Subject: Grail: "The Great Brightness" - Private Demons

Roak crawled forward on his belly, a millimeter at a time, Bajoran fire ants

feasting on his flesh. He had traveled exactly 5 meters in the past hour. His

eyes were constantly on the move, looking not for suspicious shapes, but

suspicious movement. The surrounding vegetation was thin, but sufficient to

conceal a cautious sniper.

The morning sun was quickly rising, adding further misery to the already warm

and humid conditions. Beads of sweat were dripping past J'hon's sweat-soaked

headband, and the unreliable heat-sinks on his Ghilla suit labored to mask him

from the Cardassian thermal imagers. Every few minutes, a soft chime would

sound in his earpiece, warning him that a millimeter-wave radar had just washed

over his position.

He had spent the past night like this, creeping ever closer to his final hide

on the exposed side of Hill #665. Sometime around midnight he had crested the

hill, silhouetted for several heart-pounding moments. But he had passed unseen,

and was almost in position for the defining kill of his career. A shot at the

most hated Cardassian in the system. Gul Dukat, the Butcher of Bajor.

Below Hill #665 lay the Pu'tal Firebase, a Cardassian stronghold that had razed

the surrounding countryside with disrupter cannons and pulse mortars. The

firebase was virtually invincible, with layers of defenses, interlocking lanes

of fire, and powerful sensor fields that detected the slightest movement. But

Pu'tal was not the target of J'hon's mission. Bajoran intelligence had paid a

steep price to learn that Gul Dukat himself was going to pay a visit to the

besieged fortification. He would arrive by transporter, beaming to a secure

location deep within the bowels of the firebase. However, he would surely

emerge at some point to look over the defenses first hand. And that was when

J'hon would strike. One shot. One kill.

The Denkirk Devil finally reached his position and hunkered down even further.

With infinite care he brought his rifle into position and tucked it against his

cheek. He peered through the sight and looked over the firebase. Cardassian

sentries walked the perimeter, disrupter rifles held casually, confident that no

Bajoran could get close enough for a clean shot at them. After all, Pu'tal was

ringed with a new sensor perimeter straight from Mother Cardassia. Surely no

Bajoran rodent could escape its notice.

Heavy weapons emplacements were scattered around the perimeter, ready to turn a

Bajoran assault into a massacre. In the center of the firebase were the

reinforced bunkers, topped with sensor dishes that swept the skies and the

surrounding terrain. Armored vehicles squatted behind their earthwork

embankments, their main guns trained outward.

J'hon sighted in his scope and settled in for a long wait. He powered up his

rail gun, listening to the slight hum of the coils, the comforting sound of

whispering death. He kept watch over the firebase, occasionally closing his

eyes for a moment, resting them, keeping them fresh for the single shot he would

get. The only shot he would need.

Suddenly, there was a flurry of movement. A group of Cardassians walked out of

the main bunker, rifles at the ready, watching the perimeter closely. A knot of

high-ranking officers exited the building, pausing in the open. J'hon

instinctively knew his target. The other officers jostled around the tallest,

jockeying for his attention and approval. The base commander gestured broadly

toward the defenses, no doubt bragging about the crippling hold the firebase

exerted over the troubled region. After Pu'tal's reign of terror, the last of

the Bajoran resistance would be just another part of the charred landscape.

J'hon tried to bracket Dukat in his sights, a nearly impossible feat due to the

great distance involved, close to 2,000 meters, and the entourage constantly

shifting around the target. Granted, the super-hardened Berillium slug from his

rifle would punch through any number of bodies, but he needed to ensure a clean

head-shot, since he would only get one chance.

The Denkirk Devil was in "the zone", the very picture of unblinking intensity.

His entire awareness was focused on a single point -- Gul Dukat's head. His

body was set in an equipose, a natural position that allowed him to breath

normally, but stay anchored to the ground. He took one last breath and held it,

his entire body locked in suspended animation. It seemed as if even his heart

had stopped beating. Time stood still. And he squeezed the trigger.

The rifle bucked as the hypersonic slug ripped through the air, crossing the

distance between sniper and target long before the sound of its passage reached

any ear. J'hon fought the recoil, trying to bring the scope back on target and

reacquire.

The sonic boom rolled across the firebase, the screech of the deadly slug

sounding like the tearing of fabric. A pair of officers tumbled through the

air, victims of the deadly projectile. Gul Dukat grasped his head in pain,

stanching the blood from the grazing shot that had kissed his forehead. Alarms

began blaring and the surviving officers grabbed the dazed Gul, shoving him

behind cover.

