The Scarred Veteran

Posted on 07 Jul 2025 @ 2:07pm by Captain Jasmine Somers FCapt & Lieutenant Commander Samantha Smithson SB51 & Major Emily Janeway

5,554 words; about a 28 minute read

Mission: Orientation Posts
Location: SB51/Various
Timeline: Current

[ON]

Lieutenant Commander Snithson had gotten an alert of a new officer assigned to the Tomcat, the file said that she was a temporal translocatee and her origin was 2405, Sam thought oO a Tough adjustment Oo as the file also noted that the new officer was a Commodore in her own time, but to take the postion she was offered she had to take a reduction in rank, using the information she had the machine in her office begin making and encoding the items she would require.

Sam was at arrivals and looked at her Pad and the image, then looked up. The image was the same, but the facial scars were visible. "What the hell happened to you?" Oo, she asked mentally as she walked over to the Officer.

"Greetings, Major Janeway, I am Lieutenant Commander Samantha Smithson, Security Chief of Starbase 51. If you follow me, please, we will go to my office. If I may, are you related in any way to Admiral Janeway? Smithson asked.

oO Emily looked up from my seat on the bench, her violet eyes narrowing as the station’s viewport cast shifting patterns of light across the jagged scars on her cheek. The stars outside felt wrong—five years too early for 2405. She pondered this while running my fingers over the Commodore equestrian figurine in her hand, a carved piece that resembled her horse. It was also etched into the stock panel of her Colt 1911, holstered at her side. I was trying to anchor myself in this strange place, Oo, she thought.

Janeway's voice rasped as she spoke up, roughened by the toll of the neurotoxin. A faint tremor ran through her as she gripped the figurine tightly. She paused before turning to face Smithson. “Yes, correct. Admiral Janeway is my adoptive mother. She took me in after I stowed away on Voyager as a kid.” A crooked smirk tugged at her lips, allowing a glimpse of her warped sense of humour to surface despite the disorientation. “Now I'm the family’s scarred survivor—Major instead of Commodore.” oO I'm still shaking off that casket Oo. 2396 was a wake-up call, but I’ll figure it out.”

Janeway readjusted her belted holster, her uniform standing proudly. oO My gait might have been different if I hadn’t been cramped in a rotten Federation casket. Oo Janeway tilts her head as she turns to the officer who was currently standing beside her. As Janeway approached Smithson, she spoke, “I am still determined as I prepared to face whatever lay ahead down the roads.”

Samantha smiled as she noted the Major's condition oO what the hell happened to this officer? Oo, she asked herself, "Please follow me, Major", she said, and as they began to walk, another transport arrived, and the area suddenly picked up in activity, as did the noise.

Both entered the nearest turbo lift, and when the doors closed, "Main Security", Smithson said, and the lift began to move "So Major, I know you have had one hell of a time adjusting, probably still are, as a temporal translocatee, you cannot disclose any future events, Temporal Investigations would have a field day, to be honest I qam surprised no one from that Department has contacted you, yet but as their main focus is the past, you should be safe" Smithson said as the doors opened and they entered main security then headed straight for the Security Chiefs office, the outer offices were a buzz of activity, there was even one section working on something that seemed important.

Both entered Smithson's Office. "Please have a seat", Sam said, indicating the chair in front of her desk As she sat behind it, she called up information on her computer, looked at it hard, then up at the Major, and then back at the text "You look very well for a previously dead woman, hmm but that is not my concern, you are alive and assigned to the Tomcat, have you any questions before I continue?" She asked, pressing a separate button.

Major Emily Janeway seated herself across from Lieutenant Commander Smithson’s desk, her violet eyes conducting a meticulous assessment of the Security Chief’s office on Starbase 51. The faint hum of activity from the main security section registered peripherally, but her focus remained solely on Smithson. She placed her carved figurine of a rearing Friesian stallion on the desk’s edge, its ebony contours and dynamic pose evoking the breed’s historic valour as a medieval warhorse, reflecting the office’s lighting. Janeway maintained a disciplined posture, her holstered Colt 1911 secured discreetly at her side. This station’s order contrasts sharply with the brutality of my past, she reflected, the memory of her 2396 revival, scarred by the neurotoxin’s devastating effects from bioweapons exposure, etched deeply in her mind.

