Crimson

Posted on Sat Sep 21st, 2024 @ 6:40pm by 1st Lieutenant Torian Vale

Mission: MISSION 0 - History Speaks
Location: Starbase 115, Marine Barracks, Vale’s Quarters
Timeline: 0315 Hours, Five Days Prior to Joining USS Elysium (Seven Months Ago)
1653 words - 3.3 OF Standard Post Measure

Torian stood on the observation deck of Starbase Orion. The vast expanse of space and nebula stretched endlessly beyond the large transparent window behind him. Stars flickered like distant memories, cold and indifferent to the lives unfolding beneath their light. The low hum of the starbase's systems, coupled with the faint murmur of crew members and passersby in the distance, offered a false sense of calm. But Torian felt it—the tension in the air. Something wasn’t right. His instincts, sharpened from his training and experiences, prickled at the back of his mind.

His eyes scanned the large, bustling space below, where ships came and went with mechanical precision, travelers moved from bay to bay, and commerce was conducted. Amidst the sea of uniforms and travelers, one figure stood out—his father, Lieutenant Commander Michael Vale, a Starfleet Security Officer. Tall and composed, with that familiar air of authority, Michael waited near transport dock 4B—the transport that would take him to Earth. His father seemed so close, and yet an invisible chasm yawned between them. He had an old worn dufflebag strapped to his back.

He headed back to Earth, recalled because of a situation back at home. He didn’t understand the full picture but he knew his family was in danger.

Torian’s heart pounded in his chest, a sensation that felt both foreign and familiar.

Something was wrong. He could feel it.

Torian took a step forward, his pulse quickened. His father scanned his surroundings, his sharp eyes missing nothing, as always. But there were shadows, darker than usual, lingering at the fringes of the bustling crowd. Figures moved with subtle, deliberate grace, their faces obscured, their intentions cloaked in the anonymity of the starbase’s chaos. Torian knew what they were before they even struck—assassins.

A cold sweat broke out on the back of his neck. He tried to move, to shout a warning, but his voice was caught in his throat, silenced by some unseen force. His feet felt glued to the cold deck plating, as if the universe itself was holding him in place.

He watched, helpless, as the scene below began to unfold in slow motion.

Michael’s eyes narrowed as he sensed the impending danger. His hand hovered near his sidearm, but it was too late. The first attacker struck with surgical precision, a blade gleamed in the artificial light as it flashed toward Michael. He blocked the strike with swift reflexes, spinning and disarming the assailant in a single fluid motion. But another emerged from the crowd, then another—three in total, closing in with predatory intent.

Panic surged through Torian’s veins as he struggled against the invisible chains holding him back. His father fought valiantly, each movement a testament to his years of experience. He knocked one assassin to the ground with a powerful strike, but the others were relentless, their attacks coordinated and merciless. Blades flashed, and blood splattered across the deck. Yet Torian remained frozen, forced to witness every agonizing moment.

His father's eyes, always sharp and calculating, flickered with desperation as he fought to stay on his feet. He managed to incapacitate one of the attackers with a well-placed strike to the neck, sending the man crumpling to the ground. But the remaining two closed in, striking together.

Michael parried one attack, but the other blade found its mark, sliced deep into his side. The breath left Torian’s lungs as his father staggered, clutching the wound as blood seeped through his fingers. The assassins showed no mercy, their faces cold and unfeeling. They moved in for the final blow, and in that brief moment, Michael’s eyes met Torian’s—filled not with fear, but with a haunting sense of acceptance.

“No!” Torian’s voice finally broke free, tearing from his throat in a raw, guttural scream. But it was too late.

The final strike was swift, brutal. His father crumpled to the deck, the life drained from his body in a pool of crimson. The assassins melted into the crowd as if they were nothing more than shadows, leaving behind the lifeless form of a man who had once been so strong, so untouchable. The world around Torian blurred as grief and rage overwhelmed him.

He fell to his knees, his fists clenched in helpless fury as tears burned in his eyes. The starbase, once filled with life and sound, seemed to fade into a distant echo, the weight of loss pressing down on him like a physical force. He reached out, his hand trembling, trying to touch his father, to shake him awake, to change what had already been sealed in fate.

