've expected.[/i]

"Yeah, yeah, I know," Paul waved his hand, as the waitress brought over his drink, "oh, yes, thank you," he took the glass in hand and began to sip, causing the Andorian to take a hold of his red wine and nip at it too, "where was I? Oh, right. Well, you know, we live in a new age, my old friend. The Federation..." his voice trailed off, looking into space to find the right words, "...is not what it once was. There's a lot wrong with this rotten system, Byn. The Constitutional Crisis proved that. If they won't give us the rights we were promised, then we'll have to fight for them."

"You're talking like one of those Unity Party types," the Andorian replied dismissively, with a hint of scorn and derision in his voice. [i]I've no time for political extremists. The Federation and its ideals are what keeps us strong, and has guaranteed peace for two centuries.[/i]

"And so what if I am?" Paul retorted, returning the derision with a hint of righteous anger, "you saw what happened last year! They betrayed us!"

"They had no patience with the system. It has always worked. Why wouldn't it work now?" Byn scoffed, and was soon growing tired of this reunion. [i]It's a shame how much has changed...and not for the better[/i], "The Federation ha-"

"No!" Paul cut him off, keeping his voice low but his tone hot, "the Federation has failed us! It failed every one of us that fought in the War," he looked at the Chief with cold eyes, "how can you say this, if you fought?"

"I wasn't on the frontlines," The Chief lamented. He had wished that he was, but the [i]Tonawanda[/i] had been relegated to running convoy escorts between systems.

"Then you could never understand," Paul hissed, all sense of joy lost in his voice as he shot back the rest of the ale. The two sat in silence, both thinking on each other's words. Byn, for his part, could not see any sense in what his friend was saying. While his people were certainly a martial race, he himself was not much of a warrior. He had always put Starfleet and its ideals first, and had never seen a reason for them to fall. In fact, he had wished to fight - only to preserve the Federation and its idealism, "how is Vrimi?"

"She's well...I'm glad to be on shore duty," Byn smiled, glad to be away from the tension, "we've got a little boy now. Named him Ryth, after my father," the proud father beamed, and Paul returned it with a polite smile, "I feel awful for dragging them around the Galaxy for all those years...I suppose the change-up with families aboard vessels has helped matters. They were living on Andoria for a little while, but they came out here to live with me when I was posted out here."

"That's good to hear," Paul congratulated him, and Byn acquiesced with a bow of his head, "June broke it off with me after I came back from the War..." he lamented, looking away again, "the surgeons did the best they could...I was on the ground during the Liberation of Betazed...they tore us apart, Byn," the old friend now had tears in his single organic eye, and sadness could be read on his face, "...half of my right leg is nothing but wires and tubes...and the burns...it took three years of dermal regeneration to repair the scarring tissue on my chest. And it still doesn't look right..."

"I'm so sorry," was all that Byn could say. What could he say? He could feel another silence coming onto the room, and Paul seemed to sense it as well.

"Well, I'd ought to get going, old friend. My shuttle departs in an hour for Vulcan, and I'd better not miss it," Paul rose to his feet, grasping at his cane and beginning to walk away, "it was good to see you."

"It was good to see you too, Paul," Byn lied, but it was a customary thing to do. His old friend waved goodbye as he hobbled away, leaving Byn in the silence of his thoughts.[/hider]

This is CMC Byn.

He has retreated into his office, taking a seat behind piles of datapads and hoping to lose himself within the paperwork - if only to forget the monumental pressure placed upon him and the crew of the [i]Vigilance[/i]. The Command Master Chief buries himself in the leave requests, the training reports, and all of the minute details of Starfleet life. He signs off on the training reports, duly and without any real regard for their contents, and denies all of the leave requests - leaving the final say to the Captain, as always - knowing that their mission will not allow any leave in the near future.

Wanting to prove himself at least somewhat useful, the CMC turns his attention to port visits. [i]Maybe the crew can look forward to that...[/i] it wasn't so long ago, after all, that he himself was a junior sailor aboard one of these starships. [i]Times were simpler back then...[/i] a sigh echoes out of his mouth as he looks over the possible worlds. 

