A disembodied voice says, "Computer, begin recording."
With that command, the screen is filled with the image of Starr's face, covered in sweat, grime, and smeared patches of blood. His uniform jacket is unzipped, and his turtleneck is likewise unzipped to just below the collar bone, exposing just enough of his chest that a few strands of his chest hair are visible.
He speaks in a quiet and raspy tone, "Captain's personal log, Stardate 74848.47
"The last few weeks have been a complete whirlwind. Twice, we have tangled with the Borg, and twice we have survived."
The Commander stops speaking, and brings a glass filled with some kind of green liquid to his mouth, taking a healthy swig of its contents.
"I will never forget coming up on the Stebben system and seeing the Galaxy's saucer explode, and only moments later observing a Borg Cube decloaking on my viewscreen. I have always intellectually known that it was possible that the Borg could return, I just never expected to witness their return from the bridge of a ship under my command. I feel somehow ashamed that it was by my hand, by my voice that the fleet was informed that 'the Borg have returned.'"
Starr falls silent, his face twisting into a unpleasant grimace as he swivels in his chair a bit to gaze from his Ready Room viewport. The light from Alpha Lyncis casts a shadow across his features that is made eerier by the pulsating red wash that covers his bulky frame as the alert tracers pulse to indicate general quarters while the normal lighting systems are disengaged. He swirls the liquid in his glass with his left hand, before downing the rest of his Aldebaran Whiskey. He reaches toward the desk and places the empty glass on its surface, making a hollow clunking noise.
"I have always found my training at the Academy and my experience in the fleet to be an invaluable resource as I have encountered challenges in the past, but nothing..." he pauses for a beat "...nothing could have prepared me for the hell I witnessed when the Borg began to wreak their havoc on my bridge. We studied their tactics at the Academy, and yet... none of it seemed real until I faced the spectre of a drone bearing down on me, intent on stripping my individuality and reducing me to a mindless automaton. Their behavior... it is both frightening and gruesome.
"In the hours after the Borg attack, I managed to sleep for a few minutes, but it was hardly restful. I kept reliving the horror of watching Chief Dyfed being seized by a drone and injected with nanoprobes. His agonized screams haunt me, and even in my waking hours I am made ill by the remembrance of his convulsions as I sent the full power of a bridge console coursing through his body."
The Astraeus' master and commander again falls silent for what seems an eternity.
"My ship is a wreck. The Borg excised chunks of Starfleet's newest creation effortlessly while we helplessly watched the multicolored, pulsating energy beam do its business through a flickering viewscreen. Though I try to block the emotions of the crew, the despair, the hopelessness, the fear my crew feels when these things happen is overwhelming.
"Between our two encounters with the Borg, more than half my crew has been rendered missing, dead, or injured. Those of us left behind are overworked, scared, and resolute. We work tirelessly, and I feel such a overwhelming sense of pride in my crew as I watch them rise to the challenge before us. Indeed, we will stand with our forefathers and vanquish this foe as they did nearly three decades ago."
Leaning forward, Starr retrieves a near-empty bottle from the edge of his desk, and empties it into the glass. He clenches his jaw as he slams the empty vessel on the desktop and reaches for the now-full glass, raising it to his lips. In a single motion, he downs the final portion of his Aldebaran Whiskey. He holds the glass in front of him, gripping it tightly until his knuckles turn white. His despondent demeanor finally breaks and he hurls the glass toward the wall with a dark, guttural yell whose tone is made suddenly sharp as the glass shatters upon contact with the wall.
He turns to face his desktop monitor and slams a clenched fist on his desktop, whose force causes the image to rock as the monitor is rattled.
"The Borg wish for us to cower before them, they wish for us to accept their dominion, they wish for us to lose ourselves. We will not.
"Exactly three decades ago, the Borg drew a line in the sand that threatened to ruin our civilization. They assimilated entire worlds, and we fell back. They pushed into our space, and we retreated. This time... this time, we will draw the line in the sand for them, before they have the chance to force us into contrition. We will push back, and they will retreat. Just as they ran from us at Ferasa, they will run from every battlefield where we meet.
"We will not stand up, put up, or give up until the Borg have been pushed back to the bloody, dark corner of Hell from whence they came. This is my resolution, this is our resolution, and though I believe we have many dark days ahead of us, we will emerge victorious.
"Computer, end log."
The screen abruptly cuts to black.
