The air was cold, and wet; the kind that clung to the skin and never really left the lungs. Driving across the barren ice cap was boring and long, the only source of entertainment being Ruska Benophile's horrible steering that often nearly threw the hover jeep and it's passengers out into the snow.
Wendi ducked her nose into the collar of her body suit, hoping to warm the tip on the heating device embedded in the material. Although the form fitting suit kept her toasty, the constant cold throwing itself over her skin as they traveled farther and farther north began to linger.
"Head up, Jackson!" Marjorie Manson called over the roar of thrusters. "We need your eyes!"
She tugged her attention back to the endless expanse of white, and didn't make any remarks about the 3 pairs of orbs flicking every which way on Morjorie's lavender toned face.
They were only on a scouting mission. Some patrol had gotten lost one their way back to headquarters and had stumbled across an odd looking signal broadcasting from a location 50 miles or so outside of their radius.
Wendi suspected a crashed satellite from the early 21st century. It wasn't the first time it had happened; the North Pole seemed to be a magnet for space junk these days.
A black shape appeared on the horizon and she squinted at it.
"What do you think?" she called to the man sitting next to her.
His shoulders rose and fell but he showed no other sign of acknowledgment. This was fine enough to Wendi; Zayne Price had been transferred several weeks earlier and she still hadn't heard him say a word. Like anyone else, she was curious, but the Special Ops was no place to ask questions.
As they neared the object it became apparent that it definitely was not a satellite. It was huge, and so was the crater it nested in.
"Look at that." Manson exclaimed as the engine was cut, jumping heavily out onto the thick ice and striding purposefully toward the enormous hunk of twisted rock and metal.
Wendi, Zayne, and Ruska fell into step behind her.
"What could have been sending that signal?" Ruska wondered aloud, his deep voice and thick Russian accent cutting through the silence.
"Dunno. Ruska, you're with me. Jackson, Price, take the right. Look for an entrance and shout if you find anything. Move out."
Manson marched stiffly in the other direction, Ruska thudding over the frozen ground behind her while Wendi gave a sarcastic salute to their retreating forms with a small pink tongue jutting defiantly from her lips. She shot a sideways glance at Price to catch him rolling his eyes; the most expressive she'd ever seen him. Her small victory was quickly squashed by the realization that he was probably wondering why he'd gotten stuck with the reject.
They made their way into the crater toward the huge craft, and while Price paused to fiddle with his PADD in order to run a scan, Wendi went on ahead. Something had caught her eye along the side of the folded metal.
They were letters; or at least they used to be before the collision with earth's crust had mutated them into chicken scratch.
"Hey, Price," she called, backing up in order to get a better view. "Come take a look at this."
Only a few of the markings were distinguishable, but even so, her guesses didn't make much sense. "Cod Static 13?"
"Cold."
The voice surprised her and she whipped her head to the side. Price was looking innocently down at his PADD. "That's an L. Cold Station 12."
"What's Cold Station 12?" she asked quickly in an attempt to disguise her shock at the smooth tones coming from his usually silent mouth.
He shrugged and she looked back at the fallen ship in disappointment. "We'd better radio Manson."
Suddenly a small pinch at her neck had her smacking at the soft skin, her clumsy fingers finding purchase on a tiny dart. Her hands grew heavy as she stared at it, panic flooding her senses as Price suddenly dropped to the ground beside her. She stumbled forward, legs like lead as they shuffled across the ice, the world tilting dangerously on its axis. Where she was trying to go, she had no idea, but every instinct was telling her to run.
Drugged. She'd been drugged. Her immediate thoughts sprang to Manson and the obvious dislike that the purple Indican displayed for her, but that was silly. This was beyond a petty grudge.
She vaguely recalled falling, but she was definitely conscious of her skull snapping to the solid layer of frozen water so hard, she thought she'd crack the ice caps.
And then a voice cut into her splitting headache and a kaleidoscope face swam into her vision. A face she couldn't place.