The rail gun whined, building up juice for a second shot that would never

happen. J'hon closed his eyes and bowed his head. "For the love of the

Prophets!" he screamed into the ground. He knew what would happen next. A

disrupter field, concealed in the hillside, was automatically engaged. J'hon

was frozen in place, his hands clawing at the air, and his face frozen in a

rictus of pain. The welcoming peace of unconsciousness ended the agony.

---------------------------------------------------

J'hon awoke in his favorite nightmare. He was strapped naked to a table in a

dark room. Bruises covered his body, the only memory of the beating he had

sustained while unconscious. A single shaft of light shown down at his eyes

with dazzling intensity. He was about to relive an episode of his life that no

sane person could comprehend. A personal hell so horrifying, that no masochist

could wish it upon his most hated enemy.

A voice echoed out of the darkness. "So we finally have the infamous Denkirk

Devil. The assassin responsible for the death of nearly one hundred Cardassian

soldiers. Any last words, Scum?"

J'hon's voice was steady, but his heart was knotted in abject fear. "It's one

hundred and seven. Do your worse, Cardassian." The word, Cardassian, was

spoken with the venom of a lifetime of utter hatred.

Gul Dukat leaned into the shaft of light, his gauntlet clamped on the chin of

the Bajoran, preventing him from speaking or spitting.

The Cardassian's rich voice struck a chord of terror in the prisoner. A terror

that had been well learned. "Oh, I assure you, we will." Pure malice flashed

in Dukat's eyes. A bandage covered the injury to his head. "Terrorism is a

capital offense. Murder is a capital offense. Angering me is a capital

offense. But in this case . . . I believe I will exercise a degree of mercy.

You. Shall. Live." Dukat punctuated each word with a brutal open-handed

strike, intentionally pummeling areas already covered with bruises. J'hon

gasped in pain, immobilized by the tight straps that held him fast.

The Gul stepped back into the shadows and addressed some unseen person. "I

want him to suffer," he whispered cruelly, "for a long, long time." With those

final words, Dukat left, never to be seen by J'hon again.

Lt. Roak had only missed one target in his entire career as a sniper. Gul

Dukat. The man who went on to ravage Bajor for many more years after this

encounter. J'hon's failure had perhaps been responsible for the deaths of

untold thousands of Bajorans. He would never forgive himself. He could never

forgive himself. The only escape lay in doing the impossible. Reliving that

fateful mission, and accomplishing the objective. Until that happened, the

demons of the dead would not allow J'hon to rest. Dukat had to die.

So, Lt. Roak again found himself on a holodeck, trapped in a program of his own

creation. Offering penance for a sin he could never escape.

J'hon squeezed his eyes closed. "May the Prophets walk with us." He took a

deep breath, fighting down the feeling of dread that seized him in an icy grip.

Controlling his breathing, he allowed his consciousness to slip into a hidden

corner of his mind. "Computer, disengage safety protocols, authorization Roak -

Lamda - Four - Nine - Nine - Zero."

The Chief Inquisitor laughed scornfully. "Let's see your Prophets help you

know, Bajoran."

The air was rent with a whistling crack as a barbed whip licked at the bottom

of J'hon's feet. His back arched and a gasp of pain escaped his lips.

------------------------------------------------

J'hon staggered out of the holodeck, a robe tied around his otherwise naked

form. His hair was matted against his head, and blood dripped from every limb.

He leaned against the wall for support as he limped down the hall, leaving a

trail of bloody footprints behind him. The crew members who passed him stopped

and stared in horror at the bloody apparition that shambled by. He looked

straight ahead, ignoring the inquisitive looks and offers of help. He alone had

to bear his private shame.

After a brief ride on a turbolift, and a walk of a hundred meters that felt

like a trek of a hundred kilometers, J'hon entered his quarters, collapsing on

the ground in exhaustion and pain. He knew his injuries were largely

superficial, the holodeck program had ended before any lasting disabilities had

taken place, but it would be a while before he was completely recovered from his

ordeal. As always, the physical injuries might heal, but the mental agony could

only continue.

J'hon lay on the floor for over an hour, recovering his strength, and plotting

how next time he would successfully complete the mission. Perhaps a varied

firing position. A more cautious shot selection. Or a different ammo type.

Somehow, he would have to succeed. For the betterment of Bajor. And a respite

from the nightmares.

The ship's computer suddenly spoke. "Lt. Roak, this is the appointment

reminder you requested. The ship's officer staff meeting is taking place in

ten minutes."

"Aw, hell." J'hon levered himself to his feet and moved to clean himself up.

He had just enough time to make himself presentable.

Lt. J'hon Roak

Omega Company Commander