“I extend my appreciation for your reception, Commander,” Janeway stated, her voice tightly controlled, its pronounced rasp a testament to the neurotoxin’s lingering damage from bioweapons brutality. “In response to your observation, I acknowledge my assignment to the USS Tomcat and my restored operational capacity. I have one inquiry: what specific protocols does Starbase 51 implement to facilitate the integration of an officer temporarily displaced and adjusted in rank?” Her words were deliberate, each syllable measured to uphold Starfleet protocol. Temporal directives preclude disclosures, yet I must confirm this command’s capacity to accommodate my circumstances, she considered.

Her gaze briefly noted the computer display Smithson had consulted, then returned to the Security Chief with unwavering focus. “Given my assignment to the Tomcat, I am prepared to fulfil my duties. What are the immediate procedural steps? Administrative requirements, security briefings, or crew introductions?” Her demeanour remained composed, her expression disciplined, signalling her readiness to execute her responsibilities aboard the Tomcat with precision, much like the Friesian stallion’s enduring strength through centuries of adversity.

Without looking up, "basically do not tell anyone of our future's actual or possible, your status to the rest of the crew will only be known as a reassignment from a Black Ops job. Hopefully, this will allow for them to associate your injuries with a Black Ops Mission. The only people who will know the full story are me, the Captain and the CMO of the Tomcat; no one else on front line duty needs to know," Smithson said, looking up at the Major.

"The steps are" Sam paused as she bent down behind her desk and picked up a Rifle Regimental belt and handed it to the Major "All rifle Regiment Officers wear one of these, you may have seen some Marine Officer wearing one, it is part of the Uniform for the Rifle Regiments stationed on the Tomcat and here on the Starbase" Smithson said.

Janeway gently grabbed it, its leather firm in her hands. She adjusted it around her waist, fastening it securely. From beside her on the desk, she retrieved her holstered Colt 1911, a .45 calibre semi-automatic pistol. Its grip bore an etched Friesian stallion, matching the figurine, a symbol of her heritage and resilience. Crafted from duranium-titanium for her 2405 missions, the pistol featured a brushed finish, a tactical rail, an ambidextrous safety, and a seven-round magazine of kinetic rounds.

Admiral Janeway, her adoptive mother, had authorised it as a personal sidearm for her temporal-displaced service. This 1911 and the figurine were the only items found in her 2396 Federation casket, placed there by an unknown person at her wake.

Janeway didn’t know why. The figurine, small and obsidian, showed a stallion charging, a nod to her bond with her horse. The 1911, engraved with “E.J.,” stood for her duty to protect. Its presence in her casket puzzled her—perhaps tied to Admiral Janeway, perhaps not. The mystery lingered, but the items anchored her reclaimed life. Janeway attached the 1911’s holster to the belt, positioning it at her hip for a quick draw once permitted post-briefing. The belt’s weight tied her to her past as a Commodore in 2405. “Thank you, Commander, for the briefing and belt,” she said, her voice steady despite its rasp. “I understand the Black Ops cover for my temporal status and value the discretion.” Her role as Major, no longer Commodore, fueled her duty, driven by these scars, this pistol, and this figurine—relics of a death she’d outlived.

Giving the Major time to take the items, she said, "You can ask questions after I answer yours," and gave the woman a friendly smile.

"The Admin requirements are done through me or my staff, the next steps are required, especially now with the incursion of Terran Empire agents into our reality, and because the Tomcat operates out in the Federation's outback, the AoO for the Tomcat is the Mira Sector and unclaimed space beyound, Starbase 51 is the farthest Federation base out here, so security is high, as your main duty is MCO or RCO on the Tomcat, and your secondary duty is Second Officer, your command structure as follows the Fleet Captain, Lt Commander Dodd, Commander Dodd is currently on LOA, so you may end up on the bridge for the next mission" Smithson said.

"You will need to meet your XO in the Rifles First Lieutenant Cassandra Matthews, she will give you a detailed breakdown on your Departmental duties and will help you get acclimated to your position, normall a Marine Officer would not be Second Officer on a Fleet ship, but the Fleet Captain is a Former Marine herself, so while she can be strict, she does not mind have a Green Shirt on her bridge, okay have you any questions?" Smithson said, ending with a question. By now, the needed items had dropped into the dispenser to Smithson's right.

