Halo Getting Prepped
Posted on 2025, Mon Jun 23rd, @ 4:30pm by Captain Kate Reacher & Lieutenant Commander B'Orak & Vice Admiral Jack Reacher Jr & Commodore Paul Sleeford & Commander MOO Richardson IX & Commander Cormac Situs & Senior Chief Petty Officer Larry Lamontagne & Chief Petty Officer Ch’atrim D’ghockaK
2,723 words; about a 14 minute read
Mission:
Episode 1A "Shadows of the Empire"
Location: Varys
Timeline: 6 Hours After Briefing
Admiral/Emperor
Officer
Enlisted
Townsend stood in his quarters, the tight, crisp fabric of the Terran Empire Admiral uniform clinging to him like a second skin. The heavy, dark material seemed to weigh on him more with each passing moment, as though it were not just an outfit but a tangible symbol of authority, responsibility, and the immense pressure bearing down on him. He ran a hand over the thick wool of his cloak, feeling the scratch of the fabric against his skin as if it were a constant reminder of the role he had to play.
With a deep sigh, he muttered under his breath, his voice tinged with frustration. “My God, this sucks.”
Kate, ever the calming presence, approached him slowly. She smiled warmly, a mix of sympathy and quiet encouragement in her eyes. “You’re going to do just fine, Chris,” she said, her voice steady and reassuring, a stark contrast to his evident discomfort. “The uniform is surprisingly lightweight—at least it should be,” she teased with a light laugh. She placed a hand protectively over her rounded belly, her pregnancy now undeniable. The soft curve of her form, though clearly in its later stages, only seemed to add to her elegance, and it made her words all the more soothing as she continued, “Luckily for me, I don’t have to deal with it right now!”
Chris turned to face her, a teasing smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “Well, that’s because you’re pregnant! You get a free pass on the uniform,” he joked, shaking his head with a grin. His eyes sparkled with lightness for a moment, the tension momentarily breaking.
But then, his expression darkened, and he dropped the playful tone. His eyes narrowed as the weight of the responsibility hit him again, and his smile faltered. "Now, I need to check on the crew," he said quietly, his voice tinged with a new resolve.
Just as the words left his lips, the sharp, commanding voice of the ship's PA system cut through the air, echoing with urgency:
“=/\= Senior Staff, meet in the Observation Lounge =/\=”
The message was clear—the mission was about to begin. Townsend knew the stakes.
Sleeford stood in front of the mirror in his quarters, staring at his reflection with utter disgust, he looked like a clown, felt like a 1970's mannikin for a bordello in a sleezy nightclub.
Pulling at the collar he sighed, if he looked like a fool then the admiral would look a damn sight worse. Turning he left the room and made is way to the obs lounge, passing junior officers and enlisted personal each looking just as ridicules as he did.
Stopping in front of the door he pulled his jacket a straight as it would allow and entered, seeing everyone but the admiral there waiting, taking his place he waited.
Moments later, Townsend strode into the Observation Lounge, the heels of his boots clicking sharply against the polished deck. He was clad in the full uniform, every inch of him exuding authority, but not comfort. The uniform was designed for function, not for ease. The dark wool of the jacket clung to his chest like a constant weight, while the thick, imposing cloak hung heavily from his shoulders, the fabric rustling with every step. It was all utilitarian, designed for show, but it made him feel suffocated, as if the very fabric was trying to constrict him.
As he entered, the door sliding shut behind him, his gaze immediately landed on Kate, who was standing at the far side of the room. She raised an eyebrow and couldn't help but smirk at him, her expression one of quiet amusement as she took in the sight of him struggling in the oppressive weight of his uniform.
“Alright, Kate,” Chris called, his voice filled with mock frustration. “So, what do you think of this absurd uniform?” With a dramatic flourish, he spun around, his black wool cape sweeping out behind him like the tail of some grandiose, otherworldly creature. The dark fabric billowed in the air, adding a theatrical flair to his movement, and he struck a pose, one hand on his hip as if waiting for her judgment.
Kate’s smirk widened as she chuckled softly, her gaze flicking to the dramatic display he’d just made. "It's a little much, don't you think?" she teased, the warmth in her eyes betraying her amusement. The contrast between his theatrical twirl and the seriousness of the situation wasn't lost on her. "But I guess it fits the occasion, huh?"
Chris’s grin spread wider, his mood momentarily lifted by her lightheartedness. But even as the smile lingered, a deeper tension in the air reminded him of the duty ahead. The mission was far from trivial, and the uniform—ridiculous as it felt—was just another reminder of the role he had to play in the dangerous, high-stakes game they were about to face.
