-=Star Trek: Distant Horizons=-

[msisko]

Interest Check // OOC // In Character

"There's an old saying, Fortune favors the bold. Well, I guess we're about to find out." -- Sisko

Welcome to Star Trek: Distant Horizons.

Chapter 1: Apocalypse Rising

Setting: Rome: Once an abandoned mining facility to extract the raw minerals from the asteroid clustered around the Paulson Nebula, the facility has been claimed by Forester's resistance cell. The quarters are spartan, the complex itself suited for a small occupancy. Steel deck plates bare against metal walls make for a cold, almost unforgiving atmosphere. The station itself spans 3 decks, the lowest of which houses a hanger bay for mining equipment, as well as the onsite drilling mechanisms. The middle deck has been equiped with a kitchen and mess, a rudimentary gym, and cargo hold, while the top most deck of the facility contains the control center, crew quarters, meeting room, and makeshift medical bay.

[msisko]

The station was silence, and darkness.

Stillness lay over everything inside the old drilling platform, drawing to the forefront of his mind memories that often plagued him in the still depth of the night. Here, it seemed as though it were always night time. All he had to do was turn the lights down, close his eyes, and the serenity of pure darkness would wash over in an instant, and in that instant Michael could transport himself back through time and space itself. Back to happier days at the Academy, where life seemed to weight so much upon an innocent and ignorant young man who thought he knew everything, held every answer, and had the weight of the world setting upon his shoulders. Stress was defined by tests, making the grade, performing well on guided simulations, performance reviews. Back when the totality of his concerns were centered around a beautiful blonde in medical blue, or the press of time before an examination. A time when the stability of the Federation was ironclad: or so everyone thought. If he could talk with himself now, he’d never believe that things could have gone this far: not the cadet… not the him that belonged to an immortal Starfleet.

His hands tightened around the golden rank pips clutched within, while the points of his communicator drug painfully into his palm from the pressure of his grip. To force himself back to reality, back from a place that by comparison seems almost utopian to him, into this world of darkness and dread. This universe where the Dominion holds sway. This place where the Jem’Hadar walk the streets of his home town Helena, where a Cardassian Gul sits in that once sovereign office formerly known as Starfleet Command. This world of darkness, where the light has been forced back to the edges of walls and threshold of closed doors, realms once designated for the shadow.

“Such somberness,” the voice from behind Michael turned the man’s head, and a moment of tension drained to subdued restlessness, as Michael’s eyes spied the old Betazoid standing in the doorway of the control room. Donovan had long since been both friend and confidant to Michael, a former teacher, a former commander, now both equally disturbed by the condition of this galaxy, and the oppression beneath Dominion Rule.

“You’re dwelling again,” Donovan continues, his solid, black eyes bearing down upon Michael, seeming to both offer comfort at the same time as penetrate the man’s skin to search the soul beneath. Normally the depth of Donovan’s gaze gave Michael little concern, as he often stated that he had nothing to hide from the man, but now, he found it to be uncomfortable, almost painful. The feeling drove Michael up from his chair before the control panels,

“Could you cut it with the empathy thing,” Michael spoke, exhaling a breath. “Sometimes I like to reminisce,” he continued, looking over the old betazoid man he’s called friend all these years, feeling so unsure, so exposed as the man continues to stare at him. Michael tries to match those eyes with his own, but that just makes it worse, so he finds himself looking at the head of thick, black and gray hair upon Donovan’s head, as he exhales and stamps in agitation. He knew what he was doing… trying to pry him open like he always did. Trying to get him to talk, to confide. A talent the old man had, to be able to size up Michael and take an accurate measurement without so much as saying a word. At first, it was disarming. Now its simply annoying.

“I just, wanted to wish you well,” Donovan spoke, smirking, holding a hand out towards Michael, which Michael eyed dubiously a moment before grasping. Donovan’s aged eyes sharpened, as he pulled the other closer, touching shoulder to shoulder as he whispered into his student’s ear. The words rose the hairs on the back of Michael’s neck, the force of Donovan’s warm breath, nearly as much as the pressure of his words.

“I will be your eyes, and your ears. If it comes my way, and is of value to you, I promise you, you shall find it at your doorstep… even if it should cost me everything.” He spoke, gripping harder on the man’s hand with a nearly painful grip, causing Michael’s attention to fall back from the voice and tone, to the pain in his fingers, pulling his mind from the reverie, from the darkness that had taken to occupy it, replacing it with a heat of anger derived from pain. Michael could feel the man’s lips curl into a smirk, could hear it on his voice, as he spoke once last phrase.

“I believe in you my boy…”

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

“Though I do wonder, if I can really do this?”

