PL | Commodore Ivanova - "Quod Somnia Veniat; Pt VII"

Posted on Sun Jan 3rd, 2016 @ 11:13am by Admiral Rochelle Ivanova

3,772 words; about a 19 minute read

Mission: Resurgere

Night fell over the world of Atlantis Prime, and with it came an eerie shade of darkness that settled heavily over Prastin. Snow would come in the next few days, the sharp chill that pervaded the air foretold of such with cackling ease. It seemed to take great pride in making the Queen shiver as she stood by her opened window, overlooking the white-capped sea and city lights below. Everything James had said to her stuck with clarion grandeur – especially his accusatory words of fear and loathing surrounding her lack of effort in reclaiming Federation territory. It wasn’t the paltry task that the aging Intelligence agent tried, in vain, to make it out to be. It simply wasn’t. It was a harrowing task that would end the lives of so many and their numbers were likely to include Javaan and James himself; two of the most imperious members of her society. She loved them. One as her son and only child, the other as her friend and adviser, and sending them to their likely deaths seemed as foreign and alien a choice for her to make as telling the sun when to rise and set; an impossibility if ever there was one.

Of course there was the off chance that they would lead her armies into battle and return victorious, alive, and happy.

Happy.

A five letter word that seemed to elude them both. James hadn’t been happy since the night the Vindicator perished, Javaan since he’d been old and wise enough to understand the politics surrounding such an action and the place his heritage and blood held within the stars. At the forefront of this struggle stood Rochelle, caging them both in the same gilded cage she’d locked herself within out of… Fear.

She sighed heavily, lifting her head and swallowing the hard knot that was forming in her throat. The sea, nor the twinkle of the city’s festive lights, would bring her comfort that night. She turned from the window, letting the heavy curtains billow shut behind her as she crossed the ashen crystalline floors to the bed where Landon already lay sleeping. For once even he appeared peaceful and gentle, far from the stoic and resilient King the years had hardened him into. There, with his normally tense mouth allowed to slack in a slumbering simper, he was the portrait of the carefree man she’d fallen so madly in love with all those years ago. “What have I done?” She whispered in question, reaching to brush a wayward strand of hair away from his brow. The man instinctively frowned in his sleep, unwelcoming of the intrusion or perhaps disturbed by a turn in his dreams.

“I’ve tried to save us, but I’m killing us softly… Aren’t I?” Her head shook and her eyes began to glass over with the promise of unshed tears. “I’m sorry.” The russet Queen strained as she bent to press her lips to her lover’s temple, stroking his cheek before receding into the depths of her blankets and killing the dim evening lights.
Sleep, however, wouldn’t come easily. It would be filled with the most fitful of dreams… Dreams that would bring her back to that horrid night, back to the Stenellian Princess’s birthday dinner; the very place where the Vindicator’s death would be born.

A nightmare so vivid it was as if the woman had been dumped back into the scene, cursed to relive it against the backs of her eyelids.

It was a dinner that was hardly a success, at least according to both Princess Xue’Daio and the then Commodore Rochelle Ivanova, who sat tense and terse for the entire ordeal. The Princess seemed to have picked up on the tension brewing hot between the Vindicator’s command team and her mother’s so-called adviser. While she’d come to know little of the man over the years, Vrith tr’Bak’s appearance, while disappointing, wasn’t exactly reason for her own ire. However, Rochelle knew there was little Xue could do to discern the source of such bitterness – especially with her mother watching the Commodore and the Ael’Riov like they were stars in her favorite soap opera. To say the reaction was alarming would have been a grievous injustice to all things alarming.

Those who had finished their meal had begun to take to the dance floor, and it wasn’t long before Xue had been pulled away by an aspiring young Makta warrior looking to make a name for himself – he’d fail miserably, especially since it took the curious teen away from what was quickly, and assuredly, deteriorating into a complete and total diplomatic faux pas. A final furtive glance told her that nothing had changed, the players were all there and while one side seemed to bubble in amusement and fascination, the other side seemed bent on doing nothing more and nothing less than surviving the encounter.

