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PLOT - Commodore Aksel Ravnsson | "Dining in the Devil's Kitchen"

Posted on 241803.13 @ 14:20 by Lieutenant Craig MacLeod

Mission: Lacuna

“Det er gjort.” It is done. came a voice through the smoky darkness.

A nod was given as another drag was taken and a cigarette’s ember burned brightly for a fraction of a second before life giving oxygen was choked away, ”Var det rent?” Was it clean? Akesel asked on that same breath. A second later he’d exhale, the flavor of smoke passing over his tongue and lips acting as a steady reminder that his addiction, like the job, was sinful. The cold grey voids of his eyes flicked briefly to the carcinogenic stick between his fingers and for a fleeting milisecond, he smiled.

”Ja. Rengør som det kunne være.” Yes. As clean as could be. Replied the agent with a stiff nod, ”Stenellis er sikkert.” The Stenellis is safe.

”For nu.” For now. the El Aurian puffed, his eyes closing in thoughtful repose as he considered their next actions. ”Sørg for, at Orionerne gør deres del. Top dollar. Dæk deres spor.” Make sure the Orions do their part. Top dollar. Cover their tracks. the cigarette, nearly spent, hissed as it flew through the air and landed in a half finished glass of gin.

The aid paused briefly, not the least bit interested in Commodore’s actions, but held their breath none the less. ”Hun forventer.” She’s expecting. They stated, folding their hands, ”Et barn.” A child. they further explained, only to be waved off by the hand that previously held the cigarette.

”Gravid eller ej, jeg er ligeglad. At sælge hende er mindre blod på vores hænder end at dræbe hende. Hardere at spore. Forstå?” Pregnant or not, I don’t care. Selling her is less blood on our hands than killing her. Harder to track. Understand? Aksel’s eyes shot in the direction of the aid, a thick silvered brow rising, pushing a deeply furrowed forehead skyward, “I hvert fald får hun et liv.” At least she gets a life. He hissed, pursing his wrinkled mouth. Too many thoughts and variables were running loose as free agents in what many would consider to be a radical movement towards progress and change. For the better. The softness shown by the agent standing beside him would need to be culled from the program one way or another. It was growing tiresome and sympathy bred disobedience. Disobedience Aksel could not have or stand for.

“Selvfølgelig Commodore, men det efterlader en far. Andorian vil lede efter dem.” Of course, Commodore, but it leaves the father. The Adorian will look for them. The aid duplicated the shrug, passing along information as nonchalant as possible.

“Ah.” Aksel replied, reaching to light another cigarette. “Han vil se, men aldrig finde og vi belønner ham når tiden kommer.” He will look, but never find and we reward him when the time comes.” He explained on the first draw, leaning back and resting his right ankle atop his left knee. His wrist rolled gently, smoke following it as it rose from the ember’s end of the stick, “Hukommelser er designet til at falme.” Memories are designed to fade. He nodded. Indeed, they were. This was more important than the heartache of a single Andorian or the worry of an entire ship. They would all move on, sooner rather than later, with the plans instore for all of them. There’d be bigger fish to dry than tracking the cold trail of a woman gone missing, even if she was the cousin to the Empress of the Stenellian Ascendancy.

“Så er der en anden ting.” Then there is another thing. The aid began, this time almost more hesitantly.

“Oh?” Aksel’s weight shifted as he refocused his attention on a now much more nervous being beside him, “Spørg fortælle.” Pray tell.

“Ja. Nimrox.” The aid’s weight shifted, but it had nothing to do with refocused attention and everything to do with praying the master wouldn’t kill the messenger for sake of bad news.

A cold eye twitched at the mention of the Naussicaan’s name, and the flick of fingers sent spent ash floating to a burial by tray, “Hvad har idioten gjort nu?” What has the idiot done now?

“Din enhjørning.” Your unicorn.

It was Aksel’s turn to become tense, visions of the Vorta creeping through his brain, “Hvad med min enhjørning?” He calmly asked, bringing the cigarette back to his lips and leaving it there to hang and soothe with every breath he drew. Had he killed the creature? Raped her? A million thoughts crossed through his mind, each one of them painting a horrible picture where the little minx lay broken and battered by the idiot’s unkempt hands.

“Ingen.” No. The aid’s head shook, “Hun er med Stenellis.” She is with the Stenellis. They began to try and explain, “Han tog hende i aftes. Det var ... Messy. Hun kæmpede, skadede ham dårligt.” He took her last night. It was… Messy. She struggled, hurt him badly… He flinched as Aksel’s hand coiled around the end of the arm of his chair.

The reaction was too calm. A nod. An understanding. It was easy to realize that rather than a volcanic eruption, Aksel was smoldering in a slow burn that would consume them all. “Jeg sagde, at hun var min.” I said, she was mine. The cigarette was removed, placed in the ash tray as the Commodore pressed his fingers to his lips. The Vorta was to be his, alright, his to break and learn from over time. This ended that game, killing the intel to be gleaned, far too quickly.

The aid nodded in perfect understanding. “De vil sælge hende til den højeste byder.” They will sell her to the highest bidder.

This, Aksel waved off. There was no way possible to purchase one of the lost without purchasing the other and becoming the hero, essentially screwing his own plans apart and exposing the Federation’s weaknesses when he needed them to get to where it was that he was heading.

“Det er dog rejst en interessant udvikling.” However, an interesting development has been raised. The aid nodded, “Stacker. Ryktet har det, at han er på jagt efter hende.” Stacker. The rumor has it that he is in search of her.

To this Aksel actually snorted, “Fjols.” Moron. He guffawed, “Selvfølgelig er han! Det er hans job!” Of course he is! That’s his job! He snapped, rising from his seat to his full, relatively impressive stature. For an ‘old man’, the El Aurian was fit as a fiddle and brandished that power lucratively, “Vi er færdige her. Flyt langs og få mig oplysninger, der faktisk betyder noget.” We’re done here. Move along and get me information that actually means something! The Commodore’s lip curled into a snarl as he spoke, coming to stand nose to nose with his wide eyed aid.

“Ja, Commodore.” Said aid nodded and saluted only to have his arm ensnared by one of the El Aurian’s bear trap like hands.

“Sørg for at Nimrox er dræbt.” See to it that Nimrox is killed. The man’s order rolled low like thunder combined with the warning growl of a large jungle cat. Nimrox had scorned Aksel, and now would pay the price that came for dining in the Devil’s kitchen.


Commodore Aksel Ravnsson
Director of Starfleet Intelligence


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