Janeway leaned forward slightly. Her scars caught the office’s light, stark against her pale skin. The scar by her mouth twitched as she spoke. “I have two questions. First, what are the USS Tomcat’s priorities in the Mira Sector, beyond Terran Empire threats? Second, when will I meet First Lieutenant Cassandra Matthews, and will it cover the Rifle Regiment’s structure?” Her gaze held Smithson’s, resolute. Her Friesian-like endurance steadied her against her past’s weight. The Mira Sector’s unknowns demanded answers, and her scars wouldn’t stop her.

"Tomcat's Priorities are a mix of Exploration and Border Patrol, while this may be Federation space, Starfleet's presence is small, the Terran Empire Agents are not yet a priority, but we have to be alert for any incursions. As for your Exec, you will be able to go and meet her after we finish your Orientation Briefing, now onto the required items," Smithson said, pressing a button under her desk as she leaned over to pull out an ID card and held it out to the Major.

"This is your Tomcat ID Card, it is keyed to your DNA and bio-signature, it is to be worn on the Tomcat at all times when on duty, the only time while on duty they are not to be worn is if the Regiment is doing physical exercises or you are assigned to an Away team mission, then the ID Card remains on the ship. The ID is optional when off duty, any questions so far with this?" Smithson said, ending with a question.

The stark light of Starbase 51’s security office sliced across Major Emily Janeway’s scarred face, each jagged mark a vivid scar of a search and rescue mission that had spiraled into chaos. Her hand, quivering with a faint, unsteady tremor—a lingering echo of the temporal rift fracturing her core—closed around the ID card, its smooth surface humming faintly against her calloused fingers, as if it held secrets beyond her grasp. “Thank you, Lieutenant Commander Smithson,” she rasped, her voice rough and raw, scarred by the neurotoxin’s relentless grip, her mind a storm of doubt as she stepped into this unfamiliar world. The scars, etched deep, caught the light like battle-worn steel, whispering of venomous tendrils and a shattered bridge that still haunted her clouded violet eyes.

oO In her mind, a question churned: Is this ID, bound to my bio-signature, part of a Temporal Investigations shield, a witness protection veil to hide my past? Will it cloak my identity—or leave me exposed to their gaze? Oo

My failure, those screams… what are they protecting? Suspicion coiled tight as she pondered the card’s purpose, her fingers brushing the obsidian Friesian figurine on the desk—a warhorse rearing in defiance, her sole anchor in this temporal storm.

“Admiral Janeway, my adoptive mother, forged my will to survive that nightmare,” she said softly, her tone heavy with introspection, “but this timeline—arriving here—feels like a puzzle, hiding as much as it shows.” Her blind eyes, lost to the present, lingered on the figurine’s bold form, a spark of strength flickering within.

The orientation’s weight pressed hard, her senses reeling from the leap across time. “The Tomcat’s mission—exploration and border patrol in the Mira Sector—holds clear purpose, though I’m still finding its shape, fresh from this rift,” she continued, her voice firming with effort. “And First Lieutenant Matthews—I need her now, after this briefing, to map the Rifle Regiment’s structure. My role as Marine Commanding Officer and Second Officer starts here—can we arrange it?” A crooked smirk, worn yet fierce, cut through her disorientation, a flash of dark humor as she braced for the path ahead.

Sam looked at the Major with a smile. "All in good time, Major, all in good time," she said, then leaned over, picked up a data crystal, and held it out to Emily.

"This is your extra ship clearance. You will have been given your standard security clearances, but these few are additional and only applicable to the Tomcat. This crystal is keyed to your bio-signature, as is your ID; they will not work for anyone else," Smithson said, waiting for the Major to take the item.