Some moments after the departure of the Princess, and with the band beginning to strike up what tr’Bak’s sensitive pointed ears quickly discerned to be a classic Romulan waltz, the Romulan was quick to perk up and set down his chalice of wine. “Commodore,” He smiled cheerfully, “may I have the pleasure of this dance?” Not caring to wait for a reply, nor eager to give her a chance to find a way out of her new predicament, the Romulan rose from his seat, made short work of the table’s distance between them, and offered the woman his hand.
To Rochelle, the sound of his question was not unlike the sound of a giggle at a funeral; inappropriate, condescending, and morally bankrupt. Yet… She was there, face to face with the Devil himself and left, once more, staring at the hand he offered her. To say no would have been the quick signing of a death warrant between the Ascendancy and the Federation now that it was ever so apparent that the Empress valued the scabrous dog. To say yes defied everything that made Rochelle who and what she was – the choice was one not only difficult but gut wrenching. She could feel Almar and Landon’s eyes boring into her, watching them, and waiting for a reason to act. It couldn’t happen. Not then, not now. “If you insist.” She finally replied, feeling her dinner churn in her stomach as she once again removed the napkin from her lap and found her feet, pressing her hand into the Ael’Riov’s.

“Oh, but I do.” Vrith chuckled, closing his fingers one by one over the Commodore’s hand, ensnaring her in his grasp and carefully parading the redhead out onto the dance floor. Finding a moderately vacant patch of floor, the relatively cheerful Romulan worked with well learned zeal to bring the young woman about and gracefully bowed to her.

What she’d wanted to reply with was ‘you would’, but instead, by some miraculous grace of the Gods, Rochelle had managed to still her tongue. The ordeal was bad enough, adding insult to the injury would only serve to make it oh so much worse than it already was. She could feel scrutiny pouring over them in heated waves, as well as what she was certain was some flavor of death glare emanating from the Empress herself – and it wasn’t going to get better any time soon. Tr’Bak bowed, and she condescended with the curtsy necessary to begin a waltz.

“Rochelle Ivanova,” he sighed in a most enamored fashion as his hand slid into place on the swell of her hip, “you have no idea how long I’ve waited for this.”

His words, and actions, in turn only served to leave the fiery little woman further unseated. “I can imagine.” She replied dryly, her own ‘free’ hand forced to gingerly settle on the Romulan’s left pec. No matter how much distance she carefully worked to keep between them, the stance of a waltz seemed entirely too intimate and uncomfortable.

“Ah silly me,” The Ael’Riov guffawed with a chuckle, “I realize how, as you humans say, creepy that must sound.” He beamed, “What I meant to say is that I’m impressed by your successes and I have been looking forward to meeting you face to face.” The Romulan added with that everlasting charismatic front remaining plastered across the fine lines of his facial features.

Creepy, Rochelle decided, was the understatement of the year. Perhaps century. “I’m flattered.” She responded with the politest of smiles. Allowing him to lead was almost painful. It meant becoming nothing more than a feather in his grasp, working to parry his every move with the same effortless grace he exuded. In short, it meant following him; something that Rochelle had never dreamed of, not even in the darkest of her nightmares. To her the man was anything but the dangerously handsome and charismatic dark knight he portrayed himself as – he was grotesque and a work of all things that had haunted a nearly yearlong period of her life. Sure. It was all circumstantial at best, the evidence that indicted him for the crimes committed against the Vindicator and Landon, but it was enough to do nothing more than earn not her respect, but her hatred. A fine thin line separated the two, or so Andrea had always cautioned, but Rochelle wasn’t in the mood to remember long lessons of philosophy on that particular disenchanted eve.

Tr’Bak’s smile broadened to the point where it transcended arrogance to nearly being school boy in nature. “I’m also truly glad to see that you chose to wear my gift.” He chuffed, drawing her closer, “That dress is extremely flattering on you.”

It was then that Rochelle’s blood ran cold and the bright crystal of her eyes met the emerald of his, “Your gift?” She asked. All along the Empress had insisted that she wear the barely there garment made of jewels, beads, sequins, and ivory lace as if the very basis for their political relationship depended on it. Now the little Commodore only felt played.

“Why yes of course it’s my gift.” He chortled as if the very question was absurd. “It’s the same sort of gown my late wife wore on our wedding night, a symbol of adoration in the Romulan culture.” He boasted more than explained, his thumb gliding along the pale silk of her skin beneath it.

Nightmares were made of easier stuff. Fluffier stuff. Prettier stuff. Of this Rochelle Ivanova was completely and utterly certain. Being in the arms of the ship's green-blooded nemesis was easily one of her lowest moments. Her skin crawled where his fingers touched her hip and held her hand. The intimacy of his gestures only served to churn her stomach where outside eyes would have seen it as the Federation and Romulan Star Empire playing footsie and getting along for the sake of the Ascendancy. Rochelle, however, knew it was just another ploy by a sadistic sociopath to get whatever jollies he could any way he could - and how she'd fallen under the lens of his microscope simply chose to elude her in the very worst of ways. Now every inch of her skin quivered beneath the sudden weight of the gown she wore and words, completely, failed to reach her lips. What was she supposed to say? Thank you? That she was charmed by such a marvelous work of couture art?

