"Prologue to: Sleeping in Darkness"
Vice-Admiral Mitch Rembrandt (played by Kyle Poppie)

STARDATE 51978.9
Two Years Ago...

The cold sensation of metal against one of the most fragile pieces of flesh.

It had been the most vulnerable position Mitch Rembrandt had been in for a very long time. The perspiration had already begun to dampen his black uniform, keeping the thick cloth moist to his chest; his breathing rate had jumped to overload the first minute he had sensed this witty betrayal, and the serrated knife placed against his throat only proved that unfortunate fact.

Two men were embraced in a most dire position, each bearing their weight on their haunches, each wielding a lethal weapon in one arm while rendering the other one immobile. Each were taunting the other with the force expressed in their weapon -- one man would push slightly harder, causing a line of blood to gush forward while the other echoed the action; the sequence was locked in a mortal loop.

"What'll it be, Remmy?" the antagonist proclaimed. "You kill me? I kill you?" He had been the larger of the two, perhaps stronger to a certain extent, but lacked the mind of strategy that his adversary possessed. Nevertheless, he was the man with the most control; he had been the one to set forth this situation on an unsuspecting Rembrandt.

"I don't want to have to kill you, Quique," a deep growl bellowed out of Rembrandt's mouth, "but I will if I have to." Rembrandt had the upper hand in the mark of experience, but if this would go on any further, both men would die simultaneously from the water of life spewing down their necks.

The deck beneath their feet began to rattle and warm, and though the sweat of fear and anxiety caused much of the wetness on Rembrandt's face, the overheating of the ship's hull was also becoming a major factor. The starship they were on was plummeting -- unprotected -- into a demon class planet's atmosphere.

"We don't have much time left before this hull gives way," Rembrandt countered. "Where are your friends? Aren't they coming?"

The knife in Enrique Montoya's grasp ripped apart some of Rembrandt's skin as it changed angles on the man's weak spot. "They're coming all right, Remmy, and there isn't a thing you can do to stop them. No one can help you now; your life is in my hands... and I will kill you before I leave. You have my word."

There was a sigh, and then a look. "You're not going to kill me."

It was a simple enough response, one that could even be considered a last futile attempt to sway Montoya's hold on him long enough for Rembrandt to regain control. But he, Montoya, wasn't going to let that happen. He simply emitted a chuckle, then: "Really?"

With a sense of calm, Rembrandt simply lowered his head in confirmation.

"Ahem."

It came out of nowhere, at least it did for Enrique "Quique" Montoya, who pivoted on his heel to see what the noise was behind him. That had been the mistake that had cost him the fight. With an overwhelming sense of cunning and agility, Mitch "Remmy" Rembrandt disarmed Montoya with a loud crack echoing through the corridor. Montoya screamed out in pain, clutching his broken arm as the other man knocked him unconscious with a final assault.

Rembrandt's hand immediately went to his own neck, and he could feel the queasiness enveloping his stomach as the blood trickled gently through his fingers. It wasn't fatal, but it was the type of wound that would seriously remain foremost on the mind. But that couldn't be allowed. No here, not now.

"Are you all right?" said the approaching woman, the one who had taken down Montoya... at least, temporarily. She sported a Starfleet gold uniform, and the look of tragedy -- after what Montoya had done to them, to the entire unit, it was understandable.

"I'll live," Rembrandt spat. The next task at hand made itself clear as crystal. Their experimental special operations craft was bordering redline, and unless they could bring her up from the gravity well of the planet, the two remaining survivors of the most revered classified unit serving Intel. would perish. Rembrandt almost recoiled and jolted upright when he took the seat of the spaceship -- the extreme and volatile temperatures had practically scorched everything inside the hull, and Rembrandt could just feel his skin beginning to bubble.

Something sounded from behind them. Not from Montoya, he was incapacitated for the moment; it was something coming from a piece of Montoya's clothing. Rembrandt knew what would be said next, and he was right. "Rek Vlinn to Gul Vlamek."

"The Cardassians," Rembrandt's companion spat, one of the upper most ranked colleagues to serve under Captain Rembrandt. "It's a Cardie vessel!"

"Not a surprise," Rembrandt replied while focusing at steering the runabout at an upward slope, "considering that the second in command of this unit turned out to be a Cardassian infiltrator."

"I can't believe Quique pulled the wool over our eyes -- how could we not know?"

"You mean Gul Vlamek," Rembrandt corrected as the hellish environment of the demon class planet began to subside, leaving the welcomed darkness of space and stars in its place. Then something happened... again. Even before the hold took place, Rembrandt could hear the beginning of a Cardassian transport cycle; by the time Rembrandt could act and activate the independent jamming beacon, it was too late.

Enrique Montoya -- Gul Vlamek of the Cardassian Union, part of the Dominion -- was gone. The man that had caused the death of twenty-four of the most important men to serve the covert unit of Starfleet Intelligence had vanished.

It left a very steamed, and rather furious, Mitch Rembrandt. He yelled out in a rage, in a mourn, in a promise that this was far from over...