His voice reached out to the walls, to die in the solitude of the station, to fall upon the waiting ears of the specters of history themselves: for he speaks to none in the dark isolation of the mining station. He floats free, gravity reduced to create a weightless environment, allowing Michael to simply dwell in formless thought, with eyes closed, body free of any entanglements of weight and pressure. It was as close to formless as he could manage, as close to surreal, celestial, as he could approach this side of the mortal coil. A different perspective to drive out despair, and center himself towards the task at hand. Its daunting, to dwell on the idea that he has set himself to moving the mountain.. to push back the Dominion without the power of Starfleet at his back. Only its memory is his ally now, his only strength to come from within. But it was far to late to turn back now. The summons already 12 hours old, sent with the ache in his fingers from Donovan’s grip: a quick data burst loosed into the never-ending night of space for those few to find. A brief summons, with coordinates to this station, encoded carefully with help from Donovan… A call to arms..

He knew his time of doubt was coming to an end. That soon he would have to steel himself against these moments, would have to stop living in the past, start looking forward, to standing sure and strong on the top of the hill. These people, they’re entrusting everything, following him down a path that would brand them traitors to the Dominion, criminals in their own homes. They’re following him down a path that would, if caught, led to their execution. He owed them to be sure, and strong in his resolve. And like a Klingon commander, he had accepted their lives into his hands, honor demanded he did not squander that trust.

He stared down at the table, upon which shards of paper were strewn, covered in a malformed chicken scratch of penmanship. The tactile lists left no evidence in the computer of having ever been created, no deletion anomalies if he chose to destroy them, or hide their having ever existed: only a pile of ash upon the metal deck plates. Upon them, scribbled a list of modification, of ideas, battle strategies, thoughts, targets, goals… every thought he could nail down, to collect them, organize them… there were hundreds of them, laid out across the metallic table top, facing every which way, as through simply thrown about its surface. He picked one up, read it… tossed it aside, to pick up another. Ideas from modifications of the Raiders he procured from the Ferengi black market, to the base itself. How to protect the nebula, to the advantages of building inside it. The pros and cons of every foreseeable turn, and yet he knew not even a tenth of what would present itself would find itself here on this table… but he knew their continued existence wouldn’t find itself in these plans.. but in decisions made in the moment.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

He would await their arrival, knowing that one by one, they must make the journey, and one by one, they would arrive. Once gathered, the truth of their convictions would be judged, tempered and forged in the heat of war against the Dominion. Starfleet is not dead. The United Federation of Plants has not fallen. Not while Captain Forester draws breath. The Dominion will rue the day they stepped foot in the Alpha quadrant… and the Cardassians the day Gul Dukat began to draw breath. The doors of Rome opened, awaiting her children to come home.

[Laurenced]

Jak Tra-ell, with bare feet, walked the twisting corridors of Boxes, crates and containors. Batlith, drawn and ready, being held in both hands as he walked quietly through the twists in its makeshift path. The large gaps he approached with caution as if expecting an ambush by a quieter hunter. The hold wasn't grand and Regal like the Shipyard of the high council but when organised proved ample ground
for a hunt.

As Jak hunted his prey so did his prey hunt him. He breath was slow but loud in a growl. Jaks voice proved a great tracker but to follow his voice was as sharp a trap as it was a guide. Jak Tra-ell spoke aloud in his own tongue "Come out, my prey.". He pressed his body against one of the crates and slowly shifted along.

The halls were nothing like his home world where he no would never set foot without shame, He would never set foot on it without bowing his head to avert judging eyes. He would never go until he could earn a great honour that would make the high council grant him all he lost back to him but that would likely kill him. He would gladly do it though. He would earn it upon death for a great battle and
Would his brethren scream to the afterlife.

He called out to the prey "I will find you....". Jak spoke out to the person. More corners, more narrow passages. He called out once to the prey one more time "Come let my Batlith kiss you..." He would not kill it, No... He would find it, Cross with its blade and then relax so that they could once more play the game that the person liked to play.

Jak climbed atop one of the crates and watched the ground below. The prey would be coming close.

[Ruby]

Dahlyn understood the young man's hesitation; theirs was no minor task. But even in leaving Dahlyn would still be the driving force between resource, and intelligence, allocation. Every Federation resistance cell in the surrounding star systems depended on the operation she had been instructed to set up, before expanding it in ways not even the now dead man who gave the order could have predicted. It wasn't any great task or greater glory that sunk the British woman's mind to the dephts of memory and recollection. It was the dead man who gave the order.

It was the first time in Dahlyn's life she had looked upon the face of a dead man still standing. Captain Fields understood what would become of him and the Station. But Dahlyn's hadn't realized until they were out of time, and it was time to get out or dig in for the end. No official record exists, but Dahlyn told Fields to let her stay. To let her try and see if she couldn't pull a miracle out.

A miracle would be getting you and your team safely to Angel One, Lieutenant.

The Captain's response had struck her like a bullet to the brain; it wasn't only the first time she had come face to face with a dead man standing...it was the first time Dahlyn Lattimore had to accept a lot of good people were going to die. Just so she could escape. Dahlyn had to watch from a nearby moon as her former CO engaged the self destruction sequence, rather than see the Dominion get their hands on a Federation space station fully operable and intact. The purple sky above turned white for a flash.