But his fingers met only the cold, unyielding deck. And then, silence.

Torian’s breath hitched as the world began to dissolve around him—the starbase, the assassins, his father’s body—all of it crumbling into darkness, fading into nothingness.

He jolted awake, gasping for air, his body drenched in sweat. His bare chest heaved as he sat up in his bed, the dim lighting of his quarters casting long, soft shadows across the room. Midnight, his faithful black Labrador, stirred at his side, sensing his distress. The familiar hum of Starbase 115 thrummed softly beneath him, a far cry from the chaotic silence of his dream.

He had relived the moment of his father’s murder again in his sleep. Only the 1000th time. It was a mental epidemic that would not go away.

But as Torian sat there, his heart still raced, he knew it was more than just a nightmare. It was a memory—one that haunted him, again and again.

A few minutes passed. The faint glow of the computer console on his small desk lit the room in muted blues and grays. The light bounced off the wall and on Midnight’s black fur in soft shadows as the Labrador lifted his head, sensing his master’s turmoil. Torian rubbed his face with a trembling hand, trying to shake off the weight of the nightmare—no, the memory—that clung to him like a dark cloud.

But it wouldn’t fade. It never did.

Without a second thought, Torian pushed the covers aside and swung his legs out of bed. His dog followed. His bare feet hit the cool floor as he moved toward the small desk in the corner of his quarters. He barked a command at the replicator, "Pencil and paper." The machine hummed for a moment, and soon a sheet of paper and a pencil materialized on the small platform. He grabbed them and sat down, his hands still shaking slightly as he began to sketch.

His pencil moved rapidly across the page, sketching the outlines of the assassins as they appeared in his mind. Their faces were shadowed, indistinct—just as they had been in real life. But he could still remember their movements, the way they flowed through the crowd like predators hunting prey.

Torian’s hand trembled as he sketched their garments—the long, dark cloaks that swirled around them, the glint of hidden weapons beneath. He tried to remember every detail, every small nuance of their appearance that might give him a clue. But it was always the same. Always. No matter how many times he tried to draw them, the images never changed. It frustrated him to no end.

He stopped drawing, and the picture revealed itself.

The black hoods worn by the assassins were made of a matte, lightweight material. The fabric was sleek and almost soundless as it moved, designed to absorb light rather than reflect it, making the assassins difficult to spot even in dimly lit environments. Although, for some reason, they didn’t care much about killing with dozens of people around.

Emblazoned on the right shoulder of each cloak was a distinct insignia—a dark green dragon coiled tightly, its body etched in sharp, angular lines. The dragon's scales were meticulously detailed, as if each one had been hand-carved into the fabric with precision, giving it a subtle texture that could only be noticed up close. The insignia, though dark in color, stood out starkly against the black fabric of the cloak, a mark of affiliation or allegiance, symbolizing power, secrecy, and danger.

The dragon’s eyes were narrow and fierce, its claws outstretched as if ready to strike, evoking a sense of relentless pursuit and lethal intent. The insignia was not large, but its presence was commanding, an ominous symbol of the assassins' deadly skill and the silent brotherhood they belonged to. It was a mark he did not know, and after many years of inquiry, no one could tell him who they were.

Searching was futile. It was always futile.

Torian threw the pencil down, leaning back in his chair, his breath heavy.

"Dammit," he muttered under his breath, his fist clenching tightly. He could feel the weight of his failure sitting heavy on his chest, the same failure that had haunted him for years.

But he wasn’t that helpless boy anymore.

He would find them. He would bring justice for his father. He would make them pay for what they had done. His jaw clenched as his eyes bore into the sketch, willing it to give him answers. The face of his father, lifeless on the starbase floor, flashed through his mind again, and the fire in his chest reignited.

This wasn’t over. He would track them down, one way or another. He would keep searching.

Midnight, sensing the shift in Torian’s mood, padded over and rested his head on Torian’s lap, offering quiet comfort. Torian absentmindedly stroked the dog’s fur, his gaze still fixed on the paper in front of him.

“I’ll find them,” Torian whispered, his voice low and full of determination. “I’ll bring justice to you, Dad. I swear it.”

 

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