"There's some crazy stuff out here." It said from miles away. "Things that you weren't supposed to see. But you'll forget all of that soon enough, Wendi Jackson. Don't you worry."
When the darkness came, she welcomed it.
3 Years Later
The café wasn't as busy this time of morning, then again, most people probably wouldn't find it appealing to rise with the sun on a Saturday. That was fine. The steaming mug of frothy liquid on the table before her would make fine company.
She flicked idly through the news on her PADD. The Kelvin Memorial Archive had recently been rebuilt, minus the secret operations base beneath the concrete (never mind that Section 31 had merely been relocated instead of abolished). Starfleet headquarters were repaired, its transgressors fired and punished. Veteran's services had been being held galaxy wide, broadcasted to every planet with satellite who had lost family and friend alike in the attack not a year ago. They were shaken, but getting back on their feet as steadily and as surely as the sunrise currently burning through the clouds. Looking at it from the insider's perspective, though, Wendi knew that it was probably due to the secrecy currently sugarcoating the entire event as thickly as was humanely possible.
The Augments and their history were kept hidden from the public, kept safely in some file in a cabinet beneath 3 feet of concrete and safety precautions. Newspaper headlines reported a disillusioned Marcus as the actual villain, and while that was partially true, the story was that he had hired then brainwashed an otherwise innocent John Harrison into doing his dirty work. Harrison was dead; gone down with the USS Vengeance after realizing Marcus' treachery and disposing of the man himself. The silver lining of the allotted mushroom cloud.
The public believed it. And they all lived happily ever after.
"Long night?" a warm voice cut into her reverie and she looked up. Brown hair swept cleanly off to the side of a kind face, crow's feet in the corners of eyes the color of dark chocolate, a steady hand gesturing to the spiral of whipped cream atop her drink.
"You have no idea," she replied, nodding to the bench across from her in a subtle invitation for him to join her.
He sat, shoulders steady, and clasped his hands beneath his chin.
"Credit chip for your thoughts?"
She set her PADD down on the table and cradled her mug with both hands.
"I think I'm going to apply for the Enterprise."
He grinned at her softly and nodded his approval.
Ever since the terrorism incident from almost 12 months ago, Starfleet had been scrambling to fill positions. The Federation had lost a good number of employees who abandoned their careers in shock and shame, both embarrassed and horrified at working in a deceitful and untrustworthy environment in the service of liars and killers. The Academy had lost its fair share, as well; the level of distrust for the Federation reaching its peak when headlines had merely been publishing hyperbolic assumptions gleaned from the wreckage of a spaceship no one had seen before. As meticulously controlled bits of information were leaked, however, and a story sufficient enough to calm the angry mobs had spread over the constellations, respect sluggishly began to trickle back into its original locations, though not without repercussions.
The voyage of the Enterprise, secretly relocating 73 popsicle people to an uninhabited planet off the Asteroid Belt of Nivene, had originally been due to cast off several months ago. However, a shortage in staff had put the mission on a tense hiatus.
While the Academy was slowly refilling with bright young minds to be molded, they simply couldn't spit out Cadets fast enough without risking unprofessionalism.
"That's great, Wendi." He told her. "God knows how much I'd love an assistant."
"Has your Captain been reckless?"
She smirked as he rolled his eyes. "I was thinking of applying as an engineer. I guess with all the empty spaces I could double up, though."
His shoulders lifted and fell in a shrug while she sipped at her coffee, licking at the whipped cream mustache it left above her lip.
"No more top secret missions?" he asked, a tone of theatrical disappointment latching onto his words.
She shook her head.
"I spent way too long trying to get out of there. I don't even think I did; not completely anyways. I swear there are mini cameras in my flat. Every time this stupid thing goes off, I think it will be a Blocked Number and I'll be called out again, no questions asked." She smacked the small PADD lightly as the man across from her leaned forward intensely.
"Is that Paranoia or PTSD? I can prescribe meds for both."
Wendi snorted and scowled at him.
"You tell me, doc."