As the rest of the senior staff began filing into the lounge, his expression shifted back to one of focus, his hands resting on the back of the chair as he turned to face them. The lightheartedness vanished, replaced by the quiet determination that would guide him through the coming ordeal.
“Alright,” he said, his voice now steady and commanding. "Let’s get to work."
"And what work would that be sir?" Situs entered "Ma-am" he added as he saw Commander Kate was present. He was not completely privy to the details and he still was having trouble with the gaudy costumes this place called uniforms.
"Not dying, And making it back home alive, and fix whatever is happening back home" Townsend told Situs. "It's gonna be a while, don't know how long but a while till Engineering figures this shit out, So till now, We go visit Terran empire Earth"
Smiling slightly at the banter Sleeford stood and headed to the terminal screen, "There's been a few incidents of ships and personal crossing into this universe. Mostly by accident, due to stellar fluctuations and the like. It's going to be a fun ride"
He turned his attention to Sleeford at the terminal, nodding thoughtfully. "Accidents or not, the Terran Empire doesn't exactly roll out the welcome mat. If those incidents are stacking up, they're either going to get curious—or hostile."
A beat.
"Still, 'fun ride' sounds about right. Just hope Engineering figures this mess out before we wear out our welcome... or end up in a firing squad lineup." His voice was dry, but not without humor. Then he added more seriously, "We stay sharp, watch each other’s backs, and get home in one piece. One way or another."
Nodding once as the Admiral finished, Sleeford turned back to the screen, entering a few commands he watched as the limited amount of data scrolled up the screen.
"Okay the limited data we have is well limited. Starfleet has restricted all information as ultra secret. The reasons are quite simple. Everyone and I mean everyone is here, every one you've loved, lost, had die. Every relationship that went sour, everything. Only here there different. My back story is on file. Here this Sleeford didn't get hauled out of the pigsty by his grandfather, he didn't enter Starfleet as a late entrant, all the information I can gather, he's a farmer in the lowlands of Bajor, producing food for the slave camps. So most of you are here, different to you. Engineering and Science I have a few declassified files that may help, nothing exciting but may help getting home. "
Commander Moo Richardson, upon hearing the announcement, Left security Central for the deck Ten observation lounge. His uniform was snug, but it allowed for more weapons to be hidden. The cape had a few extras in it. Balistic protection, extra armor in the form of a phased energy absorption net. There was a downside, the extra weight would annoy some of the human members of security. Moo didn't care. Extra protection just made his team more effective. The foot ware on the other had was just a little over the top. It did make hiding an extra phasor power core easier, just not comfortable.
Upon entering the lounge, Moo looked at the uncomfortable batch of senior members of the crew. They did look like a theatrical group, pulling and tugging at their costumes. Moo hoped that they would settle in, even with a cursory glance, you could tell that this group did not belong. Larry grabbed a batch of prune juice and headed to the back. This was his preferred position, where he could observe everyone, and no one was able to get behind him. It was a safer position.
Larry Lamontagne had his Engineerong uniform on, but it was a little different than he was used to. A fancy dress uniform was a fancy dress uniform. You broke it out to hang with the bigwigs. This would only be his 15th time wearing one, so it was no big deal. The dress uniform was designed to make people uncomfortable while still looking attractive. This mirror uniform was no different. Dramatic Flair was still drama. He had to admit the Female version tended to accentuate their assets.
Larry headed over to his counterpart in science after grabbing a ice cold beverage. "Well don't you just look like a vampire from the old holo drama's. Me, I think I represent a pirate faction. I am just missing a cutlass, and an eye patch."
Looking around the room, everyone looked out of place, and uncomfortable. Well, except for the commodore, he wore his costume like it was a royal robe.
Chief Petty Officer Ch’atrim D’ghockaK strode into the Observation Lounge, her boots echoing with purpose as she reported for duty after the briefing. Her blood-red eyes, a stark Klingon trait, burned with quiet determination as part of Chief of the Boat, the Terran Empire’s black wool uniform a minor inconvenience. From the tactical console, she drew a data file listing Terran Empire contacts, including retired Commodore Emily Janeway, former captain of USS Voyager. Placing it before Admiral Townsend, she spoke with firm resolve. “Sir, I’m reporting as ordered post-briefing. This file covers Terran figures, including Voyager’s retired CO, for our mission. The crew, with Voyager-A transfers, stands ready. I suggest tactical drills en route to Earth to sharpen our edge.” Her gaze, steady and impartial, passed
Ch’atrim stood tall, hands clasped, poised for the next command.
"Understood, Dose anyone have questions?" Chris asked.
