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Mon May 15th, 2023 @ 11:25am

Lieutenant Ramat'iklan

Name Ramat'iklan

Position Medical Officer

Rank Lieutenant

Character Information

Gender Male
Species Jem'hadar Vanguard
Age 19


Personal History Ramat did not have a good start in life - well, subject to individual opinion of course. ‘Born’ into Jem’hadar company Tau-9 - a company most known for being sent on suicide missions (read: cannon fodder of cannon fodder), suffice to say that he, along with his ‘brothers’ were already slated to not live for very long. Even as he walked the ship, he could hear his brothers whisper among themselves over their fate. So much put into fighting for the Founders, so many soldiers lost unnecessarily, nothing returned to them. Why were they fighting for gods that may or may not exist?

Just five months of life after he'd survived to the age of three, Ramat found himself right in the middle of one such incident. Having freshly stamped out a rebellion in the Psi Orionis Cluster, the company’s attack craft was limping back to friendly territory, shields heavily damaged and hull nearly breaching from the strain of making it back alone. By then the craft was crewed by only twenty Jem’hadar - their Vorta supervisor had been killed in the attack, leaving their First to bring them home. They did not expect to be ambushed along the way by even more rebels, hoping to at least make a statement to their Changeling oppressors. In usual Jem’hadar fashion their First engaged the enemy vessels in combat - normally, the attack craft would have been enough to dispatch them all, but in its heavily damaged state, its weapons and engines were offlined in combat, sending it spiraling down towards a planet just shy of the Bajoran wormhole. With no means of righting itself, the vessel had just enough time to eject its warp core before crashing into a mountainside with the loss of all hands…

...except one. Clambering out of the wreckage, bloodied, heavily injured and with several broken bones, Ramat surveyed his surroundings. It was just as well that he’d been in the attack craft’s storage bay at the time, and gotten trapped between supply crates. Yes, supply crates. Jem’hadar ships had been forced to carry those ever since their soldiers had acquired the need to eat and sleep in lieu of ketracel. By some miracle they’d protected him from any extraneous harm. Now was not the time to worry, though - he needed to stay alive until help came. Somehow. Using what few medical supplies that hadn't been destroyed in the crash to patch himself up and whatever food that had survived the impact, he used the mangled wreck of the attack craft as a camp of sorts, awaiting rescue.

A day turned into two. Two became five. Five became a week. No help came. And the waiting itself? Ramat came to describe it as simple hell in his later years. He drifted in and out of consciousness often as he waited, slumped against a wall. Though he was able to deal with his surface wounds, his internal wounds continued to afflict him. A Jem'hadar does not fear pain or injury - except this pain was all-consuming, almost. It hurt to move, it hurt to breathe and it hurt to think. He sometimes found it difficult to ascertain whether he still had his faculties or not. This was pain that robbed him of his purpose, his sense of self as a soldier - and he hated it. Intensely.

At the end of the week, he found himself in a forest clearing, staring up at the stars while curled up in foetal position. By now his supplies had run out, and he was hungry, thirsty and, strangely enough, he felt ready to die. Alone, away from the eyes of his people and his gods. Oh well, at least they wouldn't get to see him die in such dishonor. As his eyes fluttered closed for what he thought might be the last time, his last vision was of a distant star that seemed to streak across the sky and stop above him, and his last sensation the feeling of weightlessness. So this was death…

...except it wasn't. The next thing he remembered was the blinding white of a ceiling lamp shining right in his face, a hard surface that was definitely not soft grass and soil against his back, beings clad in white shuffling around and… voices, muffled by his disoriented state. The pain had vanished. Was this Heaven? Surely not. He hadn't departed the world honorably, had he? As it turned out, he'd been rescued by the crew of the Jupiter-class USS Hyperborea, which had been fortunate enough to have been in the area on the final day of the week following a diplomatic mission, and was currently resting in sickbay - any longer and he would have actually died and gone to Heaven, he was told. Probably not the last one. In fact he was lucky to not have departed for the afterlife during the crash. Normally he might've fought back, struggled perhaps, wanted to escape - but at the moment actual sleepiness overtook him and off he was, back into a dreamless sleep.

