This Could Get Messy
Posted on Sat Jan 3rd, 2026 @ 1:50pm by Commander Donald ‘Don’ Key
809 words; about a 4 minute read
Mission:
A Fondness For
Location: Cumulonimbus 5
Timeline: Current
:ON:
{USS Albion, Transporter Room}
The transporter room hums with that familiar this-is-probably-fine vibration.
TRANSPORTER CHIEF: Away team ready.
Commander Jackson Andrews stands ramrod straight, hands clasped behind his back. Lieutenant Julius Mack is already scanning ahead, eyes flicking through sensor readouts. Lieutenant Sheeraashaa Genno—immaculate, unreadable—rests a hand near her sidearm, posture coiled and ready.
Dick and Don step onto the pads.
DON: Sir, last chance to stay aboard and let literally anyone else do this.
DICK: Don, if I stayed behind every time someone suggested that, I’d be a very relaxed admiral with no friends.
DON: You say that like it’s a bad outcome.
Sheeraashaa glances at them, expression neutral.
SHEERAASHAA: I assume command-level focus will resume planetside.
DICK: Absolutely. We’re all business once the atoms reassemble.
TRANSPORTER CHIEF: Energizing.
The world stretches, sparkles, and politely disassembles them.
—————————
They rematerialize in a grand plaza—once pristine, now half-buried in artificial cloudbanks. Ornate fountains sputter snow instead of water. Palm trees bend under impossible winds. A giant holographic sign flickers:
WELCOME TO CUMULONIMBUS 5 — PLEASE ENJOY YOUR STAY
The word PLEASE sparks ominously.
JULIUS MACK: Atmospheric manipulation confirmed. This weather system isn’t just aggressive—it’s… curated.
ANDREWS: The separatists?
JULIUS: Not amateurs. This is Starfleet-grade tech. Possibly better.
DICK: Fantastic. I hate being outclassed by people with worse uniforms.
A thunderclap rolls overhead, followed by what sounds suspiciously like whale song.
DON: Sir… are the clouds singing?
JULIUS: Harmonic resonance. They’ve tuned the ionosphere.
DICK: Of course they have. Why wouldn’t the storm have a playlist?
Sheeraashaa steps forward, scanning the surrounding terraces.
SHEERAASHAA: Multiple heat signatures inside the tourist center. Armed. Defensive positions are disciplined.
No one laughs. The humor drains out of the air like a depressurized joke.
ANDREWS: This isn’t a hostage stunt. They’re entrenched.
DON (quietly, to Dick): You notice how no one here slips on banana peels?
DICK: Yes, Don. This is what competence feels like. Unsettling, isn’t it?
They advance.
—————————
Inside the main atrium, the temperature stabilizes unnaturally. The storm is held back by a shimmering containment field. In the center of the room stands a tall, angular device—part weather engine, part temporal stabilizer.
JULIUS freezes.
JULIUS: Captain… this isn’t just weather control.
DICK: Julius, please tell me it’s a mood ring for planets.
JULIUS: It’s anchoring local time.
Silence.
ANDREWS: Anchoring… how?
JULIUS: Preventing temporal drift. Locking this planet into a fixed point.
DON: Like… forever?
JULIUS: Like before forever.
A calm voice echoes through the atrium.
SEPARATIST LEADER (over speakers): Welcome, Starfleet. You’re standing in the only place left that hasn’t been rewritten this year.
Sheeraashaa subtly shifts her stance.
SHEERAASHAA: They knew we were coming.
DON: Everyone knows when we’re coming. We announce it with sparkles.
The leader appears on a balcony above—measured, composed, not ranting, not laughing.
SEPARATIST LEADER: Cumulonimbus 5 was chosen because it’s neutral. Untouched by wars. Untouched by paradox cleanups.
JULIUS: You’re freezing time to avoid Federation oversight.
SEPARATIST LEADER: We’re freezing time to survive it.
DICK folds his arms.
DICK: Let me guess. Temporal accords. Some admiral with a jawline like a shuttlecraft said “necessary sacrifices.”
The leader doesn’t deny it.
SEPARATIST LEADER: Starfleet fixes timelines by erasing places like this. Quietly. Politely. With paperwork.
ANDREWS: You’ve destabilized an entire system to make your point.
SEPARATIST LEADER: And you destabilized history to win wars. Ask Captain Kirk. Or Picard. Or Janeway—especially Janeway.
DON: Oh yeah. Coffee-powered temporal incidents. Classic.
The leader continues.
SEPARATIST LEADER: This device is more than weather control. It’s proof. If we deactivate it, this planet becomes… negotiable.
JULIUS: Or erased.
The weight of that settles in.
DICK exhales slowly.
DICK: So the huge ramifications are… if we do our job, we might delete paradise.
DON: Sir, I really preferred it when the ramifications were explosions.
DICK: Me too, Don. Me too.
Outside, thunder rolls again—but softer now. Waiting.
SHEERAASHAA: Captain. Orders?
Dick looks at the device. At the people guarding it. At his crew.
DICK: Nobody fires. Nobody breaks anything. Nobody quotes the Prime Directive at me like it’s a magic spell.
DON: What do we do?
Dick smiles faintly—the kind that means trouble, but thoughtful trouble.
DICK: We do what Starfleet never does well, Don.
DON: …Listen?
DICK: Don, don’t get crazy. We stall.
Don grins despite himself. DON: Ah. A proud tradition.
The storm outside presses closer to the glass, clouds churning like an audience holding its breath.
DICK (calling out): All right, everyone. Let’s talk about how not to erase a planet before someone turns this into a Next Generation two-parter.
And for once—no one laughs.
:OFF:
Commander Donald ‘Don’ Key
Chief Flight Control Officer
USS Albion
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