The Maje's Playthings

Posted on Tue Jun 17th, 2025 @ 8:45pm by Kaldri & Lieutenant Commander Victoria Cross & Ensign Mei Ratthi

Mission: Seven Souls
Location: Throne Room, Kordra-Lisrit
Timeline: Mission Day 1 at 1830

[Throne Room]
[Kordra-Lisrit]
[MD 1: 1830 Hours]

The doors groaned open—blackened duranium, etched with jagged glyphs that screamed conquest and dominance in Kazon script. Twin blades of scorched metal flanked the entry like fangs, reaching skyward as if eager to draw blood from the ceiling itself. Two guards stepped forward to swing the doors wide—not out of courtesy, but with the heavy, deliberate force of ceremony.

The prisoners were marched in under guard—two Starfleet officers, one civilian, and one unconscious Kazon assassin--with the group flanked on all sides by the six Kazon warriors who'd forced their walk there. Five of the guards took up positions around the room, the rhythmic pound of their boots on polished stone echoing in the chamber and mixing with the low, mechanical hum of the room’s hidden systems. The other guard stayed near, gesturing with their disruptors to indicate the prisoners should stand in the chamber's center, upon a slightly raised dais under a bright spotlight.

As the three ambulatory prisoners took their place on the dais, Kaldri—slumped, unconscious, and bleeding—was hauled into the room by the sixth guard, a thick-armed Kazon who heaped her like refuse atop the dais as well. Kaldri hit the floor with a sickening thud—shoulder first, then cheek to tile—her limbs folding awkwardly beneath her, one hand twitching before going still. The blood at her temple had begun to crust, but the rawness of it still glared in the throne room’s merciless light.

The two closer guards then took up positions around the room as well, completing the ring of six sentinels standing watch over Subrek's domain. And from them, no words were spoken. No instructions were given. Only the low thrum of the ship's engines and the idle sounds of the chamber itself filled the space.

But the chamber—
Gods, the chamber.

It was built to overwhelm.

To the left—indulgence, vanity, the trappings of a man who wanted to be worshipped. A sprawling banquet table of dark wood, gouged with claw marks and sealed under thick resin, sagged beneath the weight of hedonism. Platters of seared flesh—from animals unfamiliar to Starfleet eyes—rested on hammered metal trays that gleamed gold beneath the lights. Fruits dripped juice like open wounds—pomegranate and blood-pear analogues along with glassy-skinned orbs that seemed to softly hiss. Decanters of amber and violet wine, some still misting with cold, stood like watchtowers among scattered goblets rimmed with gold leaf.

Draped over nearby loungers were furs—thick, matted, and pungent—some still bearing the claws, tails, or snarling faces of the beasts they’d once belonged to. The assorted couches and pillows covered in said furs were exceptionally decadent in the plush-leather comfort they so clearly promised. Incense curled from wall sconces shaped like screaming mouths, spilling smoke that smelled of roasted spice and burning leather—rich and cloying all at once. It was a gallery of excess—proof of Subrek’s appetite, not just for food and drink, but for possession--for dominion.

And to the right—punishment, precision, the art of suffering displayed like sculpture. Three cages sat against the wall—narrow, rusted, and impossibly tight—each one no wider than a body, with bars bent slightly inward, no doubt from past escape attempts made by those unlucky enough to end up in those cells. Bloodstains—both old and fresh—painted the floors beneath the cells in streaks and sticky patches.

Shackles hung nearby, their chains crusted with oxidation and remnants of skin. A mechanical rack stood further in—a brutal, angular frame fitted with clamps for every limb, its gears gleaming with fresh grease, its surface scored with the residue of past occupants. The rack was on wheels, no doubt movable in the spirit making any potential torture a show for those arrayed to watch.

