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SD242110.21 | [PLOT LOG] Commodore Aksel Ravnsson | "The All Father"

Posted on Mon Feb 20th, 2023 @ 12:18am by Admiral Rochelle Ivanova & Lieutenant Craig MacLeod

825 words; about a 4 minute read

Mission: Genesis
Timeline: BACKLOG

“Til hamingju með þig.” Congratulations to you.

The night had been long, maybe even arduous, but never once had the man of smoke and ash appeared troubled or concerned. Even when early numbers had shown Sean Archer polling ahead by a rather impressive margin, the man had sat back with a glass of scotch in one hand and a cigar in the other. Just to look at him, no one would have guessed or believed that this was a man who was running for President of the Federation and was watching himself lose. He seemed too confident and collected for that.

And there were perfectly good reasons for that level of arrogance.

Soon after polls closed, when many would have assumed that he’d be giving a concession speech, Aksel Ravnsson sat with a smirk tugging at his mouth. Hour by hour the smirk grew broader until midnight struck and it was boldly apparent that, by some miracle, he’d ‘managed’ to pull off an astounding victory against all odds. It was funny how the universe worked. Sometimes needing a little push in the right direction, it most certainly always played well into the hands of those who knew the way of things.

The night proved two things, both of them completely and utterly timeless;

One… Playing fair only works when both sides agree to the rules.
Two… Money is the root to power.

At the sound of his valet’s voice, the el-Aurian placed his now empty glass down, took one long final drag on his cigar, and began to rise from his deep, leather chair. “Þetta er aðeins byrjunin.” This is only the beginning. he chuffed, reaching for his jacket, “Archer verður að þagga niður. Hann mun krefjast rannsóknar.” Archer must be quieted. He will demand an investigation. A sigh punctuated the sentiment about the same time he fastened the jacket’s lone onyx button.

“Hvers krefst þú?” what are my orders? The handler asked, running a de-linting device over the shoulders of the President Elect’s shoulders. His eyes were met by the man’s in the mirror he stood before.

“Framkvæma listann. Við munum taka við embætti fyrr eftir að við afhjúpum svikarana.” Execute the list. We’ll take office soon after we expose the traitors. Aksel replied ever so matter of factly.

The handler nodded, “Ertu viss um að hún sé raunverulega dáin?” Are you sure she’s really dead? He asked, unable to bite his tongue when he knew damn well that all of their plans hinged on a ghost. One mistake, and the entire house of cards could come tumbling down all around them.

Ravnsson’s expression didn’t change. It didn’t sour and it didn’t bloom. It stayed perfectly dry and emotionless as he fixed his collar and smoothed his weathered hands down the front of his jacket, “Það eru átta mánuðir síðan. Ef hún væri á lífi hefði hún sýnt sig.” It's been eight months. If she were alive, she would have shown herself. and then his head canted to one side as if to study himself better in the looking glass, “Rochelle Ivanova er látin. Almar Dahe'el gerði samsæri við Valeese Stacker um að láta drepa hana svo það gæti orðið önnur uppreisn. Við skellum því bara.” Rochelle Ivanova is dead. Almar Dahe'el conspired with Valeese Stacker to have her killed so there could be another uprising. We'll just squash it.

Again the handler nodded, but would be given no additional time to ask questions. He had his orders. He knew the plan and he knew it would need to be executed with precision. Without Rochelle’s body or being, the very people they sought to crush were powerless against accusations and the Federation, and her allies, all wanted answers and justice to a death that seemed so very senseless. At least to everyone that wasn’t the el-Aurian and his regime, that was.

No sooner did the suite’s doors open did reporters from every available news outlet swarm the suddenly glowing and gregarious man. He was the embodiment of the All Father, all that remained missing was the cawing of ravens and the rolling of thunder. His performance as such was award worthy, beaming bright and boasting of promises to bring the Federation to greater glory than it had ever before seen, promising safety, promising accountability, promising answers and transparency - and they ate it up like it was a heaping serving of their favorite dessert.

And so began a new era on that twenty-fourth day of August. One that would go on to be regarded with no small measure of infamy.


commodore Aksel Ravnsson
United Confederation of Interstellar Planets


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