<html><head><meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=utf-8"></head><body style="word-wrap: break-word; -webkit-nbsp-mode: space; line-break: after-white-space;" class=""><span style="font-family: georgia, serif;" class="">Mission: Lights, Camera….Action?</span><br style="font-family: georgia, serif;" class=""><span style="font-family: georgia, serif;" class="">Day: 1</span><br style="font-family: georgia, serif;" class=""><span style="font-family: georgia, serif;" class="">Stardate: 2446.01.01/2025.06.30</span><br style="font-family: georgia, serif;" class=""><br style="font-family: georgia, serif;" class=""><font face="georgia, serif" class="">(Toronto, Canada - Oliver Bader-Pagitt’s Penthouse - aACMO Ensign SG Heinrich Kruze/Oliver Bader-Pagitt -0937)</font><div class=""><font face="georgia, serif" class=""><br class=""></font></div><div class=""><font face="Georgia" class="">A repetitive beeping sound disturbed Heinrich’s slumber. He was still feeling the effects of the New Years Eve party the night before and was in no mood to get up out of bed. The beeping stopped, but started up again. Seeing no way around the distressing disturbance Heinrich lifted up the covers and looked to his night stand. There was an iPhone, much like the ones made in the early 20th century. The text on the screen said “The Beast.” But Heinrich was more bothered by the lockscreen image, which portrayed him in a state of undress on a stage beside what appeared to be a horse. “What is this, another one of Billy’s pranks?” He muttered to himself as he reached for the phone and swiped it open, holding it like a 23rd century communicator.</font></div><div class=""><font face="Georgia" class=""><br class=""></font></div><div class=""><font face="Georgia" class="">“Oliver! Where are you!?” A stern female voice shouted through the device. </font></div><div class=""><font face="Georgia" class=""><br class=""></font></div><div class=""><font face="Georgia" class="">The yelling did not help his hangover. “I’m sorry you must have the wrong phone.” Heinrich said, looking for a way to shut the thing off.</font></div><div class=""><font face="Georgia" class=""><br class=""></font></div><div class=""><font face="Georgia" class="">“No, I’m not falling for that one! Oliver, you were due at wardrobe a half hour ago.” </font></div><div class=""><font face="Georgia" class=""><br class=""></font></div><div class=""><font face="Georgia" class="">“Wardrobe?”</font></div><div class=""><font face="Georgia" class=""><br class=""></font></div><div class=""><font face="Georgia" class="">“Don’t play dumb with me Sherlock. Wardobe. Pinewood. Pronto.” Before Heinrich could say anything more The Beast hung up. He dropped the phone on the bed and laid back down. It was then he realized that this was not his bed. It was far too large, a king sized bed, with more pillows than he’d ever know what to do with. The bedroom was also far larger than his officer’s quarters, with a high and ornate ceiling. Turning to his right he saw what looked to be a large window with the curtains closed. Curious, he slowly got out of bed and approached the curtains. </font></div><div class=""><font face="Georgia" class=""><br class=""></font></div><div class=""><font face="Georgia" class="">“Computer, turn on windows.” He said. Nothing. “Huh, guess it’s analog.” He looked around for some mechanism to operate the curtains. He found a small rope and pulled down. The curtains opened to reveal the Toronto skyline. He must have been near the top floor of the skyrise. But it was then he realized he had no clothes on, so he closed the curtains back. “Better find some clothes…” he muttered to himself. He looked around and saw an old oak drawer. Searching through he found what he took to be appropriate. Plaid pants, yellow suspenders, a shirt that said “I ❤️ New York”, and a canary blazer. </font></div><div class=""><font face="Georgia" class=""><br class=""></font></div><div class=""><font face="Georgia" class="">He looked into the mirror and was rather impressed with himself. “I have no idea what any of this is about,” he said to himself, “but lately that hasn’t been anything new.” Whatever was going on, he was going to take it in stride. He remembered from his studies that people used to feel naked without a handheld device on them. So he picked up his iPhone. He remembered one of the earliest digital assistants was called “Siri.” </font></div><div class=""><font face="Georgia" class=""><br class=""></font></div><div class=""><font face="Georgia" class="">“Hey Siri,” he said. The phone came to life. “What’s a Pinewood?” The phone produced Pinewood Studios there in Toronto. “I guess that’s where I’m expected.” </font></div><div class=""><font face="Georgia" class=""><br class=""></font></div><div class=""><font face="Georgia" class="">He put the phone in his pocket and walked toward the door. “Open.” He said as he walked face first into the closed door.</font></div><div class=""><font face="Georgia" class=""><br class=""></font></div><div class=""><font face="Georgia" class="">(Reply none)</font></div><div class=""><font face="Georgia" class="">(Posted by Tim)</font></div></body></html>