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MSNPC Captain Jeremy Clarkson - Death of a Dream

Alex Blair

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((Bridge - USS Spartan))

:: Under different circumstances, Jeremy might have actually been impressed by the audacity and the bravado that frost was showing. But these were not those circumstances. Right now he was filled with nothing but righteous indignation at the fact that this whelp that looked liked he should barely be out of the Academy was standing on the bridge of a ship that he had no business being in charge of and dared to lecture him about what was right and wrong. He had no idea what it was like to be out here, and he very much doubted that he ha dbeen through the kind of loss that Jeremy had, or had to make the kind of decisions he had had to make. Frost talked a good game, but he doubted he had the stones to actually fire on another Federation ship.::

Hammond: Captain….Jeremy….he's right. We have to stop. This is just wrong.

:: He turned slowly towards the man at the tactical station. There was a tone in Richard's voice that he was not sure that he had ever heard him use before. There was anger. There was disappointment. And more disturbing than anything, there was defiance. He had never heard Richard speak to him with an attitude of defiance before. As mush as he and the hamster tended to give each other the business, he had always been loyal to him. And now he was standing at his station, openly refusing to suppot him in the most important thing he had ever done. To say that he was incredulous was to severely understate the situation.::

Clarkson: I want you to consider your next words very, very carefully.

Hammond: There are other ways to bring some meaning to her death.

Clarkson: Who. The bloody hell. Do you think you are?

:: Jeremy stood slowly as we walked towards Hammond, his eyes locked on the man. There was a look in his eyes that was hard to describe. It was a mix of more feelings that Jeremy had the wherewithal to identify; fear, anger, sadness, conviction, all of it. Whatever he was doing, he believed it was right. But then again, traitors always believed that what they were doing was right.::

Hammond: You don't see what you…we've done do you?

Clarkson: We've avenged seventy-six cold blooded murders and exacted the justice that Starfleet Command refuses to demand. But I suppose you have some other idea about what we've done.

Hammond: Jeremy, we've broken the peace! We've essentially started a war!

Clarkson: No! We didn't start this war! They started this war the moment they let Koval invade our space, capture the Hermes and murder her crew in cold blood! I will not stand by and let this stand like a coward. I will not allow the murder of someone that I loved to be brushed under the rug in the name of protecting an alliance with savages who would tear out our hearts if they thought they could get away with it. The line must be drawn here, no further. I will not...

:: His righteous indignation was interrupted by the violent shaking of his bridge. His ship was small, and any impact was felt much more intensely than it would be on a larger ship. For a moment, he was very nearly thrown off balance, but he was able to steady himself on a console before he was sent to the floor. He managed to write himself and regain what composure he had not already spewed onto Hammond. He had no idea which ship had fired first, and he didn't care. all he knew was that his ship was under attack and he was going to defend it to the last.::

Clarkson: Mr. Hammond, return fire.

Hammond: I will not. I've been blindly following orders for too long. We need to stop this!

:: Jeremy had neither time not the patience to deal with Richard's insolence. He could deal with that later once he was no longer being shot at.::

Clarkson: Mr. Stig, assume tactical control and return fire.

:: Without a word, the helmsman reconfigured his control panel to act as both the conn and the tactical console. It would make their response a bit slower than he would have hoped for, But he had no time to lament his situation. And if there was anyone that could do it, it was Stig. HE held onto the side of his chair as the ship pitched sharply.::

Hammond: Captain don't make me do this. We've served together for too long.

Clarkson: You haven't got the stones.

Hammond: So you've left me no choice. Captain Jeremy Clarkson, by the order of Starfleet regulation 619, I am declaring you emotionally compromised and unfit to command this vessel. You are relieved sir.

:: A long moment passed as the two men stared at each other. He wondered which of them would be the first to flinch, or whether their contest would be nterupted by the complete annihilation of the bridge that they both occupied. There was some other form of trickery afoot, but it wasn't what he expected. Before he could express the full measure of his fury and indignity, Hammond was surrounded by the blue glow of a transporter. He turned around to see the rest of the bridge crew dissolve the same way, leaving him alone on the bridge of his ship.::

:: He was alone now. The dull hum of electronic equipment and the sound of his own thoughts. And it was in that moment, that he was left to contemplate,. How far he had come, how much he had done. And for what? What had he really done? He had ventured into Klingon space, destroyed two ships that caused the deaths of a few hundred faceless Klingons. And what had he accomplished. He was just as alone now as he had been before he set out, as alone as the moment when Admiral Raymond had told him that Emma was gone. There was another terrifying possibility that he had to contend with.::

:: The possibility that Hammond was right.::

::No. He would not accept this. He could not accept this. He was going to make someone listen to him if he had to shout from the pulpit of every church, or from the prisoner's dock of a court martial. He would not be silenced by anyone, no matter how righteous they thought they were. He could feel the rage spilling over, and now there was no one left to keep him in check, no one to restrain himself for. A bellow emerged from a place deep inside of him that he had not allowed himself to show since he had been told what had happened to his daughter. He raised a fist above his head, bringing it crashing down on the conn, cracking the plastic covering in several places, and doing some damage to his hand, the severity of which he could not care less about.::

:: HE had yet to figure out why he had not yet been transported as well. Perhaps he was going to be left here to die on his own. It would be fitting, considering how Starfleet had abandoned Emma. They had swpet her death under the rug, pretending like it was just one of those things that happened in Starfleet. And now that they had the rest of his crew in custody, they could leave him here to the Klingons, brushing him off as nothing more than an embarrassment or an inconvenience. And if they simply let him die on some godforsaken Klingon penal rock, then they could pretend he had never existed. Just as they had done with the rest of the crew of the Hermes.::

:: A strange manner of thing began to happen as he contemplated his fate. He was surrounded by the blue glow of the transporter, as the rest of his crew had as well. He could feel the telltale tingle of being transported to another ship. He counted down the seconds until he would be somewhere on another ship, likely surrounded by several men carrying guns pointed at him. But it was taking too long. And as he looked out, there appeared to be another glow, this one a deep crimson. He began to feel a remarkably unpleasant sensation, though he had no idea how to adequately describe it. It persisted for an unfathomably long time, as he wondered if he was going to make it to his destination with all of his atoms intact, or if that this was some sort of elaborate torture method designed to make it so that they could say he was lost in some sort of tragic accident, absolving that petulant worm Frost of any guilt over his fate.::

:: After what seemed like quite some time, a room began to form around him. It was, mercifully, the look of a Starfleet ship's transporter room, this one noticeably larger than the one on the Spartan. He had a sneaking suspicion of where he was, particularly when he spotted the man in the green marine uniform pointing a rather nasty looking rifle at him. He had expected as much of a reception, though he was at least mildly surprised that he was not immediately shot by the man in the uniform.::

Wallace: Captain Jeremy Clarkson I presume?

Clarkson: Clarkson, Jeremy Charles Robert. Captain. USS Spartan. Serial number Foxtrot-Kilo-Two-Five-One-Nine-Eight-Two. Should I presume that I am where I think I am?

Wallace: You are aboard the USS Gemini. By order of our commanding officer you will remain in this room until further instructions come through.

Clarkson: Of course I am. And will your esteemed captain be gracing us with his presence?

:: As if on cue, there was a hissing from the side of the room indicated the opening of a door, and in walked a man that Jeremy had not expected to see in person.::

Frost: Captain Clarkson...


Captain Jeremy Clarkson
Commanding Officer
USS Spartan

as simmed by

Captain Liam Frost
Commanding Officer
USS Gemini

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