And then thousands upon thousands were dead, and the Dominion had taken the system. Just like that.

The first month of her time on Angel One was spent keeping a group of antsy officers from doing anything rash, anything stupid, and helping out the engineers and maintainers of Angel One as much as she could. Dahlyn had all but forgotten what it was like to go slipping through giant turbines only to be covered in grease to inspect air filtration systems with no more than magnifying contacts and a flashlight. Angel One shared such pleasures and joys, and did so with abundance and no hint of regret over any of it.

It wasn't until Dahlyn helped replace old fashioned fuel rods with zero point energy generators that doors really started to fly open for Dahlyn. The zero point energy generators were expensive pieces of cutting edge technology that would serve Angel One for centuries before a replacement would be needed. All Dahlyn had to do was it get the things shipped from the Golden Triangle to Angel One; on her dime, at her expense. But afterall, wasn't that the point? In providing the generators Dahlyn had proved she was much more than a Starfleet officer.

Of the Angel One citizens...Dahlyn had little use. A few high officials, most especially the head of the colony's strategic defense office, were the extent of Dahlyn's contact on Angel One. She mostly kept to her small group of Officers from Starbase 67: three Ensigns and a Lieutenant Junior Grade. It was the Lieutenant JG she spoke to now; a Tellarite with a meek manner.

He'll be feeding the locals grapes hours after I'm gone.

Angel One women were forceful creatures. The JG Tellarite was anything but. It couldn't end well, Dahlyn knew--but she wasn't asking the Tellarite to do anything outside his natural born capacities. He was simply to ensure the wheels that Dahlyn had set in motion continued to operate like a well oiled machine. She would still control everything.

She'd just be doing it from afar. So if the Angel One women turned the JG into a lapdog...more power to them insofar as she was concerned. She didn't know any of the Officers that had been sent with her. All three of them, she learned, were Intelligence analysts that had been tucked away on the Starbase to analyze movement. Until the Dominion came and blew their house down, at least.

Captain Aelix provided her transport in a small Tal'Shiar stealth scout ship that had a small sleeping cabin in the back, and a smaller cockpit in the front. The rest of the craft was engine, navigation, life support, and cloaking systems. That was it. It wasn't the longest travel time; only about 12 hours. Dahlyn slept most of it, and spent the last lag of the trip awake and entertaining Aelix by answering whatever question came her way from the Romulan Tal'Shiar officer.

"What kind of child were you?"

Dahlyn smirked. "I was strange as a child."

"Heart breaker?"

She was barely able to suppress her own laughter. "The worst."

The response seemed to confuse Aelix for a moment, a moment that looked to pass quickly enough. Aelix had spent the better part of a year picking her brain, and trying to understand her. That's what he called it, at least. Dahlyn was convinced he was looking to turn her into some sort of asset. Or just angling to exert some sort of control over the Federation resistance effort at Rome. It wasn't the only agenda Aelix seemed interested in exerting when they arrived at the small mining backwater backdropped with starlit infinity.

Half an hour after arrival and she was on the planet. "Life signs?"

"Four lifesigns, Doctor."

Dahlyn made a sour, small, face. "And here I thought I'd be able to have privacy. Oh well. To business."

'Business' was nothing more complicated than getting her house in order. Her house was a thirty by thirty prefab steel and transparant aluminium space that had it's own small security system. Dahlyn had worried for weeks what others what think of it. What it would make people think of her. Maybe even Forester. She cared what Forest thought, for a few good reasons. He was a friend in a universe where, in excruciating suddeness, Dahlyn suddenly found herself with precious few. She didn't trust most of the Angel One people. And even those she trusted...it was a passing sort of trust. The sort of trust thrusted upon her due to the needs of the moment, more than any other higher standards.

Half of the woman looked like they wanted to eat her. The other half was mixed; Dahlyn was either a wonder and useful guest, or she was a serpent looking to make the most of the situation, caring nothing for Angel One. Some even accused her of spinning conspiracies to turn Angel One to Federation membership should the Federation pull the impossible.

No friends there. The team? The Tellarite was a soft, gentle soul. He could be a friend...but there was something about the man that didn't sit well with Dahlyn well. It wasn't until a month ago that it finally hit her: The man's a coward. He was a junior analyst pushed into service from a civilian life. His civilian life? He was a clerk in a starship interiors service on Tellarite. The other two...one was Vulcan. Dry, bland, whatever. The other was a human man with light blonde hair and a boyish face. He had been a reporter before the war.

Neither were someone she felt comfortable around. Not that it mattered. As soon as she arrived to Angel One she arrived pleasant arrangements at a windfarm just outside the main hub of Angel One. Fields of grave, waving trees with boughs of polished composite materials; each tipped with lazy, drooping, strands of LEDs that grew in illumination with the force of the wind. In a recent wind storm Dahlyn learned that the lights turned red when winds reached dangerous speeds.