Major Emily Janeway sat rigidly across from Lieutenant Commander Smithson, her violet eyes blazing with a fierce, unsettled intensity as she accepted the data crystal. Her scarred hands trembled, the neurotoxin’s relentless grip from her 2405 bioweapons exposure battling the disorienting storm of her temporal displacement. Massive scars, partially smoothed by recent skin reconstruction, still carved jagged paths across her cheek and neck, their faded yet stark lines catching the office’s harsh light, twitching as she tilted her head. Across her chest, a crossbody bag belt—rugged dark leather complementing the Rifle Regimental belt at her waist—held her holstered Colt 1911, its grip etched with a charging Friesian stallion, and a pouch securing her obsidian Friesian figurine. These relics tethered her to a 2405 life that flickered in her mind like a fractured signal. Another bio-signature lock? she thought, her mind lurching with suspicion. I was a Commodore in 2405, but my memories—Voyager’s bridge, my horse’s charge—are unraveling. How can my DNA bind me to 2400? Is Temporal Investigations playing me, shielding or surveilling?

"Your DNA signature was inputted into our computers, Major, that is how," said Smithson. "DNA and bio signature are only accessible to myself and your commanding officer."

She gripped the data crystal tightly, her trembling fingers tracing its edges, her reconstructed yet scarred face taut with defiance and perplexity. The temporal displacement tore at her—vertigo laced with memory lapses, fragments of 2405 command briefings dissolving into voids, Admiral Janeway’s voice fading into a distorted echo. Did I order a defence in the Delta Quadrant, or is that another self slipping away? she wondered, the thought crumbling. Her throat burned, the neurotoxin’s ache searing with each swallow, but the deeper wound was her fractured identity: a Major in 2396, not a Commodore in 2405, her sense of self splintered across timelines. She believed her scars and neurotoxin effects stemmed from a brutal bioweapons ambush in 2405, unaware of Smithson’s veiled reference to her death and revival in a 2396 Federation casket. The crossbody bag belt’s weight—her 1911 and figurine—grounded her against the alienation. This crystal, this ID… they claim I belong, but I’ll carve my own place, no matter what they’re hiding.

“Thank you, Commander,” Janeway rasped, her voice a raw, forceful growl, each word a defiant strike against the neurotoxin’s damage and the fog of her faltering recall. “I understand the data crystal’s purpose—extra Tomcat clearances, keyed to my bio-signature, like the ID card.” She secured the crystal in her crossbody bag belt’s pouch beside the Friesian figurine, her scarred fingers clamping down with deliberate precision despite the tremor, her violet eyes burning with unyielding resolve. The act felt like seizing a role she’d force to fit, her presence in 2396 a battleground for her fractured identity.

She leaned forward, the movement sparking a sharp pain along her reconstructed neck scars, her posture unwavering despite the neurotoxin’s toll and the temporal lapses tearing through her memories. The leather of the crossbody belt creaked, the weight of the 1911 a reminder of duty. “One question, Commander,” she said, her gaze locking onto Smithson’s with fierce, unshakeable focus, her voice cutting through the room like a blade despite its rasp. “As Rifle Company Officer and Second Officer, I need the Tomcat’s operational limits in the Mira Sector laid bare. Beyond exploration and border patrol, what tactical protocols or resource constraints—supply shortages, communication delays, or uncharted hazards in unclaimed space—must I prioritise to keep this crew sharp and alive?”

"This is going to seem alien to you Major, but here in 2396 we do not have much knowledge of the Mira Sector; it is lightly patrolled and sparse with Starfleet ships. So I would assume the rules for border patrol and duties cut off from regular contact with Earth will be pretty much the same now in 2396 as they would be in 2405. But mostly, this is our version of the Wild West—pirates are active and it is by the seat of your pants," Smithson said.

Her intense tone carried a Friesian-like ferocity, defiant against her scars, the neurotoxin, and the temporal rifts eroding her memories. I survived a bioweapons hell in 2405… I’ll master this sector and my own past, no matter how it frays, she thought, the contents of her crossbody bag—her 1911 and figurine—fueling her ironclad resolve to meet First Lieutenant Matthews and claim her place in this fractured reality.

"Also, you will need to check in your pistol with Tomcat Security; it will not be needed on the Tomcat or on any away teams, it’s the rules," Smithson added. She leaned over to retrieve the final piece, allowing the Major to respond to the mention of her sidearm.

