JDL | Com Ivanova, 'Ennui' - "The Hanging Tree" PT I

Posted on Thu Apr 16th, 2015 @ 6:04am by Admiral Rochelle Ivanova & Commander Logan Grant, PhD.
Edited on on Tue Jan 3rd, 2017 @ 11:03pm

3,121 words; about a 16 minute read

Mission: Ennui

WARNING: The following log contains extremely graphic content of a violent nature and may not be suitable for all readers. Please use discretion before attempting to read this and be aware that the content may not be safe for reading while at work etc.













After Atlantis Prime, and the insanity of it all, Rochelle was simply over it. All of it. Though happy to be home and happy to know her crew was safe, she didn't argue when Rotek ordered that she rest until the ship reached Cold Station Theta. In fact, she’d quietly allowed herself to pass the con over to Amelia before slinking back to the darkened depths of her private quarters – the only private sanctuary she had left after having her personal life stripped bare in such a public manner. She needed that degree of comfort and the warm darkness of familiarity that rose to greet her as she stepped within the sliding doors was all too welcome. The space was as she left it, with the only discernible difference being the general location of Helsa's food and water dishes – undoubtedly Almar's doing as he took it upon himself to look after the strange little beast.

Almar…

The name and memory of the Cardassian hit her like a brick and the young Commodore sucked in a breath, closing her eyes and trying her damnedest to put the memory of the hurt in his eyes from her mind. It hadn't been fair, or proper, that he’d been publicly subjected to that brand of betrayal. But the question still lingered if it was just that; betrayal. Had she led him on? Had she led him to believe that he’d captured her heart even in the wake of Landon’s return? Or was it truly a lie by omission? Rochelle’s eyes reopened as she unclasped the restrictive collar of her uniform with a scowl, undid her tunic, and unceremoniously removed the offending garments from her body. Boot by boot, stitch by stitch, she peeled the responsibility of Command from her body until the only thing that remained was the weight of the ring Landon had left her swinging freely from her neck. The ornately crafted promise brushed against the hollow between her breasts as she finished the last of her undressing, practically crowing as a firm reminder of her commitment to the Trill Captain… A commitment she hadn't breathed a word of to anyone, least of all the Engineer. Amelia’s words continued to spiral, echoing in her mind like a cruel mantra. Almar loved her. She knew this. Had known this. But his love for the ship had greatly outweighed her… Or so she’d truly believed.

Enough, She thought to herself, banishing the memories and the pain – oh if only it were that simple. Her eyes were stormy pools – dark with guilt, remorse, and exhaustion as she watched her tub fill and the steam rise to claim the now candlelit darkness of her bathroom. The essence of vanilla and almond, however, quickly rose to greet her. They worked as an eraser, working to delete the pain and tempted her weary body to sink beneath the almost too hot water of her bath. Who was she to deny the call? She acquiesced – albeit gingerly – lowering herself into the tub with an audible sigh of relief as she leaned back against the still cool porcelain backing and placed a steaming washcloth over her closed, tired eyes. Even her fingers lost their rigidity as she let them sink beneath the scented water to rest beside her minuscule form while the heat, salts, oils, and candles dutifully worked their magic.

It didn't take any great measure of time until the redhead allowed herself to fall blissfully into the realm of sleep, snoozing in the vaguely womb-like environment she’d created for herself. Sleeping in tubs, however, was a dangerous feat, one that lent itself to drowning – but wasn't she? Drowning in the depths of her responsibilities and emotions? So often it truly felt that way, but that’s what Command and life were; one long slew of responsibilities in an endlessly rough sea of emotions and circumstances you could, and yet couldn't, control. She could, however, rely on certain constants. Even through the fog she could feel him and the comfort of his strong, remarkable, work calloused hands as they ran across her shoulders and crisscrossed over her breasts, giving way to the embrace of his sturdy arms and the feel of his chest resting against the bare, wet, nape of her neck and shoulders. Rochelle hummed in pleasure, smiling the softest of smiles as she felt his teeth teasing along the lobe of her right ear only to have them replaced by the decadent velvet of his lips. This… This was as it should be, as it was meant to be. The woman craned her neck in a fine mix of pleasure and appreciation when the roughness of his chin seared the delicate skin behind her ear. Water around her sloshed as she lifted her hands to reach for him, to hold and guide him when the lips at her lobe parted to croon;

“Jolan tru, Rochelle.”

At once she startled, throwing herself forward and away from the touch and embrace. Where once it gave her goose bumps, it now made her flesh crawl in absolute horror. With eyes wide, and water flying, she braced against the fine porcelain and turned to see who it was behind her only to be met by the smiling eyes of…

“Tr’Bak." Rochelle gasped, "You son of a bitch, how did you get in here?!” She angrily hissed, reaching for a towel to block herself from his lascivious gaze.

