JL | Com Ivanova, Capt Neyes - "The Kind of Snow That Kindles Fire" pt I/III

Posted on Fri Apr 24th, 2015 @ 2:40am by Admiral Rochelle Ivanova & Captain Landon Neyes

2,152 words; about a 11 minute read

Mission: Agua Mala

Cold Station Theta was an interesting place.

Vaguely reminiscent of Deep Space Nine, as far as architecture, it seemed poised to be an epicenter of trade and commerce leading in from the lawless ‘west’ of known and explored space – hardly the rumored hot bed for criminals and pirates. Then again, Admiral Blyx Red had come blowing in like a category five and cleansed crew and station alike of whatever she deemed to be impure. The mental image of the spirited crow haired Admiral wandering around with a smoking bundle of white willow sage and turkey feather, smudging away evil from every corridor and conduit, brought a chuckle to Rochelle’s weary lips. Something told her the mental picture likely wasn’t far from the truth of what had happened when Red reclaimed her turf from the black.

Leaning against a rail overlooking the main promenade, the young Commodore closed her eyes, allowing herself the briefest moment of repose. Her crew was safe, the ship hadn't a scratch on her, but she knew there would be emotional scars. They’d come together, bound tightly to the premise of comradery, and Instead of backing down and leaving, they’d forged – hard as steel – against the aspect of losing and abandoning one of their own. Just as she’d reached the end of her rope, the Vindicator had given her an entirely new length from somewhere yet to be found and she knew better than to look a gift horse in the mouth. The point, however, remained that she’d likely be dead if it hadn't been for their stubborn determination. In retrospect, that statement remained true more than she’d liked to admit. It was always something. Just around the corner any number of enemies and boogeymen waited in the shadows to reach out and snatch away her last breath.

"...Is that her?" He asked idly, already knowing the answer.

"Yeah." The other man answered.

At twenty-seven, Rochelle knew her career was only just truly getting started – but all that remained to conquer would be the arduous nature of a desk job if she ever accepted another promotion. It spoke of stability and the mundane, hardly the excitement of running wild through the stars to protect, defend, and explore. In exchange for the often reckless measures she was forced to take to keep the Vindicator, and her crew members, alive, Rochelle was promised the chance to settle down, raise a family, and enjoy the rest of her youth with a far less intense threat to her safety and well-being. “But what kind of life would that be?” She asked herself under her breath, shaking her head and shifting her weight from one hip to the other.

"So?" He pressed.

"...Yeah."

And then there was Landon. Always on her mind, lurking and waiting for his chance to slip to the forefront of her thoughts, he was the one piece of the proverbial puzzle she couldn't seem to ever make fit. Like her, it seemed cosmic forces were bound and determined to wind him up and disappoint him after allowing just a tiny, teasing taste of the sweetness life could offer. Whisking her fingers over frost pinked cheeks and tucking hair back behind her ear, Rochelle set her elbows against the rail and lay her chin in her palms, watching a young couple as they strolled along the crowded expanse beneath her. They were the lucky ones, she thought, but the feel of the ring the Trill had left for her sagging against the front of her shirt, as if it were the man himself gently tugging, reminded her of her own good fortune. There or not, he was hers and come Hell or high water she knew he’d find a way back to her – a thought that brought a whisper of a smile to her lips and lit her tired eyes.

"...are you-"

He made his move.

Memories of Atlantis Prime and her meeting with Admiral Archer had sucked from her whatever energy stores Rotek’s demanded rest had brought her. He’d done what he could to patch her up; getting rid of the bruises, knitting the broken ribs, easing the concussion, erasing the worst of the frost burn, and of course disappearing any trace of the laceration to her throat -- but he couldn't get rid of the Gods damned nightmares that had kept her on the cusp of wakefulness the entire trip from Atlantis to the station. After dreaming of Tr’Bak, and nearly drowning in her tub, sleep had been the last thing she’d wanted to encourage and, in her current gritty state, the shadow of an approaching stranger only served to add fuel to the fire and with a grumble, the Phoenix found herself leaving her perch. Tugging on the hem of her tunic and squaring her shoulders, she made herself as uninviting as possible, unwilling to welcome idle chit chat during a time when all she wanted to do was to find a state of dreamless slumber.
The walk back to the sanctity of Vindicator would be a long one, she could feel it.

Without warning a soft hand slid effortlessly into Rochelle's as she let her mind drift thoughtfully. It felt strong and supple, and very familiar. It tugged on her wandering spirit, and beckoned her to follow without breaking the finite barrier of personal space. Attached to the hand was a man who didn't speak, but kept walking with her hand in his. He was calm and strode with purpose, like a man who took the hands of strangers every day. Above his head hung a soft, loose hood, and there was no making out his features beneath it no matter how hard she tried. As he strode past her, the hand fell out of her grip just as easily as it had entered it, and he kept walking. He didn't stop, and turned a sharp corner just past the rounding of the overhead walkway.