Major Emily Janeway’s violet eyes flared with fierce, Friesian-like intensity as Fleet Captain Jasmine Somers’ entrance shifted the room’s weight, her scrutiny joining Smithson’s. Her scarred hands, trembling from the 2405 neurotoxin, rested on her crossbody bag belt, the leather creaking with the holstered Colt 1911—its rearing horse etched silently—and the obsidian Friesian figurine tucked in its pouch, anchoring her fractured 2405 memories against the temporal storm. The reconstructed scars on her neck twitched under the light, the pain a quiet fire as she felt the dual watch. Check my 1911. she thought, her mind a blade of resolve. It’s my tether to 2405—Somers, a former Marine, might understand. I’ll comply, but not without a fight.

“Commander Smithson,” Janeway rasped, her voice a raw, forceful growl, each word a deliberate strike through the neurotoxin’s burn, her gaze shifting briefly to Somers before locking back on Smithson. “I hear you on the pistol—rules say it goes to Tomcat Security, not needed on board or away teams. I’ll comply, securing it with the armoury, but I request a formal review for its tactical use in the Mira Sector’s chaos. Its rearing horse mark ties to my 2405 survival, and with Lt. Commander Hawksley’s help, we’re replicating my Winchester—same weight, same sound—via the ship’s industrial replicators. If approved, I’d carry that replica daily, keeping the 1911 for range proficiency.” Her scarred fingers brushed the figurine’s pouch, a subtle anchor as she nodded toward Smithson.

Just then, the Captain walked in "Hey Sam, how goes? This is my new Officer?" Somers asked.

"Yes, Captain Somers, and it goes well that you, Major Emily Janeway, the new MCO/2XO, meet your Commanding Officer, Fleet Captain Jasmine Somers, Captain of the USS Tomcat," Commander Smithson said.

Jasmine came around, pulled up a seat and studied the Major closely.

Janeway straightened, her posture unyielding despite the tremors, and turned to the Fleet Captain. “Fleet Captain Somers,” she continued, her voice firming with respect yet edged with defiance, “I’m Major Emily Janeway, your new Marine Commanding Officer and Second Officer. A pleasure to meet a former Marine leading this ship. My scars and bio-weapons injuries from 2405—mark my past, but I’m here to forge my role in 2396. The Mira Sector’s Wild West demands readiness, and I’ll shape my Rifle Company with First Lieutenant Matthews to meet it. With your oversight, I’d value your input on my weapons and next steps.” Her crooked smirk flashed, a hint of dark humour cutting through her disorientation, her violet eyes holding Somers’ gaze.

*smiling* "I assume you have been told that your sidearm will have to be placed in the Tomcat's Armoury?" Captain Somers asked.

Janeway’s violet eyes flicker with resolute intensity, her scarred face catching the stark light of Starbase 51’s security office as she faces Fleet Captain Somers and Lieutenant Commander Smithson. Her trembling hand, marked by the neurotoxin’s lingering toll from 2405, steadies as it rests on her crossbody bag belt, the weight of her holstered Colt 1911 and the obsidian Friesian figurine grounding her fractured memories. The red paper strip in Smithson’s hand draws her gaze, its black writing a silent promise of last-resort duty. Her voice, a raw rasp from bio-weapons damage, cuts through the room with deliberate precision, each word a testament to her unyielding resolve despite the temporal storm fraying her sense of self.

“Fleet Captain Somers,” Janeway begins, her tone firm yet respectful, locking eyes with the Captain, her crooked smirk flickering with dark humour. “Yes, I’ve been informed my Colt 1911 must be secured in the Tomcat’s armoury per regulations. I’ll comply, but as I mentioned to Commander Smithson, I request a review of its tactical use in the Mira Sector’s unpredictability. Its Friesian etching ties to my 2405 survival, and with Lt. Commander Hawksley’s aid, I’m replicating my Winchester for daily carry if approved. Your insight as a former Marine would guide my approach.” Her scarred fingers brush the figurine’s pouch, anchoring her.

"The likelihood of your personal weapons being required is slim to none, but you will be free to create a holoporgram where a holographic version of your weapons can be used in use on the holodeck, you only need scan the weapons and put in the weight levels you want for the weapon ande you can replicate holographic bullets and have fun on the holodeck. But if such weapons are required for an Away mission, you will be notified. Any questions, Major?" Somers asked.

Janeway’s violet eyes dimmed like fading stars, scars twisting as neurotoxin pain seared her nerves like molten steel, the coffin’s lid haunting her bones from 2405.

