Pick Up and Delivery
Posted on 2025, Sun Aug 3rd, @ 3:45pm by Fleet Admiral Pat Lovell & 2nd Lieutenant Jen Wager & Gunnery Sergeant Jon Snow & Commodore Travis O'Rourke
Edited on on 2025, Wed Aug 13th, @ 8:18pm
1,795 words; about a 9 minute read
Mission:
Episode 1B "Shadow of the Past"
Location: O'Rourke Ranch -------> Star Fleet Command
Timeline: 4 Hours After Formation of Department 0
The Starfleet transport settled just beyond the fence line, engines whispering into silence as the hatch lowered. Two figures emerged—both clad in immaculate Marine dress reds, the unmistakable gold trim of Starfleet Command shining faintly in the morning light.
Second Lieutenant Jen Wager led the way, moving with disciplined purpose up the dirt path toward the ranch house. Gunnery Sergeant Jon Snow followed, eyes scanning with quiet precision, the silver badge of the Commander-in-Chief’s Security Detail gleaming on his chest.
As they neared the porch, the screen door creaked slightly—Commodore Travis O'Rourke was already outside, coffee mug in hand, watching them approach from the top step.
Wager stopped a few paces from the porch, squared her stance, and spoke clearly:
“Commodore Travis O’Rourke, sir. Second Lieutenant Jen Wager, Commander-in-Chief’s Security Detail.”
Snow gave a single nod. “You’re to come with us immediately, sir.”
No further explanation. No small talk. Just the calm, absolute authority that came with an order from the very top.
O’Rourke didn’t move at first. He took one last sip of his coffee, eyes narrowing just slightly over the rim of the mug as he studied the two Marines. Young—by his standards, anyway—but sharp. Wager had that crisp, Academy-edge to her. Snow looked like he’d wrestled a Nausicaan and walked away unimpressed.
“Orders from the top, huh?” he said, voice low and even, more observation than question.
No answer came. Snow’s stance didn’t shift, and Wager’s eyes didn’t flicker.
Travis exhaled slowly through his nose, gave a faint smirk, then turned and stepped back inside the house. A few seconds passed. The screen door creaked again.
He returned wearing a dark grey field jacket over his duty blacks, collar zipped halfway up. His mug was gone, replaced by something sterner in his posture. The easy-going rancher was gone. The soldier had returned.
“All right,” he said, stepping down from the porch. “Let’s go see what the President wants.”
No hesitation. No baggage. Just quiet resolve.
He fell into step between the two of them, letting the wind tug lightly at the hem of his jacket as they made their way back toward the waiting transport.
The hatch hissed open again, and just like that, Commodore Travis O’Rourke was gone.
The shuttle cut through the clouds with surgical precision, descending smoothly onto the private landing pad atop the secure wing of Starfleet Command. The city’s skyline shimmered in the distance, but down here, the air felt different—thicker with tension, heavy with classified weight.
The hatch opened with a pneumatic hiss.
Second Lieutenant Wager stepped out first, scanning the area despite the cordoned perimeter. Gunnery Sergeant Snow followed, his expression still unreadable.
Commodore O’Rourke stepped out last, the collar of his jacket catching the breeze as he took in the familiar—but-never-casual—view of Starfleet Headquarters.
He gave a small grunt, more reflex than commentary.
“Been a while since I came in through the front door,” he muttered, eyes tracking the figures waiting near the entrance. “Never a good sign when the pad’s clear but the air feels like a tribunal.”
He adjusted the hem of his jacket and followed the Marines without another word.
Without breaking stride, the trio moved toward the reinforced glass doors of the executive wing.
A marine major stood just inside, already keying in clearance codes. As the door slid open, he turned slightly.
“Commodore O’Rourke, you’re expected,” he said briskly. “Commander-in-Chief is waiting in the Situation Room.”
No pleasantries. No welcome-home. Just the gravity of whatever this new department—Department 0—was set to become.
Level 10, Secure Wing – Access Alpha-One
The doors slid open with a low hydraulic thrum. The Situation Room was dimmer than usual, its lighting softened by soft blues and tactical gold overlays. A large holotable displayed a wireframe of a sleek, elongated warshipits simulated form even in simulation. The registry glowed beneath it:
USS Chronepsis – NCC-99712
Draco-Class – Strategic Command Platform
At the far end of the table stood Admiral Pat Lovell, Commander-in-Chief of Starfleet. White-haired, composed, and impossibly sharp-eyed, he turned as Commodore O’Rourke entered, his expression unreadable but focused.
“Travis,” he greeted with a nod, formality balanced by familiarity. “Thanks for coming on short notice.”
He gave him a respectful nod, hands clasped loosely behind his back.
“Would’ve been here sooner, Pat,” he said evenly. “But your people showed up before I finished my coffee.”
A beat, then a slight smirk.
“Figured that meant this wasn’t a social call.”
Lovell gestured toward the holographic ship.
“This is the Chronepsis—brand-new Draco-class command ship. Commanded by Commodore Bowen Parton. She’s preparing to depart for a high-risk initiative... but after what happened on Frontier Day, I’m not sending anyone out without teeth.”
He turned to face him fully.
