Post 24 - The Calm Before the Storm

Posted on Thu Feb 25th, 2021 @ 1:49am by Captain Jocelyn Blake

Mission: Episode 1: Acta Non Verba
Location: Cow Hollow - San Francisco
Timeline: Day 17 various times

[3rd Floor Apartment]
[Cow Hollow, San Francisco]
[Day 17 0500 Hours]

The first series of dulcet chimes echoed through the silence of the dark room.

Warm blankets rustled as their inhabitant settled deeper within, sleep still the reigning force beneath the heavy weight of the comforter. A few minutes passed and the sleepy form’s breathing settled back into a shallow rhythm.

Chimes sounded again, mildly louder now. Low light limned a slight depression that ran along the bottom of the wall making the room just bright enough to throw furniture into relief, but still dim enough that the room's inhabitant could still opt not to rise.

Two slender hands appeared at the top of the comforter pulling it over the tousled head of red hair on the pillow. The now obscured figure groaned, but laid still as if stillness might convince the chimes that no one was present to wake.

After only a few more minutes the chime echoed through the room again. Even though she knew better the bed's occupant could have sworn they were more insistent. Light in the room continued to come up shadows dissolving in its wake until it could be mistaken for early morning sunlight.

Jocelyn Blake sat up. Her oversized Starfleet Academy t-shirt, made ultra soft by nearly two decades of cleaning, had hitched up in her sleep leaving her left hip cold. Absently, she tugged it down, swinging legs around and settling bare feet onto the carpet.

The chime began again, louder this time.

"End alarm," Jocelyn mumbled, running a tired hand through a mess of frizz. Man, she needed a shower.

She stood, stretching and made her way to the bathroom, discarding her sleep shirt on the chair as she did and turning knobs to release a warm stream of water into the tub. She stared at herself in the mirror, trying and failing to finger comb her hair into some semblance of normal before stepping into the stream of water.

Chimes sounded again.

"I said, end alarm," she growled before realizing that the pinging sound was not her alarm, but an incoming message.

A deep sigh escaped her, feeling as though it had been pulled from her very core. It had been a crazy week and she hadn’t had any coffee yet. Giving the knobs in the tub a rapid twist she retreated back into her bedroom pulling the discarded shirt back over her head as she went. Settling into a chair at a small desk she tapped on the inset console and the image of Jordan Hoover’s Starfleet ID photo appeared on the wall screen in front of her. Tapping again a message opened reading simply:

I know it’s early Joce, but you need to read this. Before you go to work. It’ll be released at 0530. You didn’t get it from me.

A file flashed onto the screen with the pre-publication watermark of the Rigellian News Coalition. She scanned the headline, heart picking up its pace when she realized she was the subject of the piece.

“No,” she muttered to herself as she skimmed, the feeling of a heavy weight pressing down on her chest growing and twisting as she read. “No, no, no.”

When she reached the last paragraphs she all but yelped at the appearance of her father’s name, stopping cold mid-read. She was going to be sick. Her father knew better. She had told them both. Never speak to the press without her. Never. He had always understood. He knew better.

A low moan of despair slipped past her lips as she forced herself to read the last few words before burying her head in her hands.

“Time?” she inquired of the room, voice barely above a whisper.

“The time is 0515.”

Too late to stop it now. Mechanically she flicked a finger to forward the message from Jordan advising the computer to send it to Marlena Glenn and adding the precaution of obscuring her source. She added a few words of clarification for what the Commander was looking at and then hoped that her new camaraderie with the other woman would stand up under the barrage of inquiries she was about to get from the press pool who had been so recently advised to send all questions about Jocelyn to her.

If this was how the day was starting she was going to need coffee--a lot of coffee.

---

[Union Street]
[Cow Hollow, San Francisco]
[Day 17 2100 Hours]

Jocelyn stood in line at the small fish and chips shop a few blocks down from her apartment, thankful that they remained open this late. She didn’t have the energy to make anything herself and the thought of another replicated dinner simply felt unappetizing.

Like a traditional chippy, The Seashell did not have seating and served its fish wrapped in paper and tucked in a box of french fries. A line of sauces and seasonings sat on a small counter to the side -- a clear stopover for those whose meal was now in their hands before they left the shop and either ate as they walked or settled onto one of the benches that were littered along the sidewalk.