None of them seem particularly inviting.

The Romulan Provisional Government's tenuous hold on the systems under its control seem to prohibit any possibility of extended liberty planetside. And outside of the RPG, anything else is out of the question. The 'Client Races' are in full revolt, most of them lacking any cohesive government to restore order. Even on the Romulan worlds, there seems to be no clear owner - chaos reigning over order.

Never has the CMC felt more useless than in this moment. His head collapses into his hands, the weariness of the changed Starfleet - and the changed Galaxy - weighing so hard on his shoulders that he can barely keep himself together anymore.

But he will have to. [i]I must do my duty.[/i]

This is CMC Byn.

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

[hider=Tremblay's Incident]
[center][img]https://eskipaper.com/images/sunset-tropical-island-1.jpg[/img][/center]

[b]Two Years Ago...[/b]

"Another round on me!"

There are many places one can go to have a good time on Risa. There are sailboat tours that go out into the Sea of Partheous, that allow you to go out into the open ocean and fish for the spectacular bedazzled sea life of the tropical planet. One can go on an extended tour of the island chains that comprise the entirety of the planet's solid-ground surface - they don't call it the Tropical Island World for no reason - and to hike through the jungles and even climb to the heights of the Malone Towers, two gigantic stone formations that look more like skyscrapers than mountains. There is an abundance of native culture, bred from the intermixing of the Federation's multitude of species who have come here looking for peace and tranquility and, most of all, fun, that one can enjoy and immerse themselves in.

But for Lieutenant Tremblay, his only concern - after six months of deep space operations with the [i]Anchorage[/i], was to get drunk. To get so absolutely obliterated that he lost all sense of himself and everyone around him. That he would wake up and not remember what he did the night before. They only had two weeks on Risa before the ship would depart for another six months on the Neutral Zone. [i]And, damn it, I'm going to make it worthwhile![/i]

"Good on you, sir!" Sonar Technician First Class (ST1) Roland van Norden laughed as the bartender, a Trill woman with the most beautiful eyes that Trmeblay had ever seen, brought over another round of large Risian drinks - the name escaping the Lieutenant - which was sure to barrel them ever more into drunkenness. Roland took a drink up in hand, as Tremblay sat down with the enlisted at the table, and raised his glass, "to the Lieutenant! May he become an Admiral one day!"

The enlisted - a series of Petty Officers and even a Crewman or two - laughed, and Tremblay forced a chuckle as he joined in drinking down a gulp to the toast, "if that ever happens, ST1, I give you full permission...no...I give you a direct order to kill me on sight! Put a phaser right here!" He pressed his hand to his sternum, "and pull the trigger!"

The table erupted in joyous - and drunken - laughter. [i]If I get caught here...[/i] the nagging sober voice inside the Lieutenant's head eeked its way into the scene, but with a swift mental shock he managed to silence it. But he wasn't able to deal with it all together. He knew that this was wrong, that he - an officer - was drinking and buying drinks and having a good time with the lower enlisted, and that this was against all the regulations of Starfleet. [i]If someone caught me...[/i]

He drowned out the voice with the glass in his hand, shooting back the clear liquid in the glass down his throat and growing ever drunker. His vision began to spin and he felt himself growing weightless with every second. The dingy bar that they were at, the name long escaping him, was dimly lit and made mostly of wood and drywall. The old tables, made out of the trees native to this world, held carvings from the hundreds of people who graced it with their presence. A single candle sat in the middle of the table in the corner of the bar, populated entirely by Starfleet personnel, and it flickered and waved as the men drank themselves silly near it.

Just as Tremblay stood up, his glass empty, to get another drink, he collided with another sailor. He didn't recognize him immediately as one, since all of the men and women in the bar were wearing their civilian clothes, but the haircut on the human was clearly identifiable as a Starfleet-standard cut. As the bodies of the two sailors collided, a drink was spilled on the fine Risian attire worn by the other sailor. Surprise turned, rather quickly, to anger.

"You bloody fool!" The sailor roared, his voice muddled with intoxication, "watch where you're going!"