Beyond that, a surgical console—metal arms folded like a praying mantis, each tip gleaming with a different kind of cruelty: needles, blades, micro-scalpels, and one hooked filament that pulsed faintly blue with some unspeakable charge. Above the table, a mounted display rotated slowly through internal diagrams—Kazon anatomy, Trabe neural maps, and something labeled only as “Vidiian Variance.”

Every piece was polished. Maintained. Worshipped. A shrine to control through pain.

And at the far end of room—where the right and left funneled their contrast of luxury and lament--loomed Subrek's throne, perched high on a dais of blackened stone and jagged steel. The First Maje’s seat was no simple chair, however. It was a monument to violence.

Formed from the fused remnants of ship hulls, armor from defeated enemies, and a twisted mesh of bone and what looked like barbed wire, the throne radiated malice. The armrests bore embedded disruptor ports and the back rose in a crown of hooked spikes. Skulls—real, unmistakably humanoid—had been integrated into the design as well, some with what appeared to be metal fillings still visible in the teeth. The throne and its accouterment sat high--much higher than the central dais where the prisoners stood--no doubt in service of Subrek looking down upon his enemies.

And yet, as intimidating as the throne was, it sat empty. Subrek was, it seemed, not yet arrived and while the guards around the room kept their disruptors pointed at the Sojourners, they made no effort to silence them when they began to talk amongst themselves. They were, it seemed, only interested in keeping the prisoners atop their dais as they waited for Subrek to make what would, no doubt, be a grandiose entry of some kind.

Enough with the failed attempt at getting out of this through clever plans, Victoria thought, gazing ahead at the throne. She thought of her father, she thought of what he would do in this situation. She thought of her crew, peering over at them with an expression of growing stern authority - an assured 'I'm getting us out of here' - before turning back to the throne. Chest out, chin up, hands low. She turned to the nearest guard.

"I demand to speak with the ranking officer of this vessel. I am Lieutenant Commander Victoria Cross of the USS Sojourner, and everyone here is in my crew and care, including Miss Kaldri. She and the rest of us require medical care."

Mei wrapped a hand around Cross's forearm and said just loud enough for her to hear, "Sir, they're trying to overwhelm us. Make us afraid. Keep us under stress. That's why they brought us here, and why they're going to make us wait. Getting angry isn't going to help. As an anthropologist, I advise that we all take a breath, hold onto our patience, and stay calm. The angrier we get, the more fun it is for them. That's how societies like this work."

At Cross' "demand," one of the guards shifted—a tall, broad Kazon with dark ridges and a dented shoulder plate that looked half-welded, half-scarred into place. Even as Mei furtively offered advice, he stepped forward a single pace, leveling his disruptor squarely at the senior officer's chest.

“Silence,” he growled, his voice thick-accented, low, and guttural. “You think your rank matters here?” The guard hissed before spitting towards the dais with derision. “You are not valuable, nor are you feared. You are loud, nothing more." The warrior let that sentiment hang in the air as thickly as the spice coming off the animal carcass plated on the nearby table. "The Maje wants those two and the assassin,” he gestured with his weapon at Andrew, Mei, and the still form of Kaldri, "not you."

His finger hovered near the trigger of the disruptor—casual, indifferent--as the guard continued to glare at Cross. "Address us again and the members of your group who matter will lose their meat shield.” He didn’t wait for a response; instead, he stepped back into line—weapon still angled forward, stance rigid. The other guards said nothing; if they'd taken any umbrage with Mei speaking to Cross, they did not show it.

On the dais, the spotlight buzzed softly overhead. The air hung thick—humid with heat and the faint iron tang of blood--as Kaldri's haphazardly tossed body moved ever so slightly. It was barely perceptible—just a twitch--but it was movement all the same. The fingers of the assassin's right hand curled inward, then relaxed again, perhaps subconsciously trying to grip the dagger that had been stolen from her in transport. However, there was no groan or other movement beyond that—just a small signal that, somewhere in the haze of Kaldri's unconscious mind, something was beginning to fight its way back to the surface.