As the minutes passed, hope of rescue began to fade; none had dared to try and cut in on their macabre little waltz - until the dim lights were blocked by an all too familiar shadow and the sound of a man clearing his throat broke over the lilting notes of an old Romulan song.
There was little to say when Landon came from behind Tr'Bak, slipped his hand into the Romulan's while replacing Rochelle's and deftly slid between the two of them. The movement came without warning or provocation, and took only a moment. The Trill replaced the man's hand from her waist onto his own. Neyes' eyes met with Tr'bak's, their icy hue locking on as the metal disc Landon pressed between their hands came to life with a shrill charging sound. Subtle enough not to be noticed by the crowd beneath the music, but loud enough to be heard by the Romulan as Neyes' continued to dance with him in Ivanova's place.

"Jolan tru." Neyes said.

"Jolan tru." Vrith responded, his nose wrinkling against the high pitch whine that dared disturb his point-tipped ears. "If it isn't my favorite broken toy." He hummed, kneading his fingers against the Trill's uniform-clad hip. "Still afraid of silence, I see." He grinned almost balefully, tutting his tongue with a shake of his head.

All the while Rochelle, replaced by an ever brazen Landon, found herself taking two steps back and away from the odd couple. Helpless to do much of anything that wouldn't draw a ridiculous amount of attention to the issue at hand, she could only watch in a thick mix of horror and utter confusion as they waltzed on into the second quarter of a song she'd have sworn would never end.

"I wouldn't be too eager for quiet." Landon said calmly, moving gently with the music, "your sage words would be missed under the freedom of silence."

The Romulan's head tilted in genuine curiosity and amusement.

"Whatever you're up to Tr'Bak? I'm aware of you now. Try to remember that." Landon squeezed his hand against the Romulan's and leaned in. "And take a moment to consider why it is I remember a time before starships and the Federation." The captain winked a little as he unfolded his fingers enough to unveil the small nadion particle generator resting between their palms. Confirming for them both that he expressive end was facing Tr’Bak’s flesh, Neyes gently closed his hand once again and looked to the man who had nearly driven him to the edge of sanity, forcing a glimpse at nightmares imagined and replacing him with a failed clone weapon.

The laugh that ripped through the Romulan's robust chest almost hurt, and likely would have, if it wasn't for the way he coyly threw back his head as if enjoying time spent with an old friend sharing a joke, "School yard threats, and random acts of terrorism, are so far beneath you." He grinned, squeezing the Trill's weapon-clad hand. "Besides," He hummed with a light chuckle, drawing the man closer, "the fact that you are joined with such an ancient symbiont is what made you so much fun to break." Vrith gloated softly before spinning his agile partner around in a flourish before bringing him back, "I broke you once, surely I can do it again and you surely wouldn't want to assassinate a Romulan senator, especially in front of all of these people and risk starting a war." The Ael'Riov smiled brightly, "especially one that would rip like wildfire through the entire alpha quadrant all because you didn't like play time. Hmm?"

"Maybe you're on to something." Landon said while his eyes flashed a second of understanding. They danced around the other diplomats, slowly carving their way through the crowd, and a split second passed with just the sounds the party clamoring around them.

"Or maybe..." Neyes squeezed hard on the Romulan's hand then and the nadion particle generator chirped. "It's preferable to what you have planned."

A tiny flash in their hands signaled the discharge of nadion particle emitter. It whined gently as it exposed Tr'Bak's hand to the fiery substance of particles held within, particles usually reserved for advanced research and phaser weaponry. The smell of seared flesh quickly followed as Landon continued to pull the man along in a dance, his powerful strength binding them together as they moved. The music came to a gentle roll, while Neyes acted as if he was simply having a casual step with a professional enemy. Only moments passed before the emitter sealed once again, sparing Tr'Bak's life.

It dropped from between them with a sickening peel as it shed from the blackened palm of the Romulan. Neyes gently stepped on it with a smile, and it vaporized into nothing.

As the little hand-weapon discharged into his hand, Tr'Bak instinctively tightened his left hand around the device and the Trill's hand. The grimace of pain was nearly impossible to mask with one of his infamous arrogant smiles, but he grinned none-the-less as he pulled Landon tightly into an embrace. "You're going to die," he whispered almost sweetly into the other man's ear while casting a heavy look to one of his guards who promptly screamed "BOMB!" as the device fell from his master's scorched hand and fell to the floor with an unheard clatter only to disappear beneath the Trill's next step.