Initially she flinched at the touch, bracing to shy away and quickly transform into the blow hard fire bird so many had come to brand her as. The hand dwarfed hers. Palm to palm it knit with her slender fingers in a way that seemed so effortless and tailor made. A glance upwards, through eyes filled with surprise and ire, only revealed a ghost strolling along with her for a stride, then two. By the third – and before she could even consider complaining – he was gone and the odd chill of him was quickly replaced by the stagnant air of the station. Perplexed, the Commodore slowed her step to watch as he disappeared, and then realized her fingers had reflexively closed over something small that had been pressed into her palm.

Left in her hand was a single, solitary, solid gold pip.

Landon.

Rochelle knew she should call Archer, someone, anyone, and report that the Trill likely brained his brother to find his way back to the Vindicator – but it didn't seem important. Her pace quickened, breaking into a jog for a handful of strides before she reined herself back into what could only be described as a power walk. Running would only attract attention that they couldn't afford. Of course, in her heavy mix of anger and excitement, it never crossed her mind that it could all have been a rouse and the hooded man an assassin sent to finish the job and end any and all knowledge of the cloned symbiont – at least it didn't until she rolled that corner into a darkened corridor that lead to off-promenade shops long closed for renovation. "Shit." She hissed, going against her better judgment with every step. It had to be him. Had to be. Not a boogeyman, not a goblin, not one of the water-world rejects. Him. Deep in her chest, and rising into her throat in the form of a tight knot, the rushing sound of her elevated heart rate drowned out the soft blows of her dress boots against the deck as she searched for any sign of the man who had handed her the pip.

A pair of light footfalls tapped against the metal grate of the deck, and the hooded man stood a few feet in front of her. He turned back to face and meet her as she came around the corner, his face still shadowed by the hood draped over his head, covering what identity she longed to discover. It took a moment for him to step back out into the light and look up to apparently 'see' her. His first step was slow and hesitant, like he was afraid to make a mistake. Unsure. The second was noticeably faster, but only just. He took it with measured care, and his hands were clearly visible. He wore a fitted tunic of light grey leather, zippered up the center leading to the thin cloth hood. It stretched against his form briefly as his sleeves reached up to pull the veil away, and he took another step. As if wading into a pool of uncertain temperature, his body language was smooth and even while taking every moment to carefully gauge the air around him.

Above Rochelle's head the buzzing of a light suffering from and electrical short only served to further unseat the intrepid young Commodore and her pace slowed. The stranger was the right height, the right build – but so many were. His advance only served to bolster her assumptions, preparing the battle weary little tactician for what may come of this chance encounter with the unknown. Have faith, some inner voice tugged at her proverbial cuff. In response, she canted her head slightly to the left and eyed him nearly side long, trying to decipher him from that new angle as she deposited the pip into one of her uniform pockets and continued on. Her own body language spoke volumes of her unsteady confusion, but the bright burning light of tenacity within her, that never seemed to die, promised any action would be met with kind.

From above, the dim lights raked against the man’s features to reveal exactly what she’d expected. The bare spotted skin of his forehead slid out into the open glow, and the fine stubble of his once longer hair trailed down from the top of his head to the tip of his chin – and in that moment the pained, but relieved expression, of Landon Neyes broke out from the shadows and into the downward cast orange glow of the work-lights above them. His breathing was deep and burdened, his heart obviously bearing the full assault of his emotions, but not a single word left his lips as he moved faster toward her, his eyes tearing across hers, and he didn't dare to look away.

Resigning herself to a quickened walk was one of the hardest things the Phoenix had ever had to do. Her eyes widened and the cant of her head righted itself when the flickering lights released their secrets and ushered her curiosity away. It was quickly replaced with a rush of a thousand indescribable emotions that escaped her in a softly huffed and strangled whimper. Rochelle didn't want to look behind her, behind him – she didn't want to know what lay in wait for them or if the darkness hid any of the monsters that desperately wanted to end them; the demons could be banished for just a minute or two.

Upon reaching him, standing toe to toe with the man she loved more than the night sky loved the stars, she released the breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding since his reveal. Her anger could wait beside the aforementioned demons. Standing there, as if caught in a dream, the Commodore's head shook slowly as she looked up to keep his gaze, afraid that if she looked away it would all be dashed away by the squelch of an alarm. Slowly she reached to brush the backs of her fingers against his, coaxing her shaking touch along the comforting chill of his skin and reassuring herself that he was alive and real.

Landon could feel the walls of the dimly lit corridor melt away and give up their confinement to the vast openness of his willing ignorance. As he looked at her face, and gently reached up to trace the edge with the cool back of his hand, there was nothing else he had the energy to give any attention. She was everything and anything within a thousand light years he had any want to see. The floor dropped from his view and her eyes filled up his everything.


--- to be continued in part II ---

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

&

Captain Landon Neyes
Command Liaison
USS VINDICATOR, NCC 78213-E

 

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