Useful bit of information, she found. It wouldn't be the last bit of information; from that location on Angel One she would build a strong electronic and human intelligence and materials network to give the sparks of the resistance something to make purchase on. Something solid in which to combust the resistance into something much larger.

But even all of that was far away and forever ago now. Dahlyn had two mag lifts, and an endless spectrum of boxes ranging from the high tech concealed secure cargo trailers to light and thin plastic boxes filled with important PADDs. When she established the little space near the entrance of the mines themselves it was as a personal office. When you chased the near infinite loops and twists of the legalities, of this trust and that incorporation, through that non-profit to that action committee...you eventually arrived to something that, though indirectly, belonged to the Baroness Arbury. To Dahlyn.

Owning it wasn't the reason for the space under the mining facility. That was to continue managing her network from afar instead of handing it over to the Lt JG Tellarite. Grapes, she thought every time the man came to her mind. A bitter thought. And to work on, and monitor, some other projects. There was a small sleep space and a small kitchenette/replicator and table that was filled with boxes and gadgets and a pair of sweat pants. The sweat pants were the first thing to get put into it's proper place. The maglifts and the facility's upgraded computer made quick work of it.

Leaving was, for her, a matter of a site to site she had established weeks ago when she first put the prefab together. Her room in the facility had more room, and a nicer bed...since she had replaced it with a new mattress. And sheets. And cleaned everything. Every corner, every narrow space. Every time forgotten spot after another until she felt as if her skin wouldn't crawl off if her bare skin brushed something.

First she would try to sleep. Dahlyn didn't know the time. She could easily look, but she had already slipped into the bed, and sighed her body into a relaxed state. Moving from planet to planet, from system to system, on such a long a flight. Then the subsequence unpack and putting everything into something kind of presentable order and state. Dahlyn just knew she was tired. That she was exhausted.

For once, Dahlyn prayed for sleep to come quick and easy.

[Gunther]

The Island Pearl is an older Groumall class Cardassian military freighter, decommissioned from military service and sold to the highest bidder. Klak, son of Kang, a QuchHa'Klingon purchased the vessel for what he considered a reasonable sum. The ship was previously used as a cargo vessel in the 2370s. After the destruction of the Federation, many of the ships were demilitarized and sold like the Island Pearl which was known by another name prior to Klak's purchase.

Klak and his crew purchased and installed two Cardassian manufactured Spiral Wave disruptors; one at the bow and one in the stern. The disruptors had never been used, but occasionally, the crew relied on its deflector shields to get out of unsavory situations.

The Island Pearl frequently made runs between the The Hyralan Sector (Romulan neutral zone) and Kronos, the Klingon Empire. Occasionally, the ship made runs to sol and other distant locales. That was how Nick Harman was able to sign on as Helmsman aboard the armed freighter with a crew of 48 souls.

As a former Starfleet officer, he was accustomed to working with other races, but had no intention to tell anyone about his previous connections to Starfleet. Initially, he found the Cardassian controls confusing, but slowly understood how they operated and was able to control the ship quite easily. Klak was less forgiving for his occasional blunders, beating him about the head from time to time.

Trying to get a feel for his place aboard the ship, Nick resisted striking his Captain back at first. The last time the Captain struck Nicolas Harman in the temple, Nick stood up and landed a left hook across the the Klingon's jaw. It was as if a light went on inside the older Klingon's head. His eyes flared, he smiled, then placed his hands up on his hips and proclaimed quite loudly, "Mr. Harman, you may make a decent Klingon after all!" The Klingon laughed heartily returning to his seat on the bridge. From that day forward, the Captain found a new respect for his human pilot and even included him in his nightly bloodwine parties. Nick found the Klingon liquor overpowering and struggled to drink it. It was very powerful. After some time, he grew accustomed to it. On occasion, he would water it down, never letting his Captain see this.

The Island Pearl often carried such commodoties as dilithium, latinum, metals, personnel, Saurian brandy, tribbles, warp cores, Romulan ale, replicators, Klingon foodstuff, hologenerators, medical supplies, antigrav devices, quadrotriticale, raktajino and various other trade goods. On this date the ship was carrying thirty cases of Saurian Brandy, five barrels of Klingon Bloodwine, ten tons of dilithium and twenty tons of luxury items bound for Kronos.

The ship was passing through the Paulson Nebula when a malfunction occurred in the engine. The ship was able to manage some power to its impulse drive. Enough to slowly approach a lonely mining station near a place called Rome. Normally, the ship avoided the Paulson Nebula due to the high concentrations of dilithium hydroxyls, magnesium, and chromium. These blocked the navigational systems aboard any space traveling ships. Klak, the ship's captain had been to the former mining station and appeared to know what he was doing. It was as though it was no accident that they arrived at this station.

