Post by Atton_Jetrel on Aug 19, 2020 0:16:22 GMT
"Already Dead"
The fighting on Deck Six, Section Twenty-Four had been some of the most intense on the ship. Of all the Klingons’ objective, this had been the most stubborn. They might not have controlled the Bridge or Main Engineering, but Captain Quintus had been captured, and Governor Bor'tesh was all that remained. Though there were renegade Klingons all over the ship, they'd focused their efforts here. Ship's security had more than rose to the occasion, Atton noted grimly. Bodies littered the halls, both Klingon and Starfleet. At his feet, one was still twitching. The Klingon from the group that had attacked him, separating him from Nach'hal, had the Betazoid's knife driven into his neck. Atton's hands were slick with purple-pink blood that he wiped on the thighs of his pants with a disappointed sigh. He leaned down, pulling the Klingon’s knife from the warrior’s clenched fist, the standard-issue Starfleet knife left in his foe’s neck as if a marker of victory. Atton took a moment to admire the craftsmanship and its necessity in things to come before snapping back to reality. The Governor's quarters were still two sections to the fore, and he didn't have much time.
As he passed through the devastated corridors, he took in the sight of the gore and damaged bulkheads, scored with disruptor fire and the occasional swipe from a bat’leth, the urgency sped his path, and he narrowly avoided a few groups of Klingons making their way through the decks, passing covertly through Jeffries’ tubes and ducking into unused diplomatic quarters as he closed in on his objective.
Now, Atton finally approached the quarters. He took a moment to collect himself and catch his breath, which admittedly was coming in exhausted panting. Klingons truly were something else. It had been a long, long time since he felt this alive and he was relishing every second of it. Orders, duty, obligation bled away until there was nothing but his heart throbbing in his chest, blood pounding in his ears. In this moment he was truly free, free in a way he hadn't been in far too long. Then came the next moment, forcing back a dull and cruel reality on him. Ahead he could see the doors to the Governor's quarters. The legs of a Klingon warrior emerged from the door, preventing its closure, the safety protocols forcing the door back open each time either side touched a leg. He stepped over more bodies, approaching the door. He had no way of telling loyalist from renegade among the corpses, but the lack of Starfleet uniforms among the trail of corpses suggested Bor'tesh's guard had made some kind of stand here. Most of the disruptor wounds still has tiny whispers of smoke rising out of them. Was he already too late?
As he approached the door, the metallic clang of swords colliding seemed to answer his question. Looking in, he saw the bodies all strewn about the room as well and blood, blood everywhere. Most of these people had been on the receiving end of a bat'leth. Stepping inside Atton noted at least one Klingon still alive, thrashing in agony in the corner of the room, covering his left eye with both hands while a not insignificant amount of blood pooled out. Before he could decide whether to aid the man, there was another metallic clang from deeper into the quarters. Remembering his priorities, Atton left the man, pursuing the sounds of battle. In the Governor's sleeping chambers was where he found them: Governor Bor'tesh himself and one of the renegades both wielding bat'leths. They both twirled the blades between their hands, circling each other, testing each other out with varying strikes. Even without noting the grin each man shared, Atton could feel the emotions rolling off each man. Much like for himself, everything had fallen away into a one basic instinct. Kill or be killed. They were alive, so alive that he almost felt overwhelmed with the sensation. Atton couldn't help but feel kinship with them, and from that boiled up a small tinge of regret over what would come next.
Bor’tesh was more than holding his own against his younger challenger, countering each blow with a ferocious intensity. The parries drove the invader back bit by bit, slowly guiding him into the corner of the quarters. As if his opponent sensed this, he brought the blade upwards to meet Bor’tesh’s, using the force of the block to twist under the governor’s arm, back out into the open.
Now they were almost circling each other, the jabbing of the blades replaced by the metal arcing gracefully through the air, colliding without much malice, a show of the weapons’ perfect balance more than a series of blows meant to disarm or kill. Elegant as the fight was, both warriors seemed to realize the inefficacy at the same time, palpable bloodlust renewing.