The guards didn’t react. Either they hadn’t noticed or they were waiting, just like the rest. And in the silence that followed, the hum of the throne room seemed to grow even louder.

Mei shuffled closer to Cross and spoke again, her voice still barely loud enough to carry. "This is all theater, Commander. They want us to feel small and frightened, and yeah, I'm sure we all are, but we can't let them see it. We have to stay calm. Measured. If we can find out what they want from us, we might have a place to start bargaining from."

Cross was visibly angry. She said nothing, nodding quietly to Mei, and reached out to grab her hand and give it a squeeze to try to assure her she understood. She planted her hands on her hips and turned to her crew in the Dais. What would her father do? What would Kirk do? This situation was bad. The Sojourner could be destroyed. They could be the only Starfleet for hundreds of light years. Victoria had to do something.

She had to get her people to safety. That was fried into her brain, cooked at the top of an invisible checklist in her mind. She turned to the guards, making note of their number.

Andrew, meanwhile, had knelt to check on Kaldri. He'd noticed the twitch of her fingers--ostensibly a good sign--but the bleeding wound on her temple was more than a little worrying. Though he was a biologist by trade rather than a medical doctor, he still knew how to check for a steady vs. thready pulse and what each might indicate. Placing the index and fore fingers of his right hand against the Kazon's throat, he focused on feeling the vibrations under her skin--a welcome distraction from the foreboding hum that filled the chamber of horrors they'd found themselves in.

"Thready," he spoke up for the first time since they'd been taken from the cell. Looking up at Cross and Ratthi, Andrew shook his head. "She took a nasty stun blast back there," he referred to their prior prison. "And the rough way they hauled her in here and threw her down on the floor didn't help. Head's bleeding," he explained, nodding toward the pool of blood that was spreading out from under Kaldri's face, still pressed against the floor.

The rasp he heard in his voice reminded Andrew of Björn's and with it came a pang of intense heartache. He must be out of his mind with guilt and worry right now, Andrew thought to himself, his anger at Subrek for putting them all in this situation flaring sharply, his nostrils widening. Deciding to put that anger to use, he reached up to tear at a sleeve, ripping it clean off to expose a somewhat muscled, burly arm covered in dark hair. With a quick fold of the now-freed sleeve, he gently lifted Kaldri's head and placed the fabric beneath her temple wound. Letting her face gently lower back to the floor, the resultant pressure of her wound against the folded material began to staunch the bleeding.

He’d just settled her head when the unmistakable sound of boots approached from behind—heavy, deliberate, and close. A Kazon guard loomed at Andrew’s back, disruptor drawn but not raised. Another stepped in from the side, muttering something untranslatable in their native tongue—sharp, clipped syllables that, in retrospect, probably needed no translation at all. The first guard reached down and grabbed Andrew by the upper arm, fingers digging into his bicep as they yanked him up and off the dais with little ceremony.

“No,” the Kazon barked with a sneer. "Come with us. Now."

Andrew resisted the instinct to fight back—it would do no good. His eyes flicked once to Cross, to Ratthi, then back down at Kaldri. “She needs help,” he said through clenched teeth, his voice low but firm.

The guard didn’t answer. Didn’t care. He shoved Andrew forward, away from the others and toward the side of the chamber—toward a narrow doorway recessed in the wall that hadn’t been there a moment ago. The metal hissed as it opened. As he was marched out for reasons unknown, the dais and his compatriots under the intense spotlight grew smaller behind him.

Then the door sealed shut with a pneumatic hiss and he was gone.

Victoria turned her attention to the fallen Kaldri, though her stomach sank into a pit when Andrew was taken away. She huddled in to hug a knee and spoke quietly. "Crew, tend to her as best you can. They're going to take us one by one and torture us. You all recall your Starfleet training. Name, rank. There are four lights. Don't give them anything useful. Delay, disrupt, even if that means submitting to pain."