“Now now settle yourself, my darling.” The Romulan yawned, “It’s not like I haven’t seen you nude before.” His hand moved to close over hers, plucking away the soft cotton towel refusing her any chance she had to preserve any sense of modesty in front of him. Before him the soft creamy satin of her skin glistened wet as it hugged the exotic pathways of her curves and the candles only served to highlight the beauty he held captive in his palm. He could feel her growing tension, and the speeding of her pulse in her wrist, as it crackled through the humid room like raw electricity. Vrith was truly mesmerized, all too happy to draw his eyes over all that he held, right down to the flexing of Rochelle’s powerful thigh muscles as she prepared to defend herself. Tr'Bak, however, didn't fear the redheaded Goddess he looked upon with no less than endearing, possessive emerald eyes.

And defend herself she did.

Not wanting to give him another chance or second of her time, Rochelle rose from the tub with no small amount of power or agility. She twisted and arced through the air like lightning all while the combination of scented bubbles and water sprayed from the wake of her violent motion in every direction – sloshing against the walls, splattering against the floor, and even splashing over Vrith Tr’Bak’s still crouched form. Every candle, but one, was extinguished by the tidal wave the rising Phoenix created, and that was all the light she needed to aim true. The sheer force of her determination brought forth a war cry in the form of a strained yell and her fingers turned to claws, instinctively searching to rake across the Romulan's repugnant face. She hated this man – had dreamed of killing him – and now he was there taunting her and touching her as if he had every right in the galaxy to do so. Though, while the Commodore was desperate to see him dead for his crimes, there were processes and regulations she'd need to follow. Even if Tr'Bak truly didn't deserve the courtesy, Landon did... Even if it would serve her sense of satisfaction and thirst for revenge to end him on her own. The regulations, however, said nothing what so ever about cutting him down to size in the heat of self-defense. Do or die trying.

Her attack, however, would prove ridiculously mistimed and hampered by the slippery surface of the tub beneath her toes, much to the watcher’s delight. The Romulan ducked and snatched Rochelle’s petite hand from the air to hold her, once more, by the wrist. He held her, and it delighted him to no small when he watched her lurch further forward as he jerked her from her sliding feet only to catch her by her delicate, creamy throat. “This is what I love about you, my dear, you’ve always been so feisty!” He admonished her, leaning in to plant his vile mouth on her tender, unwilling lips in a firm, deep kiss. It only lasted but a second with her struggling and her slippery weight begging to be deposited back into her steamy abyss. Who was he, he thought, to deny such a wish. He chuckled and tutted his tongue at her as he plunged her head beneath the water, using his grasp on her throat to flip her onto her back so he could stare into her beautiful, startled, glacial eyes as she panicked and struggle vainly to resurface.

Swallowing hard, Rochelle did what she could to escape the clutching talons at her larynx and the lips that smoldered against hers. Her stomach churned with a vicious mixture of anger, anxiety, and repulsion and her free hand was quick to follow through on the original course of the other; her French tipped nails dug and slid along the Romulan's arm as she was plunged helplessly beneath the once soothing surface of her bath water. She couldn't scream. Couldn't yell... Couldn't breathe. Her feet had given out from beneath her, sliding along the smooth surface of the tub bottom as he'd dragged her forward and down, somehow flipping her over to crack the back of her skull against the porcelain as he pressed her to the bottom of the basin's menial fathoms. Anger turned to panic and panic dictated that she continue to claw, kick, arch her back away from the bottom in a never ending fight to replenish the spoiling oxygen in her burning lungs and free herself from the maniac that dictated, and continued to dictate, so much pain and strife.

Purple.

Rochelle saw purple.

The color of a bruise crept into her water blurred vision as she stared up through the water at her captor. Hateful and resentful, and she knew that he'd been granted the upper hand whether she wanted to admit it or not. Continue to fight and she was going to die... Quickly. Bubbles escaped her lips as she stopped her flailing. Her hand fell still, her legs ceased with their futile attempt to gain purchase, and she simply stopped trying to win a battle she knew was fruitless.

Tr'Bak wasn’t ignorant of the sensation that came with defeat and death. He felt the body of the beautiful Phoenix go limp in his grasp, and the way her pulse began to slow and dim from its panicked race against the pads of his fingers. Just a few seconds longer, he thought. Yeah, that should do it. It was with a sense of mercy that he lifted the human female's head just above the water, letting her mouth and nose crest the scented ripples. "Rochelle, why do you make me do such horrible things? Now have I not only punished you, I must now punish those you hold dear." The smile turned to a frown, "After five years, I thought you would have remembered that your two lovers and father are still very much alive in our holding facility."

"What the fuck are you talking about?" Rochelle sputtered weakly, choking as she was lifted from the water. Her chest heaved as she sucked humid, but fresh, air into her burning lungs and promptly gagged on it. One thing was for certain; she was going to be sick. Five years? No. Five years hadn't passed. It was only now beginning to encroach on a year since Landon had been taken and held by the psychotic mass of connective tissue the universe knew as 'Virth Tr'Bak' and only three since she’d unwittingly freed him.