“I want you and the crew of the Leonidas to help provide direct security support. Internal and external. Quiet, tight, and eyes-open.”
He tapped a control, zooming in on the Chronepsis’s internal deck schematic.
“There’s chatter,” he continued, “and movement near old section 31 space. Intelligence flagged three suspected infiltration points across the fleet over the past month—nothing definitive, but enough that I’m not trusting luck or optics.”
Lovell crossed his arms.
“Parton’s focused on the mission. He’s the face. You’re the shield. If anyone tries to compromise this operation—physically, politically, or tactically—I want the Leonidas crew in place to shut it down before it starts.”
A pause.
“You know the crew. I trust them. And I trust you.”
Then, with a slight tilt of his head:
“This isn't a deployment. It’s an insurance policy.”
The silence hung for a beat, the weight of the assignment clear. The Chronepsis wasn't just a ship—it was a symbol. And someone, somewhere, might want it shattered.
O’Rourke studied the holo-projection in silence, his jaw tightening just slightly as the deck schematics unfurled.
The Chronepsis was a beast—sleek, overbuilt, and screaming of political intent disguised as starship diplomacy. He’d seen warbirds with less profile.
When Lovell finished, he met his gaze without flinching.
“You want a shield?” he said quietly. “Then you’ve got one. The Leonidas doesn’t flinch, and neither do I.”
He took a step closer to the table, eyes narrowing at the infiltration markers flashing in subtle red.
“If there’s movement near Breen space, then someone’s laying bait—or probing for soft targets. Sending a flagship with velvet gloves and no knuckles would be a mistake.”
He looked back at him, voice low and certain.
“We’ll embed, shadow their operation, and stay off the parade routes. No press, no fanfare. But if anyone tries to rattle that hull from the inside or out—”
He tapped the holotable softly.
“—They’ll meet Leonidas first.”
Then a faint, sardonic grin:
“And I’m told we don’t make great company.”
"Are there any questions regarding this mission? Note this is Level 6Clearancee, none o should know where this is, so you're gonna be very secret about it, Bowen will give you more details once you meet with him," Pat told him.
O’Rourke gave a short nod, the grin fading back into steel.
“No questions,” he said plainly. “You’ve told me what I need to know—where to be, who to protect, and how loud not to be.”
He stepped back from the holotable, posture straightening.
“We’ll operate silently. Leonidas' crew will be briefed under strict compartmentalization. Only what they need, only when they need it.”
Then, with a trace of dry humor, “I’ll make sure the rumor mill thinks we’re chasing warp core irregularities on the edge of the Typhon Expanse.”
He met Lovell’s eyes again, voice low and resolute.
“You’ll get results, Pat. Quiet ones.”
"Good. Anything from Star Base 113 on what happened to the Halo?" Lovell asked
O’Rourke exhaled slowly, giving a small shake of his head.
“Not sure yet,” he admitted. “Haven’t finished combing through the reports—what I’ve seen is fragmented, redacted, or both.”
He stepped around the holotable slightly, gaze distant for a moment.
“I know the Halo’s in the Mirror Universe. That much is solid. But how did she get there? That’s still murky. No confirmed method, no clear trigger. Could’ve been sabotage, could’ve been tech we don’t even understand yet.”
He looked back at Lovell, face set.
“Once I’m wheels-up, I’ll dig deeper. But until we know how they moved her, we don’t know what’s at risk—or who else is vulnerable.”
A grim pause.
“And if this was deliberate… we may already be a step behind.”
"It was deliberate, Section 31 Rogue Cells have activated," Lovell stated.
O’Rourke’s expression darkened instantly at the mention of Section 31.
“Of course it was,” he muttered, almost to himself—then louder, sharper:
“Section 31. Can’t build a goddamn shuttle without finding their fingerprints on the bulkheads.”
He turned away from the holotable, pacing a slow, tight arc.
“Every time we start stabilizing the galaxy, they crawl out of whatever hole they’ve been festering in and light a new fire. And now it’s rogue cells? Operating with Mirror tech and breach capability?”
He stopped, facing Lovell again.
“I’ve buried too many good officers cleaning up after their ‘necessary evils.’”
A pause, voice low but lethal:
“If these cells are behind the Halo's disappearance, I won’t just shut them down. I’ll gut them root to stem.”
Then, after a breath to steady the fury:
“But first… I’ll make sure they don’t get anywhere near the Chronepsis.”
"That's what I like to hear. Report to Commodore Bowen as soon as possible. Anything else?" Lovell asked
O’Rourke gave a curt nod, the fire behind his eyes banked but not extinguished.
“No questions,” he said. “I’ll report to Bowen the moment I’m groundside.”
He took a final glance at the Chronepsis hovering above the holotable, then turned back to Lovell.
“I’ll recall the senior staff to the Leonidas within the hour. No comm traffic—coded pings only, tightbeam. We’ll move quietly, like you asked.”
Then, with steel in his voice:
“When we’re in place, nothing’s getting through that hull without my say-so.”
He held her gaze for a moment longer.
“Not rogue cells. Not infiltrators. Not ghosts from across the veil.”
Then he gave the admiral a sharp nod and turned for the door—already thinking six moves ahead.
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