Janeway’s trembling hands, jolted by spasms, gripped her crossbody bag belt, the Colt 1911’s Friesian stallion a blur against her weary frame. Exhaustion weighed her shoulders, each breath a struggle, yet the obsidian Friesian figurine pulsed in its pouch, a golden-crowned lifeline against memory lapses flickering like dying embers in that sealed tomb. Admiralty of Janeway’s voice, locked away, gnawed at her like a dog with a bloodied figure horse grief cutting through her fatigue. Her rasping voice, shredded by the toxin, rasped faintly.

She forced a crooked smirk, a flicker of Marine steel against the coffin’s drag. “Fleet Captain Somers,” she rasped, “my 1911’s bound for the Tomcat’s armoury. I’ll scan it for holodeck drills, mimicking its heft.”

Her muscles twitched, neurotoxin sparking agony, exhaustion dulling her edges. “The 95th will wield phasers, TR-116s—Starfleet’s fangs—for missions. Drained or not, I’ll rally my Marines and crew for combat sims to carve our edge in the Mira Sector. Your orders, ma’am.” Her fingers traced the figurine’s gold, duty propping her up.

"Indeed, I hope Temporal Investigations briefed you upon not being allowed to contact Admiral Janeway at this time?" The Captain asked again.

The Major's scarred face sagged, violet eyes flaring weakly like embers in a sealed coffin as Temporal Investigations’ ban on Admiral Janeway buried her deeper. Her mother, her guide—losing her was a dog’s frantic grip on a shredded toy, her heart entombed, Janeway thought, Marine discipline a faint hammer against the neurotoxin’s fog. Exhaustion clouded her mind, memory lapses flickering like dying candles in that dark box, but the obsidian Friesian figurine steadied her with its golden crown. Her rasping voice, a gravelly ruin, strained to speak.

She leaned slightly before Captain Somers, fatigue etching her stance. “Captain Somers,” she rasped, “Temporal Investigations severed my link to Admiral Janeway to guard the timeline. It’s a coffin’s lid, but I’ll lead as MCO, RCO, and Second Officer in 2396.” Facing Lieutenant Commander Smithson, neurotoxin pain coursed like a live current, hands jerking with spasms, exhaustion pulling at her limbs.

“Thank you for the one-time code,” she said, voice clawing through the burn. “As MCO, I’ll guard it—lockdown and core wipe if we fall.”

Her gaze flickered, weary but unbowed. “I’ll meet Lieutenant Matthews to prep the 95th for Mira’s pirates. My Marines will use phasers, TR-116s. Despite tremors and memory gaps, I’ll seek crew tactics to keep us lethal, clawing from this tomb.”

Turning slightly to address Somers’ second question, her expression tightens, a flash of suspicion crossing her mind—oO Temporal Investigations shielding me or caging me? Oo, but she keeps her tone steady. “Temporal Investigations made it clear: no contact with Admiral Janeway, my adoptive mother, to preserve the timeline. I understand and will adhere to their directive, though it weighs heavily. My focus is here, in 2396, serving the Tomcat.” Her gaze holds Somers’ unwavering, a silent vow to prove her place.

The Captain nodded and let the Security Chief continue.

"Okay, you have your ID Card, the data Crystal, all you need now is this strip of paper", Smithson said, holding out her hand with a strip of Red paper and black writing.

Janeway accepts the red paper strip from Smithson, her hand steady despite the tremor, eyes scanning the code. “Thank you, Commander. I understand the one-time code’s purpose—lockdown and core wipe if all senior officers are down and the ship’s boarded. I’ll protect it at all costs.” She tucks it into her crossbody bag’s pouch beside the Friesian figurine, its weight grounding her

"That Major is a One-Time code, which is only to be used should every other senior Officer be rendered ineffective, as in either dead or such, and you are the only Senior Officer left standing, and if the ship gets boarded, this code would lock down all the ship's systems preventing any security breaches, if they force their way in then the computer core is wiped clean," Smithson said.

Janeway’s posture is rigid, scars twitching under the light, she holds back a surge of questions oO The Regiment’s structure, the sector’s hazards, my fractured memories… I’ll ask Somers later. Oo “I’ll save further questions for after my briefing with First Lieutenant Matthews. Please confirm when I can meet her to align the Rifle Regiment for the Mira Sector’s demands.” Her voice, a defiant growl through the neurotoxins burning her throat, carried her into her room with a sharp presence of her voice inside the room.