Tr'Bak reminisced with a soft coo, watching her as she sucked in sweet oxygen. The bruised color from her lips simply didn’t suit her and he was pleased to watch it fade away to her usual pretty coral-pink. "You know… It just seems like it was yesterday that the people chose me as their Emperor. I can still feel the knife in my hand, as it slid across Praetor Arrenhe's throat and still remember the look of surprise in her eyes when she realized that she was dying and that I was the one who killed her."

"Bullshit." The Commodore hissed, her throat finally beginning to settle from the burn and her breathing began to even out. She was no longer in control, poised like a canary in a tiny cage sat right at the entrance of a toxic coal mine, and she knew it. Something would have to shift, she'd need to find an out.

The maniac chuckled, as he brushed a sopping wet tangle of copper hair from her face, "It wasn't too long after my rise to power that the Federation declared war on the Rihannsu. Which was, as you can see, futile. A year later, it was my ship, the Kholhr, landing that last debilitating blow to your once mighty Vindicator. Most of your crew was dead, your ship's self-destruct was offline, and you were forced to surrender." A wicked smile returned to Tr’Bak’s olive skinned face as he spoke with pride rumbling in the pit of his voice, "I remember how you begged to let your crew live and that you would do anything if I would grant that one request and so, here we are; living in the symbol of my legacy, right were Starfleet Headquarters use to be."

"Bullshit!" Rochelle was more insistent now, watching him with no small amount of confusion laced within her crystalline gaze. This was a nightmare. She was going to wake up any second warm and safe on the Vindicator as it sped towards Cold Station Theta. Landon was safe. The Federation intact… "You're insane, Tr'Bak, absolutely insane." She wanted a towel, her robe, anything to use as a security blanket to hide herself from the madman that continued to touch and caress her as if he owned her. The powerful mental imagery of the Vindicator being taken by force, the fact he knew about her father, about Landon and Almar... Nothing seemed to set right. Landon had often told her late at night how Tr'Bak had used forged holopictures of the Vindicator in peril to force him to believe that everyone had died. This was different, though, in the fog of her memory she could see faces, smell smoke, feel blood and death as it waltzed all around her to some macabre tune. She could remember giving up for the sake of them, "No! BULLSHIT!" she cried, shaking her head as if the guttural swear would undo what she somehow knew had been done. No. No. No. It was a nightmare, she was dreaming! Had to be!

Stroking his pet’s cheek, Tr’Bak released the floundering woman and straightened to his full, imperious height. “Is it?” He asked with an arch of his slanted brows and sauntered easily to a far wall, tore back a set of thick black velvet curtains and threw open the window beyond. The sounds of a bustling city and the breeze of the bright spring day outside all sprang up to greet him, and by proxy, Rochelle. “Look.” He beamed, gesturing to the crumbling ruins of the Golden Gate Bridge and a skyline filled with what was now a hodgepodge of Human and Romulan buildings.

The violent appearance of sunlight made the woman wince and cover her eyes. It burned more than just Rochelle’s sensitive corneas as it raced through the opened window, it burned her sense of self and what she thought to be true. Windows weren't thrown open in space. The warm breeze of an early spring day didn't come wafting through to chill wet skin in space. The infamous international orange bridge was supposed to still be standing as a prideful beacon of strength created in the Terran past. Gathering herself from the water, the Phoenix rose on shaky legs to view the world outside with eyes wide as saucers. What couldn't be, was.

Tr’Bak drew a deep, refreshing breath of air, savoring the flavors of his domain, and allowed the heavy drapes to swing shut with the drop of his hands. She’d had enough, he decided, and rather than allow potentially prying eyes to fall over what was rightfully his within that room, he ended the little peep show with the bubbling of his voice, “I think I know what to do as a punishment.” He smiled brightly.

"There's nothing worse you could do than what's already been done." Rochelle spat in a rushed whisper, angry tears beginning to sting her delicate senses with their almost incinerating heat while her mind whirled with a thousand thoughts all centered on killing the man in front of her. Killing him... And freeing those he held. The rest would be mourned when the new Emperor fell.

“We shall see about that, my love.” Tr’Bak glowered bitterly. The maniacal smile quickly turned to a full blown scowl as he briskly turned from the enamoring light of day to charge to Rochelle’s side. Snatching her by her soaking hair, he began to drag her naked body behind him, careless of the eyes that watched him do so as they wound the halls. It was no big secret that he enjoyed such a display of power, the posturing, and the way it highlighted what it was that he owned. She was delectable, exotic, and beautiful. Most importantly she was his. She could be lay out, wanton and succulent before the eyes of every man in the universe, but none could touch her but him. “Centurion!” He barked, “Bring our children to the holding cells. They need to see this as well.”


--- to be continued in pt II ---

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

&

Ael’Riov Vrith Tr’Bak
Commander, 3rd Tal Shiar Task Force
Romulan Star Empire

&
"Ennui" aka Q
APB Spaceman

 

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