The governor seemed to be tiring of the fight mentally, if not physically. Raising the bat’leth, he grasped it with both hands, using it to batter against the other’s sword, forcing him off balance again. On the last blow, the attacker’s elbow buckled, giving Bor’tesh the smallest opening to strike. Barely swinging the bat’leth, he brought it horizontally, one of the sword’s central projections piercing straight into the center of the other man’s throat. With a gut-turning attempt at wheezing breath he sank to his knees; Bor’tesh finished the job he started, and his opponent bled out in seconds on the deck plating. He stood over the fallen enemy, breathing heavily, taking in the moment of victory.
Atton entered, causing Bor'tesh to tense and draw his sword for a moment, until he recognized the Commander, Executive officer of the USS Aquarius. "Commander, do you make it a habit of hiding in the shadows while others fight?"
"Only when it suits me," Atton replied in a very terse tone. "Besides, not getting between a Klingon and his enemy is Klingon 101 at the Academy."
Bor'tesh merely let out a noncommittal grunt as a reply. Atton scanned him, trying to parse some sort of meaning to these thoughts and emotions. If there was truly some sort of progressive movement in the Klingon Empire that was desirous of a new way, Bor'tesh was perhaps its embodiment. Atton knew now why he was here.
"I take it things aren't going very well." Atton's train of thought was broken, returning his attention to the Governor, who was wiping down his blade.
"No," Jetrel responded. "We've lost the Bridge and Main Engineering. The Captain...has been captured, beamed back to General Vort's ship. We're abandoning the ship."
Atton walked past the Governor to examine the body of the man he'd just fought. "So you're just going to give up the ship like that?" Bor'tesh questioned, not bothering to turn to face him. Atton could feel the disappointment like a blast of heat.
"Ship's dead, Governor,” Atton answered, looking him up and down. “The fact we still have air to have this conversation is a miracle in and of itself. I don't have a problem dying today, but I'm not going to sacrifice this crew fighting for a ship that's already lost."
Bor'tesh let out a heavy sigh, starting to speak before he turned to face Atton. "I suppose. I have to remind myself that not all Starfleet Officers are--"
How the Betazoid got right behind him, he'd never know. Every sense, decades of combat experience failing him, and if he'd had the time to process it, he'd have wondered if the telepath had somehow lulled him into a false sense of security. Because he never realized Atton was right behind him; it wasn't until Bor'tesh had turned to face him, and a knife plunged into his chest, that any of this had even registered. He could feel where the blade had lodged, and knew he had moments, at best.
"Pet'aQ...” The Governor hissed, beginning to collapse as his legs gave out.
Atton caught him, slightly struggling to lay the bulky Klingon in heavy armor down smoothly. He knelt down beside him, looking him over. He opened his mouth to say something, but the words didn’t find him. A moment later, the Governor was dead, his muscles going limp. He stood up, towering over the body of the Governor. His stomach twisted, a wave of nausea washing over him. Again his hands were slick with new blood. It was purple/pink again, but it may as well been red, and green and every other alien color that comprised the crew of this ship. All dead because of him, and more would be dying still.
“It’s for the greater good.” He finally muttered with a deep sigh, more to convince himself than any ghosts in the room.
Much like the Governor, Atton found himself so distracted by the weight of his murdering he hadn’t noticed the head of the Bor’tesh’s security entourage, the injured man from before, enter. When Atton glanced up from Bor’tesh’s body, he found the Klingon staring back at him with one eye, the other one put out. There was a long, still moment of silence. All of his desire to spare this man, somehow explain this all away, did nothing to stop his hand from instinctually drawing his phaser. Atton fired from the hip, striking the Klingon square in the chest in a shower of sparks as H'tal began to pull his own disruptor pistol. He hit the ground, dead and Atton remained frozen and still like a golem for several seconds, until he was convinced no one else would barge into the bedroom. This complicated things, but only just slightly. Bor’tesh was dead. Dead by a Klingon knife. Dead by a Klingon knife from one of the crew of General Vort’s ship. He’d done his job. He could mull over his own morality again, when this was all over. And he still had one thing left to do.
“Nach’hal. Are you there? Can you hear me?” Atton sighed at only the deep silence the responded in the commbadge. “If you’re alive, and can hear me, I need you in the Governor’s quarters, now.”
