JDL | Com Ivanova & Kyym - "Now Sing"

Posted on Sun Mar 1st, 2015 @ 12:31am by Admiral Rochelle Ivanova & Commander Logan Grant, PhD.

1,984 words; about a 10 minute read

Mission: A Spot To Kill

“You will dress as a Queen and follow our customs. It’s important that tradition is maintained, even if you are a human.” Kyym ticked off yet another requirement, standing a short distance away from where the young Queen was being fit for another dress. Tailors hummed and worked feverishly to conform to the human woman’s little body and abundant curves. She was nothing like the lanky Atlanteans. Sweetheart necklines offered an ample view of her buxom breasts. Square lines made her look like a nun. It was hard to walk between Nun and Harlot, especially since they’d never had the task before. Annelisse had been straight forward, willowy, and… Flat. There hadn’t been much to write home about with the woman, even when she was young. It was another one of Kyym’s points of contention with the blustery little redhead she’d ensnared.

Rochelle nodded, her eyes half-lidded as she simply stood there and allowed the seamstresses to buzz about, wrapping, poking, and prodding. While she heard the Atleantan speak, she was leagues away and buried by the avalanche of her own thoughts that plagued her the morning after Hell had broken loose. She wondered how Almar had fared once he returned to the Vindicator and how long it would be until the crew grew weary enough to leave. Admiral Red would likely lose her mind and Admiral Hark would probably put his fist through a wall after he’d stepped out on a limb to give her such a chance – and she’d blown it. Hugely. It had been a constant train wreck, derailing over and over in her mind as each hour came to pass.

“Are you listening to me?” The Atlantean asked, rapidly waving her hand in front of the petite human’s face.

“No.” Rochelle replied, drawing her graze upwards to Kyym’s face, watching her with a defiant spark still offering to burn brightly in her otherwise somber eyes. They were cold. Ice and sleet and hail all pooled in their tumultuous ocean-like fathoms.

Kyym huffed and narrowed a glare. “You said you’d cooperate, your Grace. I expect you to hold up your end of the bargain!”

Eyes rolled beneath high lifted red brows and the Queen shook her head. “Actually, I said I’d stay and do what you asked. I didn’t say that I’d like it, or pretend to. As far as I’m concerned, I’m an unwilling hostage here and just keeping my word instead of just wiping out your entire civilization from orbit.” Rochelle leveled, trying her damnedest to suppress the cocky little smirk that defied the corners of her pout. She hadn’t wanted this for herself, or for Almar. She hadn’t wanted it for anyone involved and that alone seemed to want to feast on her aching nerves and the burning scars on her soul. It had lent itself to breeding resentment that bordered now on hatred for the Atlanteans as a whole, and Kyym for certain.

“Oh don’t be ridiculous, Rochelle.” Kyym sighed in heavy exasperation. “You have everything you could ever want. Forget them. They can’t give to you what we can or what you can create for yourself here. The Cardassian is lucky you spared him, he’ll go on to do whatever it is he thinks he’s accomplishing.” She rolled onward, catching the smaller woman’s ire as it sent shivers down her spine. She knew they’d managed to catch a storm in a bottle and that it was truly only a matter of time before it exploded and raged hard enough to dash them against the rocky shores of their own impropriety. She could only hope that between then and now the Queen’s womb would be properly seeded and an heir produced. Once such a babe was declared safe and steady, they could dispatch the savage Phoenix and do what was needed to mend their broken empire.

Time wasn’t on their side, however. Rochelle’s depression was seeping into anger and anger was dangerous. It was the same hot, explosive anger that had torn through her seeing Logan and Almar held and battered on the throne room floor. She met Kyym’s eyes with a predatory gaze. “You can’t take the sky from me.” She said. The tailors around her stopped for a moment, faltering in their pinning and tugging of the silk they’d folded and draped about her body.

“Is that what you think they gave you? The sky?” The Atlantean laughed heartily and shook her head. “Blue is out for her. She’s too pale and has too much pink under her skin. Green, burgundy, autumn hues.” She quickly redirected the seamstresses and reach to unpin the blue jacquard. It unraveled from around the Queen, rippling and flailing as it spent itself in a pool around her feet, revealing nothing more than the freckled porcelain of skin and the sheen of a white satin short slip beneath it. “Whoever he was, the one you… Bonded with… He’s the one that took the sky from you, your Majesty. He filled your head with the same nonsense the Federation has. Probably told you that he loved you and that you mattered.” Kyym leered and stepped back, watching the clothiers work quickly to remove the offending blue fabric and replace it with a patterned silk the color of dried blood. It lit the Queen’s complexion, set her hair ablaze. It was, in a word, perfect. “That’ll do. Proceed.”