The crew of the Island Pearl are from all over the galaxy, primarly the Alpha quadrant. There are seven Klingons, five humans (earth), five humans (Europa Nova), five Bajorans, four Vulcans, four Betazeds, four Aenar, three Andorians, three Napians, two Romulans, two Tandarans and one Ferengi. The Tandarans served as Engineers.

Nick Harman was feeling comfortable aboard the Island Pearl. Some might say complacent. He kept his desire to fight the Cardassians to himself, although none among the crew were actually fans of the Dominion. Nick didn't know who he could trust. There was something about the Romulans that prevented him from trusting them, specifically. The Captain enjoyed Nick's company enough to the point where they regularly sparred with each other in the cargo bay using an assortment of weapons. The crew would place wagers to see who would win the matches. Occasionally others would get in on the regular fighting matches. Although, Klak believed he won more ofthen than Harman did, in reality, they were relatively evenly matched for one another skills and abilities. But the Klingon was also twenty years senior to the Human.

The two hundred and fifty meter long, former Cardassian freighter docked with the minining station. Captain Klak, Nick Harman and two other bridge crew members made their way to the docking platform to greet who was on the other side.

[msisko]

Michael lay in his bunk, staring up at the metal ceiling, finding sleep to be an elusive thing. Isolation was in abundance recently, since having left the Bolarus sector, it was all Michael could do to find someone to talk with, but he was finding in these times of peace, he wasn’t completely able to fit in. He felt awkward, useless. The feeling just reminded him how much he longed to be back in the bottom of a bottle, and how close he had come to losing himself to it. That was, at least until he met Dahlyn. For the briefest of moment shared beneath the setting sun on Angel One, amongst the trees of the central park, where casual conversation paused for a moment and the dying light of a feeble sunset shone pristine in her eyes, he was reminded of the beauty found in the universe. Though the Dominion shrouds all in darkness, to him she is a reminder of what awaits in the shadows; waiting for the sun. In truth, it had been but a moment in time, a blessing hidden by the slightest of smirks, and the very faintest of laughs to push the moment into history and deny the heart the ability to dwel. And because of it, because of that one instance, where celestial light played inside the brilliant azure of her eyes, Dahlyn possessed a place amongst the important souls of his lifetime.

Her presence her was a stabilizing force, and more so because he valued her technical skill. Of course, she was valuable in that regard, as valuable as the Klingon would be on the battlefield, and yet she was a pillar he would rest upon, though she may not even know it, or value the position. That is the nature of friendship, to support, sometimes without even knowing you’re doing it.

The computer chirped, and Michael sat up, sliding his hand upon the control next to the bed that would raise the lights, bathing the darkened quarters in a dim, white glow, as the computer’s voice announced the approaching of an unknown cargo vessel, Cardassian configuration. For a moment, Michael simply wondered if the core Dahlyn installed was still in the processing of being renovated, that the sensor anomaly was something registered by the process, when he turned and looked to the monitor in his quarters. His eyes ran over the sensor data quickly, making short work of the specifications for the old Klingon’s boat, as he was already familiar with the rig. Klak had been an old business associate, a trader whom he had learned to trust since the fall of the Federation. An asset, to say the least, though, at times, it does seem as though his timing could use some discussion.

“Dahlyn,” Michael spoke up, accessing the communication’s system by speaking aloud to a member of the crew currently not at his present location. These new, intuitive computer systems sometimes gave Michael pause, wondering just how sophisticated their programming… he could never wrap his head around the totality of it.

“Looks like Klak has made it back with those.. I don’t know.. parts you were looking for,” Michael spoke, knowing the Klingon had been hired to smuggle equipment, but the actual laundry list wasn’t something Michael had bothered to commit to memory. He exhaled as he began to dress, pulling the Starfleet uniform over his bedclothes, before sitting down to lace his boots.

“Meet me in the airlock?”

Michael stood before the air lock alone. Earthen eyes bearing into cold metal as though he could pry the doors open by force of stare alone, waiting for the captain of the ship that docked against his station to come onboard. The arrival of the old freighter, the Island Pearl was expected, but Michael had thought the captain to have enough sense to remain under the cover of the Paulson nebula, not sticking out like a sore thumb docked up to the side of an abandoned mining station. If a patrol ship were to pass by, anywhere within sensor range and spy the old freighter… it was gambles like these that always made Michael think twice about hiring the old Klingon, and yet Klak was as reliable as they came these days, and for a little extra, he would ask no questions.

Perhaps it bought the man a little credit. A little.

