STF

Meet Rogan...When the past doesn't match the present...or the future

Posted Nov. 22, 2021, 10:52 a.m. by Fleet Captain Kelly Bordeaux (Commanding Officer) (Kate O'Neill)

As the lights came on in Rogan’s cell, he sat up casually as if this was his assigned quarters and someone was stopping by for a visit. It had been close to thirty-six hours since they had arrived on the USS Atlantis by his best guess. It had gone reasonably to plan however the security chief was going to be formidable. The green man was following the standard playbook: Keep the insurgents separated, use soundproof cells, keep lights dimmed so low it was almost black, no contact with anyone. All of these procedures were meant to increase anxiety, stress, and make those under the conditions disoriented. With no lights, it was hard to tell day from night hampering an individual’s ability to mark the passage of time. With no ability to hear even idle chit-chat, it was hard to glean any information, no matter how trivial about your captors or situation. Unfortunately for the crew of the Atlantis, what they did not do told Rogan and the others one piece of valuable information. These people had compassion and were bound by some sort of ethical rules.

They had not cut the atmosphere or allowed it to leak out so that Rogan and the others felt suffocation. They had not cut climate controls forcing the individuals in the cells to pass out from heat exhaustion or slide into hypothermia. They also had not cut food and water. Thirst and hunger broke people faster than anything except torture. The only hostile act perpetrated by this crew was shooting the Elders but even Rogan could not fault them for that. The only difference in their reaction from that of Rogan and his companions in the same situation was no one would have walked away if the Elders had been on the offensive. Feeling his stomach growl, Rogan avoided the smile begging to cross his face. Like clockwork, food and water had been shoved through a small slit in the forcefield three times. It was not the best thing Rogan had ever eaten but far from unpalatable. What did surprise him was that the lights had come on in his cell for this round of sustenance.

Looking around the room, Rogan took in every detail he could burn into his memory seeing past the dark shield that had always been in place since he arrived. Where the exit was, how many people were in the room, where possible weapons were located on the walls to prevent escape, and where climate control vents were located was however the casing of the room was halted as he saw a woman wearing a blue shirt approaching his cell carrying a tray. Her arrival was unexpected by the reaction of the men in the security control room. Looking behind her, Rogan saw what appeared to be the men arguing. Presumably about whether or not she should be allowed access to the prisoner. So there is someone giving orders above the man running the security, Rogan thought. He did not ponder this any further however the second the woman stopped in front of his room. There would be time to figure out who this was at a later time.

“Hello I,” the woman said, setting down the tray. Rogan waited just long enough before reaching out with his hand and pulling the woman’s arm in the incredibly small slit as far as he could. He relished the look of shock and fear in the woman’s eyes. He could hear her screams and the threats of the security men leveling their weapons at the forcefield as two other men desperately tried to pull her back, not sure how the man had a hold of the woman and was still two feet physically from her. Rogan ignored the pleas and cries of the woman. She was inconsequential. This was a lesson for those in charge about who really had the power. Turning his hand he locked eyes with the men behind the forcefield and clenched his hand into a fist. This action elicited screams of agony as the woman’s arm began to snap and break into weird angles. The cracking of bones, ligaments, and flesh continued until he had worked up her arm, to her shoulder and ending at her neck. A quick flick and all her screams were silenced as Della’s neck snapped and her face settled into the glassy expression of death.

“Hello I am Della Marx,” the woman said, setting down the tray. “I was hoping I could ask you a few questions.”


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