The fighting on Deck Six, Section Twenty-Four had been some of the most intense on the ship. Of all the Klingons’ objective, this had been the most stubborn. They might not have controlled the Bridge or Main Engineering, but Captain Quintus had been captured, and Governor Bor'tesh was all that remained. Though there were renegade Klingons all over the ship, they'd focused their efforts here. Ship's security had more than rose to the occasion, Atton noted grimly. Bodies littered the halls, both Klingon and Starfleet. At his feet, one was still twitching. The Klingon from the group that had attacked him, separating him from Nach'hal, had the Betazoid's knife driven into his neck. Atton's hands were slick with purple-pink blood that he wiped on the thighs of his pants with a disappointed sigh. He leaned down, pulling the Klingon’s knife from the warrior’s clenched fist, the standard-issue Starfleet knife left in his foe’s neck as if a marker of victory. Atton took a moment to admire the craftsmanship and its necessity in things to come before snapping back to reality. The Governor's quarters were still two sections to the fore, and he didn't have much time.
As he passed through the devastated corridors, he took in the sight of the gore and damaged bulkheads, scored with disruptor fire and the occasional swipe from a bat’leth, the urgency sped his path, and he narrowly avoided a few groups of Klingons making their way through the decks, passing covertly through Jeffries’ tubes and ducking into unused diplomatic quarters as he closed in on his objective.
Now, Atton finally approached the quarters. He took a moment to collect himself and catch his breath, which admittedly was coming in exhausted panting. Klingons truly were something else. It had been a long, long time since he felt this alive and he was relishing every second of it. Orders, duty, obligation bled away until there was nothing but his heart throbbing in his chest, blood pounding in his ears. In this moment he was truly free, free in a way he hadn't been in far too long. Then came the next moment, forcing back a dull and cruel reality on him. Ahead he could see the doors to the Governor's quarters. The legs of a Klingon warrior emerged from the door, preventing its closure, the safety protocols forcing the door back open each time either side touched a leg. He stepped over more bodies, approaching the door. He had no way of telling loyalist from renegade among the corpses, but the lack of Starfleet uniforms among the trail of corpses suggested Bor'tesh's guard had made some kind of stand here. Most of the disruptor wounds still has tiny whispers of smoke rising out of them. Was he already too late?
As he approached the door, the metallic clang of swords colliding seemed to answer his question. Looking in, he saw the bodies all strewn about the room as well and blood, blood everywhere. Most of these people had been on the receiving end of a bat'leth. Stepping inside Atton noted at least one Klingon still alive, thrashing in agony in the corner of the room, covering his left eye with both hands while a not insignificant amount of blood pooled out. Before he could decide whether to aid the man, there was another metallic clang from deeper into the quarters. Remembering his priorities, Atton left the man, pursuing the sounds of battle. In the Governor's sleeping chambers was where he found them: Governor Bor'tesh himself and one of the renegades both wielding bat'leths. They both twirled the blades between their hands, circling each other, testing each other out with varying strikes. Even without noting the grin each man shared, Atton could feel the emotions rolling off each man. Much like for himself, everything had fallen away into a one basic instinct. Kill or be killed. They were alive, so alive that he almost felt overwhelmed with the sensation. Atton couldn't help but feel kinship with them, and from that boiled up a small tinge of regret over what would come next.
Bor’tesh was more than holding his own against his younger challenger, countering each blow with a ferocious intensity. The parries drove the invader back bit by bit, slowly guiding him into the corner of the quarters. As if his opponent sensed this, he brought the blade upwards to meet Bor’tesh’s, using the force of the block to twist under the governor’s arm, back out into the open.
Now they were almost circling each other, the jabbing of the blades replaced by the metal arcing gracefully through the air, colliding without much malice, a show of the weapons’ perfect balance more than a series of blows meant to disarm or kill. Elegant as the fight was, both warriors seemed to realize the inefficacy at the same time, palpable bloodlust renewing.