Michael straightened his uniform’s tunic as he stood, waiting for the freighter captain. On Earth, wearing a Starfleet uniform was a sentence of death, but here Michael felt that it served as a reminder. Of who he was, of what he was about. It would be so easy to simply fight, to turn upon the Dominion with a blood rage, to create the largest pile of causalities he could muster, go out a vigilante. He’d make the news broadcasts. An insane man in a Starfleet uniform, taken down in a blood rage by the Jem’Hadar.. No. He was better than that. There was more riding on this than his own, personal agendas. The uniform served to remind him of what he fought to protect, what he fought to see returned to this region of space. The uniform was more than a simple rebellious statement, more than a flipped finger at the Dominion’s back… it was a statement of who he was: Captain Forester of the USS Ishtar, who led nearly 800 crewmembers to their death. And he could tell you the names, ages, and ranks of every last one of them.

And as much for them, for all of them, who gave their lives in that valiant struggle against overwhelming odds, did Michael wear the uniform: in remembrance… to say that their sacrifices were not simply some chaotic cost of war. Because removing it felt as though he was giving up, that the Federation was indeed as dead as the Dominion said it was.

And so when the door opened to admit Klak and his entourage, Michael stood on the other side the metal bulkhead, his earthen eyes alive with the energy of his convictions, as the Klingon’s eyes quickly found his own. Klak always searched a man’s gaze for the strength that was within, judging as much in a momentary glance as he did by what was said, or the manner in which it was spoke. Michael’s eyes would portray a blade, hard iron forged in the heat of battle. The expression of wills would last but a moment, before Michael’s eyes would trail to the others in Klak’s party, looking each of them over for a moment, before turning his eyes back to the Klingon.

“Your ship is a neon sign that we’re here,” Michael spoke, looking past the man briefly, to the inside of the Cardassian ship, as though expecting something else to come along with the old Klingon freighter captain. Michael stood still, the only movement was in his eyes, his body a stalwart fixture, blocking them from the interior of the station, form whatever relaxation or respite from the inside of the cargo freighter that the old mining station could offer.

[Christiefries]

The room was dark, omit a single light hung from the ceiling, dim and red. Reflections bounced off of the shiny surface of a table in the center of the small chamber, beside it stood a tall, dark silhouette with broad shoulders. The red light behind the figure outlined a uniform with streaks of crimson trailing down across the elaborate details. Sarish Julis felt the familiarity of the situation, her breathing quickening as she realized what was to happen. Running towards what she thought was a door, her hands trailed across the surface in search of a handle, but could find none. Heavy footsteps approached her, causing her to quickly slide across the wall as she desperately attempted to find an exit. Her hand slid across damp and rough surfaces, scraping along her soft flesh. Glancing back, the figure was mere inches from her, startling her as she fell backwards, only to be caught in muscular arms.

The figure turned out to be a male, his features hidden by the dim lighting and her blurry vision. Her fingers trailed across his face, inspecting the creases of what was no other than a Cardassian. Her body was placed roughly on the table with a loud thud as a scream built up in her throat, but for some reason, was unable to escape. A cold, metal restraint clamped tight across her torso, restricting her movements to be minimal if at all. Her head shook from side to side, tears trickling down her face. Warm fingers wiped her tears away, stroking her cheek gently before removing themselves to fiddle with some small objects. After a few quiet clings, one of the objects was lifted in front of her face, the shine bouncing the red light into her eyes harshly, blinding her for a split second as she inspected the device. On the other end of the handle was what appeared to be a sharp blade, confirmed as it slid across her cheek slowly.

A soft moan escaped past her lips as her flesh was torn apart, gradually releasing a warm fluid from beneath her epidermis. The liquid slid down her cheek, only to be wiped away by the previous warm fingers of her captor. She watched as he lifted the fluid to his face, wiping it across his forehead. This act confused her greatly, as well as the hand being placed on her inner thigh. Finally, her vocals allowed her to let out a partial scream, causing the Cardassian to squeeze her thigh roughly. When she ceased screaming, the squeezing stopped. She screamed again, this time being squeezed even harder. Sarish bit her lip to avoid screaming any more, but the squeezing persisted, getting tighter and tighter. She jerked her body from side to side, screaming louder and louder as she closed her eyes, feeling the wound in her cheek ripping apart even more, a waterfall of the blood heard splashing beside her ear. The last sensation she felt was the Cardassian ripping off her earring and slapping it across her face.