Jocelyn took a deep breath, reveling in the smell of hot oil, salt, and seafood. Despite the flurry of anxiety that had started the day, briefings had consisted largely of the standard fare. Having taken Fleet Admiral Sturnack’s orders during the prior afternoon’s briefing to heart the press largely kept to current topics relevant to Starfleet Command’s activities. Questions about the status of the Chalvana system’s aid and the updated schedule for the Romulan Embassy opening dominated most briefings and she remained blissfully free of direct attacks from any of the usual journalist suspects.

The time outside of the briefing room, however, had been another matter. Whole rooms now fell silent when she entered and press members who had previously at least acknowledged her presence with a polite greeting instead kept to themselves, working to avoid making eye contact. She was aware, though no one said anything to her directly, of the spread of the Rigellian News Coalition’s piece culminating in a kind message from Marlena after the midday briefing letting her know that she had inquiries “under control”. Though she knew that she would have to do it eventually, she had avoided calling her parents, choosing to ignore the two messages her father had sent until she felt like she could respond privately and with something akin to a level head.

On one hand it was a welcome reprieve to spend the day knowing she wasn’t about to be ambushed with yet another suggestion that her appointment to this position must surely be a mistake. On the other the awkward silences and pregnant looks gave her the impression that she wasn’t experiencing a reprieve so much as the calm before a very large storm. It made her uneasy.

“Haddock, please,” she informed the tall well muscled man taking orders as the line crept forward. “And throw in a lime jasmine iced tea if you still have some, Leo.”

The tall man grinned widely and winked. “I set a cup aside for you when I saw you hop in the line.” He reached behind the counter top and withdrew a large container filled with sweet smelling tea.

“Thaaaank you,” she sighed drawing out the ‘a’ in thank to emphasize her appreciation. Not waiting she took a deep sip of the citrus sweetness.

She retrieved her package of freshly fried fish and made her way to the sauces next, sprinkling a liberal dose of malted vinegar over the fries before resealing the package and making her way home. She licked her lips as she went, aware of the rumble in her stomach with each step. She had waited too long since her last meal to eat again. Switching gears as she walked she reopened the box popping a hot fry into her mouth and reveling in the combination of crispy exterior and soft potato interior as they mingled with the vinegar and salt. She sucked the salt off of each finger before reaching into the box for another fry. The day may have been uncomfortable, but some things--like good french fries--could not be detracted from.

Jocelyn’s apartment was less than a 5 minute walk from the chippy. Fries already nearly half eaten and tea drained and discarded in a communal recycler, she climbed two flights of stairs to the hallway that split her apartment from the other 3 on this level. Automatically she stopped to fish for her keys, right hand reaching into the depths of her messenger bag while the other balanced what was left of her meal.

It was only when she found them and raised her head that she realized something was not right.

The door to Jocelyn’s apartment was an anachronism of an earlier time. Made of wood and utilizing what appeared to be an old fashioned key (although the mechanism had been heavily updated with modern technology to ensure security), the door to her apartment had always been one of her favorite components of her home. It had character. Now, though, it bore signs of harm, deep gouges marred the wooden surface, their centers coated with what she absently registered as a deep red. Somewhere in her head an alarm went off at the color causing bile to burn its way up her throat.

At first it was as though she couldn’t put the whole picture together. She saw the shape of the gouges--their rough edges in the old wood splintered and cracked. She saw the red centers and understood that they made words, but the words just wouldn’t process. A buzzing started up in her ears drowning out any sound around her. Slowly she let her messenger bag slide from her shoulder dropping to the ground with a thump. Unthinking she set the box of fish and chips down next to the bag--not taking her eyes off the door as she did.

As quickly as the buzzing started it clarified into her own rapid breathing. A sound she didn’t recognize echoed down the hallway causing her to look frantically up and down the space before realizing that the sound had come from her own lips--a sob of emotion that had bubbled up of its own accord. She touched her hand to her mouth, holding it there a moment as if doing so would hold in any further unexpected utterances.

The words that had before seemed to evade her understanding now stood out in stark relief against the ruined wood grain. Reading them made her gut twist sickeningly and the hairs on the back of her neck stand up.


Fucking Bitch

Years of training for what to do if things got beyond her own control clicked into place and she stooped to pull a PADD from her messenger bag, tapping woodenly at the interface until a video message interface came up. Her face reflected in the video was white, lips pressed into a thin line and jaw clenched tightly.

“Starfleet Security,” she requested hollowly, forcibly unclenching her jaw. Her fingers tightened around the edge of the PADD, knuckles going white as if the tension had merely flowed from her jaw to her hands. “I need to report an incident.”