"Watch your tongue!" Tremblay bellowed back, his statement more clear but still slurred, "I'm an officer, damn it, and you're going to show me some damn respect!" The Lieutenant, now as enraged as the other, grabbed the sailor by his collar, "what's your ship?"

"The [i]Lombard[/i]...sir," The 'sir' came out like venom, and only served to fuel the rage and the anger within the young officer. Bringing his fist up, Tremblay brought it to bear in the man's stomach. What he wasn't counting on was the other sailor's quick reactions, deftly blocking the shot and then throwing his own. 

And before Tremblay could even realize it, he was knocked back onto the table, the candle falling onto the ground with a crash and glasses shattering in a similar manner. The other sailors, drinking with him, rose to their feet, "[i]Anchorage[/i], on us!" Torpedoman's Mate Second Class (TM2) Bryce Howard was the first to call the men to arms, "let's show these [i]Lombard [/i]bastards whose in charge!"

Chaos erupted in the bar. Men began to fight each other, and even women weren't spared. Tremblay, to his growing horror, watched as the Starfleet sailors turned on each other. One man, a fearsome-looking Andorian, grabbed a Bolian up and threw him out of the large window looking out onto the street. The glass shattered and the fight began to spill out onto the road. Tables and chairs began to break, and bottles were thrown and the broken remnants used as primitive knifes.

Tremblay, scrambling to his feet, watched as Roland brought a broken bottle up to bear against the sailor who had beaten him so soundly. Before the officer could offer a word of protest, he watched as the broken bottle collided with the [i]Lombard [/i]sailor's abdomen. The drunken man let out a cry of agony, before crumbling to the floor.

"We have to get out of here!" Tremblay, the sober voice now taking over as all drunkenness in him was banished, shouted to his enlisted friends, "now!"

With Roland and Bryce in tow, the Lieutenant led his men out of the bar and into the growing chaos on the streets. It seemed as though there was a full riot breaking out before his eyes. Parked speeders were being overturned and Starfleet sailors were brawling with each other and with civilians. But he had no time to take in the sight, as he tried to get back to their hotel. That was the only worry in his mind, as the brawl turned into a riot with sailors screaming epithets at each other and the roar of hand-to-hand combat growing louder.

The only thing louder, piercing his brain, was the sound of the local police, arriving in their hovercraft down the road. In between the local Risian police, he could see Starfleet shore patrol, armed with phasers set to stun, on a direct route to collide with him. Tremblay didn't even have time to turn before a Starfleet sailor aimed his phaser directly at the young officer.

"Hold it right there! You're under arrest!"
[/hider]

This is Lieutenant Commander Tremblay.

The Operations Officer skulks into the Wardroom once more, wanting to remove himself from the bridge and all of the responsibility of being the Chief of Operations and the ship's Third Officer. He never wanted this responsibility, and he never asked for it either. Starfleet, in its infinite wisdom, decided to grant him a second chance. [i]A second chance![/i]

And now, more than ever, he wishes that they had quietly mustered him out of the service. The Lieutenant Commander drags himself towards the replicator, ordering like clockwork his usual drink, and moping his way over towards a wooden table in the corner. There are other officers here - officers he doesn't recognize, nor would he care to talk to them - but he ignores them, taking his seat in the corner.

[i]I should've told them no...[/i] but he knows, deep down, that he wanted to come back. That, in his heart of hearts, he wanted this. He wanted Starfleet, to be out here on the cusp of greatness. To prove himself in deep space. But when he came back from that exile on the Starbase, he thought that he was going to be assigned to a quiet desk job somewhere on some forbidden planet.

Not in his wildest nightmares did he expect to be a Third Officer on a rinky-dink ancient starship, barreling into unknown space to resolve the biggest crisis in Galactic History. [i]God...why did I ever come back?[/i] But as he asks himself the question, he knows the answer.

And he can only let out a sigh, smothering the thought as he shoots back the synthetic alcohol, and wishing deeply that the contents of the drink were the real thing. [i]At least, then, I could forget about all of this...[/i]

This is Lieutenant Commander Tremblay.