Sitting up, her bloodcurdling scream bounced off the walls as she placed her head in her hands, rocking back and forth quickly. Her tears soaked her hands, never seeming to end in their supply. A quick glance around the room revealed her to be in her bed, an adjacent window looking out into the star-filled sky. Her frightened scream turned to that of anger as she picked up her pillow and thew it across the room with great force, a loud thud echoing as it slammed against the opposite wall. Hopping out of bed, she ran up to the wall and punched it fiercely, giving out a final scream before she collapsed to the floor on her knees. Her fingers rubbed along the protrusion across her cheek, the wound no longer recent, but instead that of the past. Wiping the tears away, she lifted herself from the floor and proceeded to ready herself for the day and tend to the wound on her knuckles.

~~~

Her arrival at the station led to introductions to various other freedom fighters, one of them being a Klingon by the name of Jak Tra-ell. Soon after they had agreed to play a game and test their skills against each other, practicing for the inevitable battles in the future. Sarish was unsure of how she felt about the Klingon at this moment, having not gotten to know him well enough, but sparring with him would tell her if he was worth their resources at least.

As she crept alongside the various containers, she listened to his loud proclamations as he foolishly gave away his position. Most Klingons she had met were quite egotistical, their pride more of a disadvantage than anything in her mind. His statements confirmed her argument, as if he thought he was too far superior than her to matter if he hid himself or not. Sarish was not so naive as to underestimate the physical power of a Klingon, but she was intelligent enough to know that with the use of proper techniques she could easily disarm him. A full out hand-to-hand combat however proceeding the disarmament would prove to be a challenge, given his superior strength over her. The Bajoran braced herself for the situation, scheming ways in her mind to be swift in her attacks and escapes, ready to dodge at any given moment.

Silently, she made her way around the corners of boxes and crates, following behind him as she kept a safe distance. As he loudly beckoned to her, he had climbed atop one of the containers, watching intently the ground below. With her hands, she gripped the edge of the container as she lifted her body, landing softly on the surface behind him. Her breathing came to a halt as she crouched, remaining perfectly still as her mind focused on her target, listening carefully to every movement and breath he took. Slowly, and very carefully, she removed a knife, gripping it tightly as she raised it to her side. A foot was gradually placed in front of the other as she neared the Klingon, bent slightly before extending in her jump, the other leg swinging around in a kick before snapping back beneath her feet.

The kick was aimed at the small of his back with the goal to unsteady his balance. Once landing, she would immediately lower into a crouch as the other leg swung around and against his legs to knock him down. Her knife was raised, ready to lash out at him at any opportune moment, her feet planted beneath her firmly as she prepared to dodge the swing of his Bat'leth.

[Laurenced]

Combat, Glorious combat, even if it were small and ultimately pointless, Kligons enjoyed the show, the rush of blood in his muscled veins as strike proceeded strike. Jak had been from combat for far too long, It seemed almost unnatural that he was deprived of it. On his homeworld, To fight may as well of been a form of greeting. Their entire lives revolved around Honour and combat, or at least mostly that.
The High council mediated and ruled the house both large and small. They drew the sword of honour swat away those who broke it.

The very blade that fell upon Jak Tra-ell, a sword whose gleam shone clove his honour in twane. He brought the weapon down upon himself for uncontrolled and despicable rage, A rage that once he felt that was just. Now, It was despicable for his honour and standing with his people lay shattered. Jak slew the runt that was his rival and for it, his discommended.

Tavert Naren, still a name that he spat. Still a name that he thought was as much a dishonour to his people as his own actions. Tavert was no honourable Klingon but a thief of Glory and honour, the families would strike at each other. Naren duelled Tra-ell for honour, individual, and Jak would smirk with pride as Naren each time lay defeated but when there was war the worms would steal glory at the last minute.
A Thief of Glory and he played fun with Maern, A blade in one hand and shadows in the other, leaving her struck down and wounded.
It had boiled long, Jak's anger and disgust for Tavert, and when Maern was struck down, He was sick.

They met, one last time, in a Duel to the death where his cowardice was to be his last.

Tavert struck Jak back and, before Jak could lunge back, Tavert threw aside his weapon and begged for his life. He roared at the Cowardly ass "you beg for your life? No.... You have suffered my inaction long enough.. you will die a coward whether or not you beg". The crowd, that roared with glee at the fight, was dimmed to a murmur as duel ground to halt but as Jak walked to Tavert, the eyes were transfixed on him.
Jak took the worn leather grips of the Batlith tightly and with a swing cut Taverts neck half-open.

His rage had slain an unresisting opponent. Tavert lay in his death-throws, Blood trailing down the dying torso of his body. The Crowds jeering at Jak Tra-ell calling him a cacophany of words he would never wish to hear again.

.............

The familiair anger boiled as the Bajoran struck her back and with elegant speed displayed her to himself. Quick, Swift. She was a perfect Anti-thesis to how he would fight.
The speed he could wield were he one but Jak knew all to well that this speed would be his undoing if he didnt not confront it. Jak felt the kick of the woman go against his back, the sharp club against his back.

A Shattered balance. A new anger formed at being caught like he was. His feet staggered as he fought to regain it but he was met by the Bajoran's sword leg.

