MSNPC Chancellor Athemir Sael - Act of War

[Ryden Kel]

((Short Timeskip – Main Office, Ivory Tower, Starbase 118))

Sael entered the Ivory Tower’s main office with the same vigilance he
brought into every space he could not fully predict.

This place was not another transit hub. It was the heart of StarBase
118’s diplomatic apparatus... where ambassadors, envoys, translators,
cultural liaisons, and specialists in xenolinguistics and xenobiology
worked side by side with security details dedicated not to battle, but
to protect dialogue itself.

He noted the dual-level layout before Fairhug spoke... an office built
for coordination as much as conversation, where scheduling, liaison
work, and real negotiations occurred. This was the command center of
Federation engagement with powers near and far.

Fairhug: Welcome to the main office of the Ivory Tower, Chancellor. As
you can see, our diplomatic corps is afforded their own space to
conduct their business. It’s incredibly important to us that our
diplomatic relations are given the attention they deserve.

Sael’s gaze swept over the staff moving with purpose. Not the rigid
drills of marines. Not the quiet obsession of scientists hunched over
data. These people moved with the balance of awareness and
intention... no wasted motion, and no threat in their stride. This
space was designed to hold worlds’ worth of tensions and treaties, to
let negotiation blossom where weapons had failed.

Sael: A dedicated space for dialogue speaks of respect… and of
confidence. I approve of both. That is wise. Words meant well but
spoken poorly have undone stronger civilizations than mine.

Ross: ?

Bryce: This is where we try to keep discussions structured, with quiet
spaces available, translators on call, and staff trained to slow down
rather than rush. If you’d like a private room at any point, we can
arrange one.

Fairhug: From here, our diplomats can engage with representatives from
any of our allies, other members of the Federation, or even those who
are… not as friendly, shall we say.

The caution in the Captain’s phrasing did not escape Sael... not that
it would have to. He understood “not as friendly” as a calculated
understatement, a diplomatic mask over a far sharper reality.

Sael: The ability to engage with all manner of representatives...
friendly or otherwise... is essential. But it is the control of that
engagement that reveals true strength.

Ross: ?

Bryce stepped forward gently, offering reassurance without smoothing edges.

Bryce: And when we do speak with those who aren’t friendly, we still
keep the process transparent and controlled, with clear agendas and
clear boundaries. You’ll see that today, at whatever pace you choose.

Sael regarded her for a moment... not with suspicion, but with the
measured consideration of someone who had spent decades parsing
intention beneath surface tones.

Sael: Transparency and boundaries… those are the pillars of
negotiation. A diplomat without boundaries is merely an opening for
exploitation. I will remind you as needed if either is threatened.

He let that settle, not as accusation, but as an acknowledgment of how
seriously he viewed the space around him.

The Ivory Tower was not a fortress... but it was a crucible. And
Athemir Sael, shaped by necessity and hardened by history, did not
enter crucibles lightly.

Fairhug/Ross: ?

Suddenly, the world fractured without warning. One moment, Sael was
walking... measuring the space, weighing intention, preparing to judge
what the Federation placed before him. The next, the Ivory Tower slid
out of alignment, sound thinning as if pulled through a narrowing
tunnel. Light caught along the ridges of his vision and broke apart,
too bright, too clean.

He stopped. For a breath, there was nothing. No corridor. No station.
No purpose.

Sael’s hand went to the hilt at his side before thought could follow.
His stance shifted instinctively, weight lowering, shoulders
squaring... trained readiness snapping into place with the precision
of a drilled reflex. He did not know where he was, only that he was
not home.

Foreign architecture surrounded him. Smooth walls. Open sightlines. No
ceremonial markers. No ancestral symbols. No remnants of the Klingon
occupation. A constructed space, efficient and cold. A place built by
those who believed control could replace memory.

Voices reached him... unfamiliar timbres, unfamiliar languages. He
recognized none of them. Worse, he could not remember why he was among
them.

Veqlargh Bal III was sealed. The Ameoneians did not open their
borders. Ameoneians did not walk unguarded into the heart of foreign
power. That truth remained. Everything else was gone.

His escort stood nearby... warriors, armed, alert. That at least made
sense. They would not have left his side unless danger warranted it.
Which meant danger was present now.

Sael’s pulse steadied. Confusion was a weakness. He would not indulge it.

If he did not know where he was, then the worst had already happened.
Foreign walls. Foreign voices. Time missing like a wound he could not
close. Diplomacy was a word learned after invasion... after chains,
after compliance dressed as peace. His breath came sharper now, armor
rising and falling as instinct overrode restraint. Every lesson
screamed the same warning: confusion was how they broke you.

If these strangers spoke of diplomacy, it would be because they needed
time. If they spoke of peace, it would be because resistance had
already been neutralized. And if they insisted he had come here
willingly... His jaw clenched, a low growl vibrating in his chest....
then his piy, his right to his own thoughts and sovereignty, had been
taken from him. His memory. His consent. The most sacred boundary an
Ameoneian possessed.

That was not an accident. That was an act of war.

Sael’s head snapped up, eyes cutting through the space until they
fixed on the nearest unfamiliar figure. Distance. Reach. Threat. He
began cataloguing without meaning to, the way he had been trained to
do under fire. This place was hostile. Even if it smiled. Wherever he
was, control had already been stripped away once. He would not allow
it to happen again.

One truth remained, burning and raw beneath the rupture: he was
Ameoneian. He was a warrior. And if this station thought vulnerability
would make him compliant, it had gravely misjudged him.

He locked eyes with the Federation officers standing before him. His
face was cold. Stoic. Violent.

Sael: Speak quickly, or I will decide you are enemies.

Fairhug/Ross/Bryce: ?

~~~~~~~~~~

MSNPC Athemir Sael
Chancellor, Aemoneian High Command


as simmed by:

-----
Lieutenant JG Ryden Sylvax
Assistant Chief Medical Officer
StarBase 118 Ops
O240109RK1