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<span class="mu-s">Space: the final frontier. This is the crusade of the starship <span class="mu-i">Onager</span>. Its unwavering purpose: to bring law and order to distant worlds; to shepherd the meek and crush the wicked; to unite all of the lights in the sky beneath a single banner.</span>
Your name is <span class="mu-s">Akal Tekan</span> and you are a proud son of Cardassia.
Your shining black hair is slicked back to display the prominent, tear-shaped ridge that sits in the centre of your forehead, along with the scaly cartilage that decorates your throat. Your slate grey skin glistens in the dim light of the vestibule while you wait in the austere comfort of a chair that would be better suited to a torture chamber. Objectively, you are a truly handsome specimen of your species but today, you will need to be more than that. Today, you will discover if you have proven yourself worthy of leading your people to victory.
You have spent the past two years of your life at the Akleen Military Academy, training to become an officer of the Guard. Like so many other young men, you have always dreamed of serving your people on the deck of a starship, where you will have the opportunity to slay the enemies of Cardassia and seize virgin worlds in the name of the Union. If you have proven yourself worthy, you might even get the opportunity to captain a vessel of your own – to become a gul.
The hiss of an opening door snaps you out of your reverie. Another candidate marches out of the legate's office with a swagger in his step – you have no doubt that he was given the posting that he was hoping for. You rise to your feet and brush off your uniform one last time, dusting off the black scales of your breastplate with your hands. When a distorted voice calls out your name over the intercom, you march into the office and leave behind the other hopefuls, who wait anxiously in their chairs.
The legate's quarters are surprisingly bleak. There are no decorations, no medals hung on the walls, no certificates or commendations put on display – just steely grey surfaces, unremarkable furniture and dull, sterile lighting. The man sat behind the desk is equally unimpressive, a thickset and doughy old soldier whose ridges have begun to sink into his wrinkles. However, his division strip and the shining seal of the Union emblazoned on his breast serve as evidence of his station, no matter how unimposing he might seem. Without hesitation, you salute.
“At ease, Deghilzin Tekan. Take a seat.” Without looking up from the console in his hands, Legate Karzek waves a hand dismissively in your direction. This is the most important day of your life, yet he can barely muster the enthusiasm to look at you.
“Yes, legate.” You struggle to hide your wounded pride as you take a seat opposite of him. This chair is possibly even more uncomfortable than the one you were waiting in outside. It almost feels as though you are violating yourself simply by sitting in it.
Your name is <span class="mu-s">Akal Tekan</span> and you are a proud son of Cardassia.
Your shining black hair is slicked back to display the prominent, tear-shaped ridge that sits in the centre of your forehead, along with the scaly cartilage that decorates your throat. Your slate grey skin glistens in the dim light of the vestibule while you wait in the austere comfort of a chair that would be better suited to a torture chamber. Objectively, you are a truly handsome specimen of your species but today, you will need to be more than that. Today, you will discover if you have proven yourself worthy of leading your people to victory.
You have spent the past two years of your life at the Akleen Military Academy, training to become an officer of the Guard. Like so many other young men, you have always dreamed of serving your people on the deck of a starship, where you will have the opportunity to slay the enemies of Cardassia and seize virgin worlds in the name of the Union. If you have proven yourself worthy, you might even get the opportunity to captain a vessel of your own – to become a gul.
The hiss of an opening door snaps you out of your reverie. Another candidate marches out of the legate's office with a swagger in his step – you have no doubt that he was given the posting that he was hoping for. You rise to your feet and brush off your uniform one last time, dusting off the black scales of your breastplate with your hands. When a distorted voice calls out your name over the intercom, you march into the office and leave behind the other hopefuls, who wait anxiously in their chairs.
The legate's quarters are surprisingly bleak. There are no decorations, no medals hung on the walls, no certificates or commendations put on display – just steely grey surfaces, unremarkable furniture and dull, sterile lighting. The man sat behind the desk is equally unimpressive, a thickset and doughy old soldier whose ridges have begun to sink into his wrinkles. However, his division strip and the shining seal of the Union emblazoned on his breast serve as evidence of his station, no matter how unimposing he might seem. Without hesitation, you salute.
“At ease, Deghilzin Tekan. Take a seat.” Without looking up from the console in his hands, Legate Karzek waves a hand dismissively in your direction. This is the most important day of your life, yet he can barely muster the enthusiasm to look at you.
“Yes, legate.” You struggle to hide your wounded pride as you take a seat opposite of him. This chair is possibly even more uncomfortable than the one you were waiting in outside. It almost feels as though you are violating yourself simply by sitting in it.
