<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 class="" style="font-family: georgia, serif;">Mission: Lights, Camera….Action?</span><br class="" style="font-family: georgia, serif;"><span class="" style="font-family: georgia, serif;">Day: 1</span><br class="" style="font-family: georgia, serif;"><span class="" style="font-family: georgia, serif;">Stardate: 2446.01.01/2025.06.30</span><br class="" style="font-family: georgia, serif;"><br class="" style="font-family: georgia, serif;"><font face="georgia, serif" class="">(Toronto, Canada - York Suites, Ground floor- aACMO Ensign SG Heinrich Kruze/Oliver Bader-Pagitt -1002)</font><div class=""><font face="georgia, serif" class=""><br class=""></font></div><div class=""><font face="georgia, serif" class="">“Computer, open door.” Heinrich said as the elevator reached the ground floor. The door opened, regardless of his command, and he stepped into the lobby. The room was magnificent with high golden ceilings held up with white Corinthian columns. Scores of people walked along the polished granite floor, all better dressed than Heinrich. He had never seen such a decadent room before. On Alpha 5 architecture was about efficiency and use, in Toronto it seemed opulence was key. </font></div><div class=""><font face="georgia, serif" class=""><br class=""></font></div><div class=""><font face="georgia, serif" class="">As he approached the help desk he saw the attendants stiffen up, as if they had dealt with Heinrich before and were not keen on dealing with him again. “Good morning,” he said. He looked at their maroon uniforms and saw they had name tags. “Oh! You have your names on your shirts! How convenient!”</font></div><div class=""><font face="georgia, serif" class=""><br class=""></font></div><div class=""><font face="georgia, serif" class="">“Yes, Mr. Bader-Pagitt. It’s standard issue. What can I do for you sir?” </font></div><div class=""><font face="georgia, serif" class=""><br class=""></font></div><div class=""><font face="georgia, serif" class="">“Ah, Ms… Kelly, I was wondering how I might get to the Pinewood. I am needed there.”</font></div><div class=""><font face="georgia, serif" class=""><br class=""></font></div><div class=""><font face="georgia, serif" class="">“Would that be Pinewood Studios?”</font></div><div class=""><font face="georgia, serif" class=""><br class=""></font></div><div class=""><font face="georgia, serif" class="">“Yes ma’am.” The attendant sighed. “We can have a shuttle for you right away, sir. And we’ll make sure to get Dennis for you.”</font></div><div class=""><font face="georgia, serif" class=""><br class=""></font></div><div class=""><font face="georgia, serif" class="">“Dennis? Who’s Dennis?” Heinrich asked.</font></div><div class=""><font face="georgia, serif" class=""><br class=""></font></div><div class=""><font face="georgia, serif" class="">“Dennis, you know? I believe you called him the only driver worth a shit?”</font></div><div class=""><font face="georgia, serif" class=""><br class=""></font></div><div class=""><font face="georgia, serif" class="">Heinrich laughed at the ridiculousness of it all. “I suppose I did. I’ll wait here.” Heinrich looked around and saw a red velvet sofa on the opposite wall. There was no one else sitting on it, but there was a newspaper on the coffee table. He sat down to read the newspaper, hoping it might provide some clues. It was the Globe and Mail, the Canadian paper of record. The date was June 30th 2025. ~Well, that helps make some sense of things.~ He thought to himself. The top story was about a reactionary separatist group based in Kingston that had been kidnapping celebrities and politicians. Prime Minister Ben Mulroney had resolved to do everything in his power to stop the insurgents. Climate politics made up much of the news, which he expected given what he knew of the history. He put the newspaper down and picked up a TV trade magazine. Thumbing through its pages he was shocked to find a picture of himself and the rest of the crew. The title was “Star Trek Exeter” with the lede “Tristan Steele takes Star Trek where no show has gone before.” </font></div><div class=""><font face="georgia, serif" class=""><br class=""></font></div><div class=""><font face="georgia, serif" class="">~Who is Tristan Steele? What is this?~ He thought to himself. Before he could start reading the article the attendant called him over. “Dennis is ready for you.” She said.</font></div><div class=""><font face="georgia, serif" class=""><br class=""></font></div><div class=""><font face="georgia, serif" class="">Heinrich kept the magazine and walked up to the door. He stopped, knowing what happened the last time he approached a door, but was pleasantly surprised to see it open without any command from him. The chauffeur, who he assumed was Dennis, opened the door of the silver limo for him as he got in. </font></div><div class=""><font face="georgia, serif" class=""><br class=""></font></div><div class=""><font face="georgia, serif" class="">“Pinewood studios?” Dennis asked.</font></div><div class=""><font face="georgia, serif" class=""><br class=""></font></div><div class=""><font face="georgia, serif" class="">“I think so.” Heinrich said. Dennis only nodded as Heinrich climbed in. He closed the door.</font></div><div class=""><font face="georgia, serif" class=""><br class=""></font></div><div class=""><font face="georgia, serif" class="">(Reply none)</font></div><div class=""><font face="georgia, serif" class="">(Posted by Tim)</font></div><div class=""><font face="georgia, serif" class=""><br class=""></font></div><div class=""><font face="georgia, serif" class=""><br class=""></font></div></body></html>