Rochelle flinched at the sound of the perched Romulan's screech. It was a cruel word, a caustic word, and one she could hardly imagine playing into a night of diplomatic hijinx - but it had. Several Stenellis guards swooped in to snatch the Royal family up and into protection, and the soft din of the music came to a violent halt only to be replaced by the sound of alarms. Before she could even think to react, Tr'Bak was peeled off of Landon and covered by two of his guards before quickly disappearing into a whirling flash of transporter beam light. "Shit." Was all she could manage as she, along with several members of the Vindicator's crew, rushed to protect Landon.

Hindsight would remind her that her guards were there for her, a flag officer, but in the heat of the moment it only served to protect one of their own that was, without a doubt, in a great world of trouble. Phasers met disruptors, pulled, primed, and pointed at one another in an obscenely crude arch where Landon and Rochelle stood privy in the center. "Vindicator, this is Ivanova." The chirp of her well-concealed combadge complied, "Emergency beam out of all Vindicator and Enterprise crew requested, NOW!" She bellowed, suddenly all too aware of just how vulnerable they all were while sitting in their finest on that alien planet.

"Vindicator to Ivanova, we're being hailed by Ael'Riov Tr'Bak. He's demanding your audience." The combadge crackled back to life, causing her to flinch yet again.

"He can demand all he wants right now, get us the fuck out of here!" She replied sharply, casting a wary and bewildered look between Landon, the Romulans, and her crew.

Neyes stood there where the monster and his minions had fled from, not moving a step. He let the men and women of their crew surround him and his fiancé. His eyes glazed over at having touched Tr'Bak with his own flesh and blood, feeling his breath on the edge of his ears. Worse, he could feel the muscles in his own neck and his jaw locking up as the sounds around him swirled with the trauma of the memories the Romulan had forced him to associate.
"I don't..." Landon started. "I don't think we have one big enough."

"One what?" Rochelle found herself asking, taking her eyes off the encroaching remainder of the Romulan guards and her own steadfast crew to rest her questioning gaze on him.
He slowly turned to face the Commodore. "That bandage he'll want."

"Lan--" She didn't have a chance to respond in full when the sound of one of the Romulan's voices began a decree she had hoped would never come.

"In the name of the Romulan Star Empire, Landon Neyes you're under arr--"

The fated sentence couldn't be uttered in time. The reaching green skinned hand would only grasp thin air instead of the Trill's forearm as the sickly sweet whir of a transporter beam finally locked on and whisked the Federation crew members away to their appropriate vessels in short order. It was only after they'd materialized on one of the Vindicator's transporter pads, that Rochelle released the breath she hadn't realized she was holding, cleared her throat, and chose to finish the sentence she'd started before being so horribly disturbed. "I'm pretty sure he wants to fashion a bandaid out of your spotted hide at this point. Maybe mine." The redhead's eyes narrowed slightly in thought as an incoming team of yellow shirts surged into the bay, "Yeah... Pretty sure, actually." She nodded for good measure.


Her cockiness would be the last thing she’d see flash across her lids. “ROCHELLE!” She heard a yell, distant and muffled. “ROCHELLE! WAKE UP! ROCHELLE!” Again and again the voice screamed for her and with it came the sensation of rocking, shaking – and not the shaking of a ship under fire. Someone was touching her, begging for her consciousness.

Awakening with a start, she was instantly greeted by the semi-formal darkness pervaded only by the ring of early sunlight daring to frame her chamber’s window curtains. Landon’s heavy breathing, and the heaviness of his protective arm draped across her mid-section, promised that it hadn’t been him calling and rousing her. There was nothing, no one, not a single shred of evidence to support that it had ever happened… And it certainly hadn’t been part of her dream.

Or had it?

Whatever it was, it had saved her from re-living the battle and the bitter end of a legacy all over again… And for that, even as she sighed and rubbed her bleary eyes, she was thankful.

"Damn it." The distant voice cursed and the shaking commenced, drawing her hands away from her eyes. It burned. Light... Light burned. Light that shouldn't have been there. Light that was white, fluorescent, artificial and not that of Atlantis' beautiful sun. Panic set in as she realized the room was swimming, shifting, contorting and placing her somewhere so far away and so alien. So... Different to everything that she'd called home for the last two decades and change. She wanted to scream, beg Landon to awaken and save her from whatever form of abduction this was - but it was no use. No voice would come to her, only light and the knowledge that she wasn't alone.

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

All other characters loving used with permission of their associated players; APB October

 

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