She took the rest of her shirt off, folding it under Kaldri's head to elevate her, then carefully rolled the woman into the recovery position, on her side with no obstruction to the airway or weight on her lungs and heart.

She stood, adjusting the straps to her sports bra, and watched that sealed door, her face contorted with a frown. Where are you, Sojo? We need a daring rescue ten minutes ago.

Mei drew in a long breath and let it out just as slowly as she turned in a slow circle, once again examining the throne room, this time with an analytic eye. Soon enough she stopped, let out another long breath, and knelt next to Cross and Kaldri. "When I was about twelve, my family was going . . . somewhere. I don't remember where right now. It doesn't matter. We'd booked passage on a Denobulan research vessel. Nice ship, nice people. But about halfway there, we got caught up in an ion storm. A little one, you know, or as little as you can hope for out there. Shook the ship like crazy for a couple of hours before we finally got out of it. Scared the hell out of me and most of the rest of the passengers. It didn't help that we lost the intra-ship comms, and couldn't tell what was going on for the longest time. After a while– it felt like forever– the first mate got the door open and told us what had happened. It turned out they'd been trying to talk to us, be we couldn't hear the crew anymore than the crew could hear us. Everyone was okay in the end. My dad broke his arm, but they fixed that pretty quickly. It was all that waiting and not knowing what was happening that really stuck in my memory."

At Cross's questioning look, she shrugged and offered a wavering smile. "Just trying to keep my mind off things while we pass the time. There's no use in stewing in our own anxieties. That's what they want."

The pair fell into silence as they considered their next moves--not that any seemed open to them at the moment. But as they did so, the once-still form of Kaldri suddenly began to twitch much more visibly than it had before. The Kazon was, it seemed, starting to rouse more forcefully now, a loan moan escaping dried lips cracked with blood.

As awareness began to creep back in, the darkness clung to her—thick and formless, not like sleep, but like crushing entropy, pressing in on every nerve and muscle. Kaldri couldn’t move much. Her body felt distant, heavy, half-broken in ways she couldn’t catalog yet. Pain pulsed in sharp rhythm from her temple, radiating down her cheek and neck. Somewhere beneath her face, she registered the faint texture of fabric—folded, damp, not her own. Someone had cushioned her. That mattered, though she couldn’t hold the thought for long.

She didn’t open her eyes. Not yet. But her arms finally woke up enough to move and her right hand instinctively went to the sheathe at her hip, fingers curling around...nothing. Her blade was still gone. That wasn’t new, though Kaldri had forgotten the klon-thek's theft in her post-stun haze. But as awareness of the assassination blade's absence slithered back into the corners of her mind, Kaldri's brain suddenly fixated on a new sensation, this one a sound--power attenuation maybe? As her eyelids finally fluttered open, gaze going up to Cross and Mei, she saw the lights begin to flicker and then dim.

The change in lighting cast deep shadows that slid down the walls like crawling insects. The throne room, once searing with brightness, now glowed with something quieter and far more dangerous. The chandeliers above guttered to half-light, the carved skulls in their frames flickering amber as if the room itself were holding its breath. Then came the footsteps—slow, deliberate, each one a punctuation mark of power and control. They echoed from behind the throne, where what had appeared to be solid wall hissed open with a rush of steam and curling smoke. The door was tall, almost ceremonial in its suddenness, the darkness beyond it yawning wide like the mouth of some ancient predator.

And from that dark maw emerged First Maje Subrek.

He was dressed in armor that shone like lacquered oil, plates and bands layered for both ceremony and violence. Deep red fur lined his shoulders, and a sash across his chest bore the broken insignias of half a dozen sects—Nistrim, Hobii, Trabe—each one defaced or torn. At his belt hung something cruel and curved, but it was what he held in his hands that drew the eye. In his left—a ceremonial staff, dark and jagged, tipped with a shard of hull metal sharpened into a spear. In his right—Kaldri’s klon-thek dagger, twirling through his fingers like a trick knife. It gleamed even in the low light, its blackened edge worn but unmistakable. He toyed with it as he walked, casually, the way one might roll a coin across their knuckles, utterly at ease with the weight of what it meant.

