Post 1 - The Fortress

Posted on Wed Dec 9th, 2020 @ 9:18pm by Fleet Admiral Sturnack

Mission: Episode 1: Acta Non Verba
Location: A cozy cabin in Northern Arizona
Timeline: Day 1 - 2200 Hours

[A cozy cabin]
[Northern Arizona]
[Day 1, 2200 Hours]

The fire crackled and popped in response to his ministrations, tiny motes of flaming char rising into the air and flinging themselves beyond the fireplace. Hands clad in thick, brown leather gloves long faded by time, the Vulcan reached over to the nearby wood pile and procured another couple of logs. Each was oh-so-precisely placed into the fireplace, creating an athwart stack of crisscrossing fuel sources for the flames. Crouched in front of his work and feeling satisfied by the heat that’d intensified from the hearth, Sturnack then rose to his feet before moving to a nearby window.

It was snowing...again. Afore the holidays celebrated by humans, this time of year always brought several snow squalls a week to the area. Nestled in northern Arizona, Pinetop was a cozy little town well-known for its keen skiing opportunities given the copious amounts of snow. Skiing, however, was not what brought Sturnack to this tiny little cabin. As the Vulcan stared into the white and windswept forest behind the wooden dwelling -- a heavy mug of something or other warming his hands -- Sturnack’s thoughts drifted back in time, settling on two men trudging through the snow...

[3 Years Earlier]

”...because I say so, that’s why,” John McGarry smiled wide, that craggy face of his embroiled in a smile wider than the day was long. “You work too much, Sturn. You need a place to recharge your batteries. Might as well be here, hmm?”

The Vulcan regarded his longtime friend with a curious glance. Watching John step slowly across the snowmound beneath -- thanks to the large snowshoe-fittings strapped to his boots -- Sturnack shook his head. “With respect, Fleet Admiral, Vulcans do not have internal batteries. As I suspect you know quite well,” he trailed off impassively.

“It’s a metaphor, Sturnack. Try being less than literal for once,” came John’s crass reply. The man looked back at the Vulcan with all the warmth of a strong, noon-day sun before looking ahead once more. “It’s just over this hill. Not far away now.”

“Choice in metaphors aside,” Sturnack murmured, “could we not have simply beamed to the front steps of your dwelling?” While he often professed that emotions were beyond his range, the Vulcan -- if he were honest with others as well as himself -- disliked the cold. The snow was a far cry from the dry, arid deserts of his home planet.

“No, we couldn’t have. And I’ll tell you why,” John turned back with a smirk. “All this beaming around...it’s instant gratification. There’s no build up to the moment. No anticipation. Just whirrrrr,” the man poorly imitated the whine of a transporter beam, moving his fingers chaotically about while rolling his eyes, “and you’re there. Makes it hard to appreciate things. Ah, here we go,” he nodded, turning ahead once more. “Welcome to The Fortress.”

Sturnack spied the cabin rising from the earth, covered in powdery snow drifts. The dwelling wasn’t large: in fact, it was much smaller than the Vulcan had anticipated the cabin would be. Though the cozy little home had two stories, its footprint was only a few hundred square feet. A large chimney of mortared stone occupied the front face, vivisecting a series of windows on either side. The bottom floor’s windows were square and solid, while the upper floor’s were expansive and thinly-paned -- pointed in the style of the cabin’s peaked roof. A large, well-stocked woodpile sat near the side door, which was itself covered by a sloping awning meant to keep the wood and the walkway free from snow and ice.

“When you mentioned we were heading to your fortress,” Sturnack looked at the abode with some manner of disdain, “I expected a castle. Or at least,” he commented dryly, “a large dwelling that reminded one of such. This is not a fortress. It is a…” the Vulcan struggled to select the right term before landing on one, “postage stamp.”

“Fortresses come in all shapes and sizes, my friend,” John chuckled, stepping onto the covered path leading towards the door. The jangling of keys in his pocket became less muffled as he withdrew them, singling out the proper key and fitting it into the lock. With a turn, the mechanism audibly clicked as John opened the door. “I call this place my ‘Fortress of Solitude’ because I come here to be alone and think. That name came from some old comic book or something, I forget,” he admitted with a shrug as he stepped inside, “but it seemed fitting.”

“I...see,” the Vulcan replied dispassionately. He, too, stepped into the dwelling. A fire had already been lit in the hearth, which roared with quiet strength and welcomed them into its warmth. “We do not appear to be alone,” Sturnack remarked, eyeing the flames before looking around the cabin, expecting to see someone else there.

“Oh, that’s just Giselda. She has the cabin down the road. Comes by a couple times a week to check on things for me,” John explained, removing his rather thick overcoat and placing it atop a rack by the door. “C’mon, c’mon Sturn...you’re letting out all the heat,” he remarked, stepping away from the door and into the cabin proper. Once firmly inside, he began the slow work of unbuckling his snowshoes and setting them by the door.

