Integration and Preservation

Posted on 2025, Wed Jul 16th, @ 10:02am by Vice Admiral Jack Reacher Jr

546 words; about a 3 minute read

Stardate: 91723.7
Location: Mirror Universe, En route to Sol System

Computer, begin personal log...

We’ve crossed into hell—plain and simple. The Mirror Universe, where Starfleet's values are twisted into tyranny and every officer is either a threat or a target. This was no accident. We were sent here. Someone launched a portable warp device from our shuttlebay, intentionally pulling us across realities. Who—and why—remain unanswered. But whoever did this knew what they were doing.

Today’s briefing in the conference lounge was… sobering. I laid it out for the senior staff: we must disappear. The USS Halo is no more. We’re the ISS Halo now—at least in appearance. Every insignia, every uniform, every console interface has to reflect that. If we get scanned, if we’re boarded, if we blink wrong… we’re dead.

Commander Ardon was sharp, as always. He pressed for our orders in this reality, and I revealed a truth that still doesn’t sit right: my counterpart is the Commander-in-Chief of Terran Starfleet. That gives us a slim edge… but a dangerous one. It makes us a target. More power in this universe doesn’t mean more protection—it means more people gunning for your throat.

Moo and Richardson are playing the deception game well. Moo’s idea to label our Marines as "Fire Control Technicians" was inspired—keeps the crew looking militarily efficient without attracting Terran paranoia. He also suggested a "game" to root out spies—a paranoia loop meant to keep the crew sharp and mistrustful in a way that looks Terran but keeps their minds off the bigger lie. If it works, it’ll help keep order. If it backfires, it’ll break the crew’s morale completely.

Engineering, under Chief Lamontagne, has basically hotwired the ship into a beast. Weapon systems and shields are running on emergency power routed through jury-rigged pathways. It gives us more firepower than some dreadnoughts… for about five minutes. After that, we risk melting the saucer section into slag. He’s pulled off a miracle. A dangerous, unstable miracle—but a miracle nonetheless.

I gave a direct order: no killing. No matter how deep into this illusion we go, we are still Starfleet. We will not abandon that. Not here. Not ever.

And yet, I see the toll already. Ardon is adjusting—too easily, maybe. Sleeford is composed, but I can tell he’s watching everyone more closely than usual. Dean's frustration is mounting. Situs is buried in scans and contradiction. D’ghockaK holds the line with Klingon precision. Moo… well, Moo’s thriving. It’s unsettling. I need him on this game, but I don’t want him to become it.

As we approach Earth, our destination in this universe, I can’t help but feel like we're walking into a trap. We don’t belong here. Not on this ship. Not in this uniform. Not in this role.

But I will protect this crew. I will get them home. Even if I have to wear this black-and-silver mask a little longer. Even if I have to outmaneuver a Terran Empire that sees every smile as a lie, and every officer as a threat.

We're Starfleet. That still means something—even in the shadows.

Computer, end log.

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