He chuckled a few times, leaning back into the leather chair, pacified, and they lapsed into a companionable silence.
As if on cue, the small oval machine on the polished marble before her beeped ominously, signaling a message.
Number Withheld.
"Shit." She whispered, eyes widening in their sockets.
"What?" he asked warily, flying forward once again with concern in his dark eyes.
"Two years." She muttered darkly to herself. "Almost two whole years without a single word. Now this?"
Wendi pressed a digit to the screen until it recognized her fingerprint, a security implement given to all Starfleet personal with her level of clearance, and scanned the content quickly.
"Wendi, what? Who is it?"
"I don't know, hold on!" she replied tersely, dragging her eyes over the encrypted text. It was merely a series of numbers, but ones that she recognized as coding for a time and location. This type of cipher was only used for top priority. Her heart sank. "Damn. I never should have believed them when they said I was out for good."
A warm hand touched her shoulder and she looked up into the warm expression of her friend, feeling the dread lighten microscopically at his concern.
"You'll be fine," he told her. "Probably just a confirmation meeting or something. If you can squirm out of this one, I'll make sure you get a spot on the Enterprise, alright? It's the least I can do."
She set her mouth into a grim curve and turned to leave, pulling on the brown leather jacket that had been dangling off the corner of her seat and scooping her PADD off the table. "I'm finishing your coffee!" the same voice called to her as she reached the door.
A tiny smile penetrated her stony expression as she craned her head over a shoulder.
"Good to see you, Bones."
1500.37.78333.122.4167
Coordinates she knew well enough not to have to keep the message after it had been sent.
The shuttle from New Seattle to San Francisco was a short one; nowhere near long enough to get her bearings, but she supposed that she didn't have many "bearings" left to collect. Even after her 2 ½ year absence from anything Federation-related, Wendi still remained as tightly strung as ever; constantly on guard even in the most mundane situations and waking herself unintentionally at early hours to maintain her military fitness for lack of anything better to do with her sleepless self.
Her flat remained Spartan; containing only the necessities of a soldier trained to live without just in case it was needful for her to relocate.
Only recently had she begun to sleep full nights again. Only last month was her first real date that hadn't ended in an awkward goodnight and deleted contact. Only last week had she leaned over her balcony with a flute of champagne, celebrating the New Year by watching an atmospheric firework show that lasted hours just because she could.
A soft sigh that turned out to be hers fogged the window glass and she returned her face forwards.
Since her resignation, she hadn't seen anyone from the old days. Well, that wasn't exactly true. Bones, she had met in intensive training at an outpost in the floating province of Barcelona before she had officially joined the ranks. She'd stumbled into his medical pod by accident, bruised, bleeding, and bone weary after a brutal boot camp session, nursing a broken wrist, regrets about her military decision, and a personal vendetta against Sergeant Bruce "Cut-throat" Sinclair.
Leonard McCoy had been a balm to her wounds, emotional and physical, sending her back to the barracks with her hard heart full of kind words and her bloodstream full of numbing, soothing chemicals.
She had kept in contact ever since.
Truth be told, her agent life was a blur of shallow relationships and stress, so the lack of phone calls didn't really surprise her, but still. Come to think of it, that life was mostly just a downright blur; as if someone had stuck that part of her memory into a blender. She wondered at it, trying to pull individual missions from her head. The first year or two, it was easy, but as the jobs grew higher and higher in risk, things began to flicker- especially around her final few months.
A headache flared in her temple from the strain and she halted the train of thought with pressure on the side of her skull, considering instead to ask Bones what he knew about PTSD and stress-related amnesia. He'd have a field day.
The shuttle came to a stop with a soft moan and a toneless voice came over the intercom system to state their location.
"Welcome to San Francisco. Please collect your personal items and exit to your right."
Wendi stood, PADD clutched firmly in her fingers as she maneuvered through the other riders out onto the busy platform. Her feet knew where to go and she followed them, the building marked Starfleet Headquarters looming tall and gray before her as both real and metaphorical storm clouds gathered over her head.