Sturnack, for his part, did as the Fleet Admiral told him. He, too, removed his overcoat and placed it onto the rack before closing the door behind them. With the portal to the outside snow squall now sealed shut, the cabin was warming up once again. “It is helpful of her to perform this service for you. I assume she lit the fire in advance of our arrival then?”

“Kind of surprised you didn’t see her tracks outside,” John chuckled at his usually-observant friend’s expense. “Our bags were beamed in earlier. You’re down here,” he gestured to a comfortable-looking bed near the window, atop which sat a no-frills duffel bag embossed with the Starfleet chevron. Through the window, snow was slowly falling as the light grew dimmer outside. “I’m upstairs in the master. The shower up there is water-based rather than sonic. Just gotta let it run for awhile, it’ll heat up. Or you can use the sonic variety down here,” he pointed to another bathroom across the way.

At that, John flopped down onto one of the care-worn couches in front of the fire and picked up a guitar, which had been resting on a stand nearby. Plucking at a few strings, the notes were discordant -- a sign that the instrument had not been played in some time. John began turning the tuning pegs one after another, experimentally strumming each string to tonal satisfaction. “You gonna stand there all day or take a seat? This is your home for the weekend, Sturn. Might as well settle in.”

The Vulcan lowered himself onto the couch across from the man, eyeing the old guitar in his friend’s lap. “As this will be my...home for the weekend, as you put it,” Sturnack arched an eyebrow, “will you be playing that for the duration of our stay?” As one who appreciated music, Sturnack would not normally be opposed to the idea. But the guitar refused to tune properly -- perhaps warped by the dry air and its resting proximity to the fireplace -- and sounded decidedly less like music and more like groaning.

“Well,” John looked up at Sturnack with a blazing grin, “I’m gonna try. We’ll see how long you let that slide, though,” he smirked warmly. “Oh hey, before I forget, Giselda dropped something else off for me. It’s right there,” John noted, moving his right hand from the guitar strings and pointing to a little wooden box on the in-table next to the Vulcan. “Take a look, won’t you?”

Eyeing the little box, Sturnack moved to slowly pick it up. With a slight click, the box sprung open, revealing the gilded pips of a full Admiral. “These...are for me, Admiral?” the Vulcan asked, confusion coloring his tone. The rank of Admiral was one of the highest a member of Starfleet could attain and, usually, reserved for all but the most upper echelons of Starfleet Command.

“Well they certainly aren’t for me,” John chuckled raspily. “So yeah,” he nodded, face growing somber despite the light in his eyes, “those are for you. And with it comes an order -- you’ll be my new Deputy Commander-in-Chief. Rita’s retiring and I need an understudy. Something ever happens to me,” he laughed, “then the whole shabang is in your lap. Think that’s doable, Sturn?”

The Vulcan took several very long moments to ponder the offer before him. “I...am not prone to sentimentality, Admiral,” Sturnack began.

“John,” the Commander-in-Chief interrupted for only the 1,000th time around using his informal name.

“John,” the Vulcan nodded obediently. “However, despite my lack of sentimentality,” Sturnack paused as if summoning his determination, “I would be most satisfied to join you in this endeavor. It is a logical move for my career and, I believe, working as such will greatly benefit Starfleet as well.”

“Were it anyone else, I’d accuse you of overinflating your ego. But I know pure logic drives that mind of yours,” John nodded slowly, seriously. “You’ll do well, Sturn. And I look forward to working with you. But first? First,” he laughed as he stood, “we need hot chocolate with some peppermint schnapps. Perfect drink for the cold night we’re about to have up here…”

[Present Day]

Sturnack looked down at the mug in his hands, the steaming pool of chocolate and mint drifting up to tantalize his nostrils. He’d shared that same drink with John two years prior. And now, two days after the Fleet Admiral’s funeral, the Vulcan drank the hot chocolate alone. Looking around the cabin, he spied the old guitar still in its resting place near the fire. Moving across the cabin, he took a seat on the careworn couch and set his mug aside, reaching for the guitar instead.

Plucking its strings, discord rumbled through the air. The off-sounding notes somehow matched the Vulcan’s thinking; close to being tonally on par but thrown off a step. The guitar, due to its slow warping over the years and Sturnack, due to losing his longtime friend and mentor. It remained to be seen if the Vulcan would step into the shoes Fleet Admiral John McGarry left behind. And for the time being, at least, Sturnack was determined just to let those thoughts be.

For now, the man simply wanted to linger with the memory of his friend. Looking around the cabin, the Vulcan appreciated the place all-the-more for the signs of John left behind, though he’d never admit to such sentimentality. And now that The Fortress had been transferred into his care after the reading of John’s will, it fell on Sturnack to make sure the fireplace never stayed cold for too long. He just hoped Giselda wouldn’t mind lending a helping hand now and then...

=/\= A post by... =/\=

Fleet Admiral John McGarry (NPC)
Commander-in-Chief, Starfleet

and

Admiral Sturnack
Deputy Commander-in-Chief, Starfleet