The governor seemed to be tiring of the fight mentally, if not physically. Raising the bat’leth, he grasped it with both hands, using it to batter against the other’s sword, forcing him off balance again. On the last blow, the attacker’s elbow buckled, giving Bor’tesh the smallest opening to strike. Barely swinging the bat’leth, he brought it horizontally, one of the sword’s central projections piercing straight into the center of the other man’s throat. With a gut-turning attempt at wheezing breath he sank to his knees; Bor’tesh finished the job he started, and his opponent bled out in seconds on the deck plating. He stood over the fallen enemy, breathing heavily, taking in the moment of victory.
Atton entered, causing Bor'tesh to tense and draw his sword for a moment, until he recognized the Commander, Executive officer of the USS Aquarius. "Commander, do you make it a habit of hiding in the shadows while others fight?"
"Only when it suits me," Atton replied in a very terse tone. "Besides, not getting between a Klingon and his enemy is Klingon 101 at the Academy."
Bor'tesh merely let out a noncommittal grunt as a reply. Atton scanned him, trying to parse some sort of meaning to these thoughts and emotions. If there was truly some sort of progressive movement in the Klingon Empire that was desirous of a new way, Bor'tesh was perhaps its embodiment. Atton knew now why he was here.
"I take it things aren't going very well." Atton's train of thought was broken, returning his attention to the Governor, who was wiping down his blade.
"No," Jetrel responded. "We've lost the Bridge and Main Engineering. The Captain...has been captured, beamed back to General Vort's ship. We're abandoning the ship."
Atton walked past the Governor to examine the body of the man he'd just fought. "So you're just going to give up the ship like that?" Bor'tesh questioned, not bothering to turn to face him. Atton could feel the disappointment like a blast of heat.
"Ship's dead, Governor,” Atton answered, looking him up and down. “The fact we still have air to have this conversation is a miracle in and of itself. I don't have a problem dying today, but I'm not going to sacrifice this crew fighting for a ship that's already lost."
Bor'tesh let out a heavy sigh, starting to speak before he turned to face Atton. "I suppose. I have to remind myself that not all Starfleet Officers are--"
How the Betazoid got right behind him, he'd never know. Every sense, decades of combat experience failing him, and if he'd had the time to process it, he'd have wondered if the telepath had somehow lulled him into a false sense of security. Because he never realized Atton was right behind him; it wasn't until Bor'tesh had turned to face him, and a knife plunged into his chest, that any of this had even registered. He could feel where the blade had lodged, and knew he had moments, at best.
"Pet'aQ...” The Governor hissed, beginning to collapse as his legs gave out.
Atton caught him, slightly struggling to lay the bulky Klingon in heavy armor down smoothly. He knelt down beside him, looking him over. He opened his mouth to say something, but the words didn’t find him. A moment later, the Governor was dead, his muscles going limp. He stood up, towering over the body of the Governor. His stomach twisted, a wave of nausea washing over him. Again his hands were slick with new blood. It was purple/pink again, but it may as well been red, and green and every other alien color that comprised the crew of this ship. All dead because of him, and more would be dying still.
“It’s for the greater good.” He finally muttered with a deep sigh, more to convince himself than any ghosts in the room.
Much like the Governor, Atton found himself so distracted by the weight of his murdering he hadn’t noticed the head of the Bor’tesh’s security entourage, the injured man from before, enter. When Atton glanced up from Bor’tesh’s body, he found the Klingon staring back at him with one eye, the other one put out. There was a long, still moment of silence. All of his desire to spare this man, somehow explain this all away, did nothing to stop his hand from instinctually drawing his phaser. Atton fired from the hip, striking the Klingon square in the chest in a shower of sparks as H'tal began to pull his own disruptor pistol. He hit the ground, dead and Atton remained frozen and still like a golem for several seconds, until he was convinced no one else would barge into the bedroom. This complicated things, but only just slightly. Bor’tesh was dead. Dead by a Klingon knife. Dead by a Klingon knife from one of the crew of General Vort’s ship. He’d done his job. He could mull over his own morality again, when this was all over. And he still had one thing left to do.
“Nach’hal. Are you there? Can you hear me?” Atton sighed at only the deep silence the responded in the commbadge. “If you’re alive, and can hear me, I need you in the Governor’s quarters, now.”