“Well, well,” Subrek said, voice rich and coarse, carrying far too much amusement for the gravity of the scene. “Look what these skilled warriors have brought me. Starfleet’s finest—stoic, frayed, and ever so sure rescue is just around the corner." He barked a laugh, then, images of Kodak flaring into his mind. "Your Captain's likely beside himself...your command structure broken. His little plaything is now mine. And so are you," he denoted with a wave of his hand.

His eyes swept the dais like a man surveying the quality of meat at market, pausing briefly on each face before flicking to Kaldri’s prone form. He stalked forward from the base of the throne even as his warriors stepped up as well, raised weapons threatening violence if Cross or Ratthi dared move closer to their Maje as he regarded the injured assassin dirtying up his floor with her blood.

Subrek crouched in front of Kaldri, balancing on his heels with feline ease, and brought her own blade low, hovering it just above her cheek, letting the edge trace the air where her skin burned with injury. “She’s waking,” he said, more to the room than Kaldri herself. “Do you feel it, little shadow? That bone-deep ache? That hollow space where your courage used to live? It’s called failure," he snarled, finally addressing Kaldri directly. "Get used to it.”

He rose suddenly, letting the dagger linger a moment longer in the air before pulling it away. He spun it in his palm, admiring it like a stolen jewel. “She tried to kill me with this, you know. Thought she could carve me out of her story. Thought I’d be the final name on her little revenge list.” He stalked away several paces before turning, facing the rest of the group and lifting the blade just enough to let the light catch along the edge. “But look at her now—drooling on my floor while I play with her inheritance. It's poetic, really.”

Subrek ascended the steps to his throne with theatrical slowness, dragging the blade's tip along the stone railing beside him, letting the shriek of metal against stone ring out like a challenge. When he reached the top, he spun and dropped into the barbed seat like a man sliding into a familiar embrace. The klon-thek dagger he slid into a thin sheath built into the armrest—perfectly vertical, like a relic on display. He stretched then across the throne like a man settling into a bath, his fingers drumming lazily along the barbed armrest before curling around the pommel of the dagger he'd just planted there. His gaze swept the dais once more, lingering now with purpose—calculated and cold.

“You,” he said, nodding toward Cross without even bothering to remember her name. “The loud one. You carry yourself like someone important. Like someone in charge. Is that what they tell you? That you're the leader?” He chuckled—not a laugh, but a dry sound made entirely of contempt. “Tell me, does Starfleet hand out command to anyone who barks orders loud enough these days? Or were you the last warm body left when they scraped this crew together?”

He leaned forward slightly, voice dropping to something more intimate. “You reek of desperation. Of someone trying to impress a ghost they’ll never please.” His eyes gleamed. “I wonder who died to make you this… rigid?" He let that hang in the air before glancing toward Mei, the shift in focus as smooth as a knife sliding between ribs.

“But you,” the Maje said with a tone almost bordering on respect, tilting his head, “you at least know how to listen. You understand context, power, survival. I read your file,” he said, not explaining how he'd gotten his hands on such information. His tone softened then, but only just. “Academic. Observant. Reasonable.” He smiled—not kindly, but flatteringly. “You're not like her," he waggled a finger at Cross, eyes never leaving Mei. "You could be useful.”

He let the words dangle like bait, the smile on his lips never quite reaching his eyes. “You don’t belong under her command. Or next to her corpse, when she invariably gets herself—and the rest of you—killed.” Subrek sat back again, completely relaxed, one hand trailing along the armrest toward the dagger. His voice was almost lazy as he formed a question with that sneer of his, the jut of his chin directed Kaldri's way. "Are you going to help her up? Or just let her lay there in her own bodily fluids?"