It had tripped him and now fell like a boulder onto the ground, caught only by the spikes of his batlith and the palm of his other hand. He looked to his side and saw the crouched Bajoran. He was there only for a moment as he clenched his open hand and began swinging it at her.

[Gunther]

Klak stood six foot five inches tall with graying temples and grayed beard. He wore a d'k tahg or Klingon Dagger tucked into his belt. It was one of those things he grew accustomed to doing. You are not a true warrior unless you are carrying some weapon on you at all times; at least that was what Klak, son of Kang thought.

The door opened and Michael Forester stood there wearing a Starfleet uniform with the four gold pips of a Captain. Nick Harman's eyes were immediately drawn to the man in uniform. Instinct caused him to stiffen slightly as if he were coming to the position of attention. It was a reflex action more than anything; barely noticeable to a civilian who had never served in a military organization.

Thoughts rushed through Nick's mind. He remembered throwing his uniform away when he ws on earth. Starfleet officers and crewmen were publicly executed simply for wearing the uniform. Separating yourself from anything to do with Starfleet was a necessity for survival. Was it better to show pride in the uniform and die a meaningless death simply because you stood up for your convictions? On the other hand, is it better to conceal your identity and wait until the opportunity to fight back presents itself.

Nick Harman stepped onto the mining station at Rome with the hope, the expectation that the opportunity to fight back against the Jem'Hadar, The Dominion was right here. Seeing Captain Forester in uniform only fueled his desire to fight back. Maybe this man was part of the resistance. Nick was truly excited to be here.

Captain Klak clasped the Captain's hand and shook his shoulder. "Greetings, Captain!" The Klingon spoke. "I hear that old Klingon chuntoka is hiding out here some place? I would very much like to see him. I have a barrel of bloodwine for him." The word chuntoka means evader or someone hiding from the authorities. It was meant both in a friendly sarcastic tone and the realization that he was hiding from the Dominion. Naturally, he was referring to Jak Tra-ell.

Klak could tell Captain Forester was troubled by something. He mentioned somethign about the ship being tied up so close to the station. Klak was obliging. He turned to Nick, "Mister Harman, could you take the Island Pearl and bring it into the Nebula and then return with the shuttle? Take a barrel of bloodwine from my private stock."

"Yes sir!" former Lieutenant Harman responded. He looked the Captain up and down one last time before leaving. He really felt invigorated seeing the starfleet uniform. It gave him a sense that a resistance really did exist.

Nicolas Harman strode onto the bridge, "The Captain wants the ship back in the Nebula. Apparently the folks on the mining station are concerned about the Dominion finding this place." The other bridge crewmen listened and attended to their stations. The Executive Officer, a Vulcan nodded and watched as Nick Harman separated from the docking platform, using impulse drives, moved the Island Pearl back into the Nebula.

Once the ship was concealed from view, Nick turned to the XO and told him Captain Klak's wishes for the helmsman to bring his shuttle to the mining station. The Vulcan was in no position to override the Captain's request and permitted the earthling to perform his task.

Within the half hour, Nick Harman docked the shuttle in the bay at the bottom of the mining colony. He locked the vehicle down and joined his Captain along with Captain Forester. He wanted to hear more about how he came to this colony and what he had done for Starfleet before and during the war. Nick was very excited to speak to the man.

[msisko]

“Forester to Jak Tra-ell and Sarish. If you would be so kind as to come down to the airlock,” Michael spoke, sparing a glance for Nick Harmon as he was sent about his task. Something about the man spoke of the fleet, perhaps it was the way in which his glance at Michael had affected him. Yes, he noticed the momentary flinch, as though only a month out of uniform. It was the same for Michael the first time, when he watched that Lieutenant Command drug out into the streets of Paris, in full uniform, beaten by four Cardassian officers before finally shot. It had taken everything Michael had to hold his feet, to stop himself from jumping into the fray: from joining in the man’s punishment. But he knew it would serve nobody if he died a martyr. It was as Admiral Nash had instructed them, that day Starfleet died. Survive. Find that time to strike.

For Michael, this was that time. He could wait no longer. After that day, he could take it no more. He went home, and pulled his old uniform out from the chest in the basement, packed it along with a few essentials, and a fifth of whiskey… the road had been long, filled with blurred memories, burned away by the Whiskey… until she came along, and he traded one vice for another.

Michael turned his attention back to the old Klingon, whom he had met his first trip from Sol, having himself booked passage on the cargo ship turned star liner for the desperate. The old Klingon captain was what you’d expect to find out of the blood, a solid, honorable man, with an oath that, in a time of Cardassian oath breakers and cold hearted Jem’Hadar, was a rare true gift. Though he wasn’t so sure about all of the old Klingon’s crew. He found money enough to ensure their loyalty, or so Forester believed, but Michael had never learned to trust, at least completely, when the Romulans came into the picture. Or the Ferengi for that matter.

“So Captain, where is your next port, before heading back this way. Perhaps we can discuss arrangement for another layover in the nebula, an exchange of cargo,” Michael spoke, knowing the benefits of a few cases of Saurian brandy, or Romulan ale, along with some other much needed supplies: gel packs, biofilter replacements…. Weapons. A laundry list of consumables that he’d like to speak with the old warrior about, to see about procurement.