Chief Petty Officer Ch’atrim D’ghockaK stood unyielding in the Observation Lounge, her blood-red eyes blazing with Klingon fire beneath the mission’s weight. The Terran Empire’s black wool uniform was a clownish mockery, but she wielded a far deadlier edge. From her belt, she drew a forged obsidian mask—not some flimsy Halloween trinket, but a battle-worn relic etched with jagged Viper gang runes, its weight heavy with the blood of her enforcer past. Sliding it on to shield her identity from any Terran who might know her or her mirror, she rocked her head fiercely, as if Slayer’s Angel of Death roared through her veins, its thrash-metal fury igniting her warrior spirit. Her ritual-sharpened fangs, honed in a Klingon blood rite, gleamed with predatory menace beneath the mask.
“Admiral,” she growled, voice resolute behind the relic, “the data file mentions Commodore Janeway, a friend in Starfleet. She may be in retirement, burnt and bloodied, but still, she was a good will always be fearless Commodore.” Her tone carried respect, tinged with a warrior’s doubt about survival in this ruthless empire. “But we face active threats. I propose mock interrogations to forge ironclad cover stories—let the crew prove their mettle under Klingon scrutiny.”
Her masked gaze shifted to Senior Chief Lamontagne, his pirate jest still in the air. “Lamontagne, can Engineering mask our ship’s signature to pass as Terran? One slip, and we’re dead.” Ch’atrim’s sharpened fangs flashed beneath the mask as she braced her hands on the table, still subtly rocking to an unheard thrash-metal beat, her presence a challenge to the room.
Larry smiled, glad to be of some useful function, instead of just standing around. Larry said, "The Data from prior encounters contains a list of major and minor differences between our Federation and their Empire. They don't have a children's school programs. There are no holo suits, just torture chambers. The subtle differences are that we have elegance, while they have a rough, natural finish on the bridge. The power system consists of straight weapons and shields. The last on the list is life support. They are almost Spartan-like in nature, more like Klingons than the Federation. Any detailed scan will show us, for who we are. I can make the power distribution look more Martial in nature, but as soon as they get close, our cover will be blown."
“The thing is, you two, our mission, or our counterparts' mission, is to Earth. It’s their 250th version of Frontier Day, but it’s more glorious since it’s about them taking over the galaxy,” Chris told them.
Ch’atrim loomed in the Observation Lounge, her blood-red eyes blazing through the obsidian mask’s jagged slits, Viper gang runes etched like battle scars. The Terran Empire’s black wool uniform chafed, but she stood unyielding, a Klingon storm in humanoid form. As Admiral Townsend’s orders rang out, she tilted her head, the pulse of Slayer’s Angel of Death thrumming in her blood. Her tongue flicked out, licking her ritual-sharpened fangs through the mask’s open maw, their gleam a silent vow to honor
Commodore Janeway—whose fearless spirit might lie broken in this cursed empire. The gesture was predatory, a Klingon rite to summon strength over grief.
“Sir,” she growled, her voice a molten blade, “your command is my anvil. The mock interrogations will forge this crew into liars worthy of Qo’noS. With Commander Richardson, I’ll grind their fears to dust—Klingon fire will make them unbreakable.” Her fangs flashed again as she licked them, the mask amplifying the menace, a warning to any Terran who’d dare challenge them.
Her gaze snapped to Senior Chief Lamontagne, sharp as a disruptor’s edge. “Lamontagne, your Engineering must cloak this ship in Terran savagery. I’ll haunt your engine room—reroute power to weapons, strip the Federation’s softness. One slip, and we’re prey.” She rocked subtly, the thrash-metal rhythm fueling her, her tongue grazing her fangs once more, tasting the mission’s weight.
Ch’atrim masked stare returned to Townsend, a flicker of sorrow piercing her ferocity as Janeway’s name resurfaced. “Commodore Janeway…” Her voice softened, a rare crack in her armor, her tongue pausing against a fang as if tasting her grief. “Starfleet’s lion, unbowed by storms. This empire devours such souls. If she breathes, she’s our spear; if not, her honor fuels us.” Her eyes hardened, the mask’s runes seeming to pulse. “I’ll rip through the data file—find her allies, her foes, her ghosts. Her name will cut our path.”
She slammed a fist on the table, the fang-licking rite complete, her Klingon spirit ignited. “Admiral, this crew will storm their Frontier Day like a bloodied bat’leth. My fangs are bared—give the word, and we strike. Any further orders, sir?”
“No, everyone is dismissed,” Chris announced firmly, his voice echoing through the cramped conference room. “We’re two hours away from Earth, so… prepare for the upcoming rendezvous.” He paused for a moment, gauging the expressions of his crew, before turning on his heel.
With a sense of purpose, Chris exited the room, his footsteps resonating on the metallic floor. Kate followed closely behind, a mixture of apprehension and determination in her stride as they headed toward the lift, ready to tackle the challenges that lay ahead.
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