It was a challenge. Would they do what he clearly wanted--help Kaldri to her feet for more verbal torment--or leave her to further suffer on the floor like a forgotten doll, broken as she was?

Cross regarded Subrek and the dagger, and when he gave her a dressing down, she puffed her cheeks and exhaled, as if his words had wounded her. She said nothing, brushing off the tyrant with a quiet shrug, before turning to Mei.

"Well, he's as graceful as I imagined." She attempted to assuage Kaldri's injuries, though she lacked any means to treat her injuries beyond supporting the woman's head.

"Indeed," Mei said dryly as she stood, her back straight and shoulders squared. Her expression was perfectly bland– if she was afraid at all, there was no external sign of it. For the span of a few breaths, she studied him; his report, after all, had said she was observant. She tilted her head and her brow furrowed. "What is it that you want from us? You took a risk, however calculated, in attacking Sojourner. If you wanted to sell us into slavery, you could have left us in the cell. But you had the three of us brought here. Forgive me for being academic about all this, but I'm curious."

Subrek stretched across the throne, letting the silence drag like a taut rope. His fingers idly traced the handle of the dagger embedded in the armrest, his gaze sliding over each of the prisoners without urgency. He looked pleased with himself, his posture one of complete control, as if the entire room were just another extension of his will.

“You all think this is going to end in negotiation,” he said, finally. “That there will be a turning point. A bargain. Some moment where your values save you. Let me be clear. There won’t be.” His voice dropped into a lower register. “There will be pain. There will be choices. And some of you will break so quietly you won’t even hear yourselves shatter.”

Before he could say more, a low chirp echoed from the wrist communicator of one of the guards. The Kazon touched it, listening to a quick burst of static and guttural speech. His brow furrowed, and he stepped forward, murmuring something in their native tongue toward the throne. Subrek’s expression darkened as,
somewhere deeper in the ship, a sharp siren began to wail, rising into a pulse and then fading. The lights flickered—just for a moment—but long enough to be noticed. One of the chandeliers above swayed gently, as if the ship itself had trembled.

Subrek rose from the throne in a single, smooth movement. He didn’t look rushed, but there was tension now in his stance. He retrieved the klon-thek dagger from the armrest and returned it to his belt, not bothering to sheath it. Instead, he walked down the stairs toward the hidden exit behind the throne, the guards shifting with new alertness.

“Someone is misbehaving,” he said, half to himself, half to them. “But don’t worry. I’ll be back. And next time, we’ll do something more... educational.” He gave them one last glance, a smirk twitching at the corner of his mouth. “Try not to die of boredom before I return.” Then he disappeared into the smoke-lit corridor behind the throne, the door sealing shut behind him with a hiss of hydraulics and the hum of re-engaged locks.

The silence that followed felt heavier than the sound that had filled the room before it. The guards stood motionless for a moment longer, as if waiting for some unspoken signal to expire. Then one of them moved. “Get up,” the nearest barked, stepping forward with his disruptor angled just slightly off-center. Another joined him, circling behind Cross and Mei. “You’re being relocated.”

Two others moved toward Kaldri. One grabbed her under the arms with little regard for her condition, dragging her off the dais with a grunt of effort and a metallic scrape of her boots against the stone. A third guard opened a side door near the edge of the chamber, revealing a narrow hallway with low lights and cold metal walls. The corridor led to a smaller chamber beyond: windowless, sterile, and silent.

“Enjoy the quiet,” one of them muttered as they herded the group forward down the small hallway. “It won’t last for long.”

The door closed behind them with a sharp hiss, leaving the throne room empty once again.


=/\= A joint-post by... =/\=

Kaldri
Sojo's Kazon Guest

Lt. Cmdr. Victoria Cross
Chief Operations Officer

Ensign Mei Ratthi
Anthropologist

Andrew Munro
Civilian Biologist

First Maje Subrek
Leader of the Kazon-Lidrum