"The 95th Structure on the Tomcat is this, in simple terms. There is me, the First Officer, then you, your Exec, the junior Officers, the Warrant Officers, the Senior NCOs, then the Junior NCOs and finally Riflemen. Now, while on paper your Title say Marine Commanding Officer, your Tomcat title is Rifle Commanding Officer. We like to be different on the Tomcat, as for deeper data on the Regimental setup, you will need to speak to Lieutenant Matthews," Somers said, then really looked at the Major.

"On this next bit, Major, my hands are tied. I have seen your file, and you will be having regular medical sessions with Doctor Ross. Until he says you are fit for bridge duty, you will be able to mingle with your troops and get to know them. Where the health of my crew is concerned, I cannot and will not overrule Doctor Ross; he may be a First Lieutenant, but he has the power to remove the CO of a ship or Starbase that he is CMO of, so your treatment is in his hands, understood?" Somers asked the Major.

The major’s violet eyes drooped like storms trapped in a coffin, scars pulsing as neurotoxin pain scorched her nerves like wildfire under Starbase 51’s cold glare. Janeway’s hands trembled, each spasm a memory of that sealed prison from 2405, gripping her bag belt where the Colt 1911—soon armory-bound—felt like a distant weight. Exhaustion dragged at her frame, the obsidian Friesian figurine thrummed faintly in its pouch, its gold a dim beacon against memory lapses shattering her past like glass. Admiral Janeway’s absence tore at her like a dog snarling over a stolen toy, her soul interred, she thought, Marine resolve a frail shield against the toxin’s walls. Her rasping voice, raw and broken, barely rose.

She locked eyes with Fleet Captain Somers, agony and fatigue carving her scars.

“Fleet Captain Somers,” she rasped weakly, “I’ll follow Dr. Ross’s medical orders and his bridge duty call. When’s my first session? Until cleared, I’ll drill my 95th with phasers, TR-116s, tapping crew for sims to face Mira’s chaos.”
Her smirk flickered, a fragile crack in that coffin’s lid.

Turning to Lieutenant Commander Smithson, she struggled to focus. “Thank you for noting my state. I’ll stow my 1911 and secure Starbase quarters. As MCO, I’ll meet Lieutenant Matthews to align the regiment. Can you confirm Matthews’ earliest slot and suggest crew-recommended sims for Mira’s threats?” Her fingers brushed the figurine’s gold, duty a faint torch in her exhaustion.

Smithson picked up from there "Okay, Security wise you are all done here Major normally I would give you the tour of the Tomcat, but you look like you are in extreme pain, so I will not put anymore on you, now the Captain has said what you have to do, as for meeting your Exec you can either do that after leaving this office or during the briefing. I do advise you to find a Starbase - side quarters, even after the Refit, the Tomcat can only hold so much in the way of personal items. Have you any further questions before I release you to your own devices, Major Janeway?" Smithson asked.

The Major looked at Lieutenant Commander Smithson, who struggled to focus. “Thank you for noting my state. I’ll stow my 1911 and secure Starbase quarters. As MCO, I’ll meet Lieutenant Matthews to align the regiment. Can you confirm Matthews’ earliest slot with any suggested crew-recommended sims for Mira’s threats?” Her fingers brushed the figurine’s gold, a faint torch in her exhaustion.

"Okay, Major, you are dismissed, welcome to the 24th Century and to the Mira Sector and the Tomcat", Smithson said and watched the Major stand obviously in agony as she picked up her few belongings and left the Security Office.

Sam looked at Jasmine "I have never seen anyone cope with that much pain and still be standing", Smithson said to Somers.

"I know, I just hope Doctor Ross can find a medication to nullify the poison running through her veins, it is a shame that as a temporal translocatee, she is unable to contact family members, none who would recognise her, nor the Admiral, I hope she acclimates well as the tech she is used to being around is either in its trial stages or is currently theory at this time" Somers said standing with a sigh, "now lets do the next Mission briefing such as it is" Somers said and left the Security Office, Sam returned to finishing her filing before once again duty called her away.

[OFF]

 

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