Rochelle didn’t bat an eye as the silk fell. She hadn’t flinched when a pin grazed the skin of her thigh or when Kyym had eluded to Landon. She knew what she meant to the Trill, her place in his world had been cemented long ago and was hardly a point of contention or insecurity. “I don’t matter?” She asked, quirking her head slightly to the right, “And here I thought this was all because you were desperate to keep me here as your Queen. If I don’t matter… I may as well be off.”

“You don’t matter to him or to them. Not to your partner or to the Cardassian. The rest only follow you because they’re pointless and feeble minded rodents and you’re their piper.” Kyym scoffed and shook her head. “Lace. If you gather lace across the hem there it’ll hide some of her… Assets.” She pointed towards where they worked to try and figure out a proper neck line once again.

“He died for me.” Rochelle replied with a shrug and one of the clothiers huffed as the silk fell before they could pin it. True… It wasn’t Landon that had died. It wasn’t Landon who had risked life and limb to rescue her, but it had been an identical clone filled with the same memories and thoughts connected to the Trill and he’d been freed on the same path Landon had set out on when he’d been captured. She knew that push roll to shove, Notura would have ended the same way regardless of whether or not the Romulans had interceded.

“And the Cardassian?” Kyym asked with curiosity ripe in the bells of her voice. Her fingers came up to cradle her chin, index finger long along her jaw as she considered both the woman and the budding garment. “The others?”

The Queen squared her shoulders, steeling away the dire urge to leap from the pedestal and for the Atlantean’s throat as she continued her mockery of a conversation. “He lived for me and taught me how to breathe again.” She replied instead, her jaw tight and her chin lifted in defiance, “The others are the brightest lights that Starfleet has ever had the honor of holding. Each of them has shown me the true definition of loyalty and family. They won’t falter or quit.” Pride swelled in Rochelle’s aching chest as she spoke of her crew and of the Vindicator’s valiant merits. She knew Kyym wouldn’t understand, that such affection and knowledge was lost upon the crazy woman who’d long ago lost herself to some impotent feeling of self-importance.

Kyym shrugged in disinterest, “They’re nothing but your past now. Send them away, your Grace. They’re wasted here. Good riddance to them.” The Atlantean motioned the air away from her as if sweeping the crew away. They were maggots and festering in the wounds that needed to be healed by the prestige of the monarchy. With them around, Rochelle would continue to fight – Kyym simply wouldn’t and couldn’t let that be. She stepped forward, tugged on a piece of lace between the Queen’s breasts, and re-pinned it herself. It covered what needed to be covered, but still yielded to the sickening femininity the woman oozed, not unlike the crew that scrambled to protect and cover the part of the woman that was called ‘Commodore’.


Rochelle barely blinked when the Atlantean's hands grazed so carelessly close to the tracking and biometric device that Archer and Amelia had installed in her bra. Nestled in the fabric that joined the two cups together was a paper thin, pin sized, flexible piece of equipment that monitored her heart rate and core temperature from a far. If it rose, or fell, beneath certain parameters, someone was busting through the door. Without Kyym knowing it was there, it was just one more way that the steely little Phoenix was steadily the war battle by battle. It was going to be a slow go of it, but eventually the Vindicator would make some head way... Or Blyx would call them away and hope would be extinguished. "They're here as my guests. You'll treat them with respect as they're your superiors as far as I'm concerned." She sniffed in response, and the clothiers stepped away to admire their handiwork given Kyym's last touch. To her they seemed satisfied, nodding and murmuring among themselves with what appeared to be pride. "We're done here. I'm needed elsewhere to continue your little dog and pony show." The clothiers scowled at this and looked to Kyym.

Kyym practically snorted in discontent and waived the seamstresses back to the Queen, motioning that they remove the pinned garment from her and set about the task of completing it. "Yes. You are needed elsewhere." She said through tersely pursed lips. "I've taken the liberty of assembling several of the Empire's most eligible men. They're all well bred and educated, you'll pick one of them and be ready to announce your marriage by tomorrow night." The Atlantean practically crooned as the fabric was slipped from Rochelle's tender body. "With some lucky, next month we'll be announcing the pending arrival of an heir." She smiled.

Rochelle simply rolled her eyes, "Don't count on it." She replied and stepped down off the pedestal, irritated and far from pleased as she blew past Kyym and her cronies. She didn't bother to look at any of them or risk engaging Kyym again as she slipped into her robe and head for the door. It was Hell. It was torture, and the longer it was demanded of her to play the game, the closer the little Phoenix came to losing her ability to remain diplomatic. If she made it through these trying times without resorting to violence, or simply having the Vindicator blow the entire civilization back to the stone age, it would be a miracle worthy of her returning to the Catholic faith her aunts had tried to force on her as a child for only divine intervention could stop her from hurdling down that daunting path.

---

Commodore Rochelle Ivanova
Commanding Officer
USS VINDICATOR, NCC 78213-E

&

Kyym
apb Spaceman
Atlantean Ambassador

 

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