The days that followed for him to recover were like a blur to him. Sleep, wake up, eat what was given, sleep, sleep some more… which he once again hated. He wanted to get back into the field - to fight. After a week and a half (thanks to the accelerated metabolism he was blessed with), he was up and about, albeit still largely closed off and distrustful. Nonetheless, they could not keep him aboard forever, and eventually the time came to send him home. He was brought to the bridge, safe and sound - and seeing the Founder waiting to talk to him on the viewscreen was like having a holy revelation. He couldn't wait to return home and tell his brothers that he'd seen a Founder with his own two eyes. What would you do, seeing the face of God for yourself? He naïvely expected the Founder to be glad to see him, to be glad that her servant was safe and that he would be collected in the next few days and taken home…

...except that wasn't quite how things turned out. As it turned out the Changeling didn't recognize him out of the millions that served the Great Link. He was just another solid in their service. As far as she was concerned, this was a waste of her time, compared to the 'matter of importance' that had been couched to her by the ship's captain. Or, formerly. Dismayed, shocked and angry (you might be too if your own god waved you off like you were insignificant), he snapped at the Changeling, declaring that he'd rather stay with the crew who rescued him instead - which sealed his fate. The Changeling scoffed, declared him an exile on the spot and promptly severed the communications link. There would be no further discussion to be had.

Ramat was crushed, put lightly. Denounced and cast out by his gods and trapped in Federation space - and now without a home to return to. Wonderful. Just wonderful. He spent the next three days in the guest quarters assigned to him moping, depressed and generally not in the best of moods, refusing to admit visitors - which weren't many. Eventually, however, he hit upon a realization. He could never forget what it felt like - the pain deep in his bones and very being, the numbness, the loss of orientation… he did not fear death or injury, but he feared that which diminished him, made him unable to fulfill his purpose.

That week of hell was exactly that. No one, not Jem'hadar, not human and not any other species needed to experience that. he needed - no, wanted - to join the very people who'd given him back his life: the good medical staff who'd given their time and effort to his recovery, and so he brought his intentions to the counsellor assigned to him, and in turn the captain of the Hyperborea.

Captain Azalea Hopps herself truthfully felt that he was in over his head. For what it was worth, she wasn't sure if he had the patience or skill to make it at all. "Give me a chance," he argued, "Let me prove you wrong."

He was then asked about his reasoning - to which he stated, "I don't need to win a battle on the front lines to show the Founders and my people that I am worthy. Medicine is a battle, is it not? Battling to save lives? My victories shall be earned on this front - and I shall reclaim my life by helping others to reclaim theirs. Let my brethren and the gods themselves mock me. I will wipe the laughter off their faces."

Now suitably impressed, give him a chance she decided to do, and wrote him his recommendation letter for entrance into Starfleet Academy. Upon reaching the Alpha Quadrant at last, he was moved onto Deep Space Nine, where he spent the next six months studying for the Starfleet Academy entrance exam. He quite frankly viewed the process as unnecessarily laborious, but his grievances were kept internalized. This was a necessary step to the goal he had in his sights; he hadn't let rabid Hur'q swarms or phaser-wielding rebels stop him before and he'd be damned if a few hours of poring over harmless books did.

Living on Deep Space Nine was pleasant overall. Adapting to life there was difficult at first - he wasn't very receptive to the visitors who initially came to say hello and welcome him to the station and so they eventually left him alone. He would be something of a shut-in, rarely leaving his quarters to explore the station, spending most of his time studying (often forgetting to eat or sleep in the process). When he did he tended to spend time alone in quiet spaces, usually with study materials in hand. He never visited the bar known as Quark's (why do people it so funny to risk damage to their organs and sometimes their surroundings and peers for the sake of relaxation anyway?), and found himself often patronizing the Klingon restaurant on the Promenade on these occasional jaunts.

He did eventually make an effort to socialize, however, encouraged by the station's commanding officer, who stated that it would be beneficial to him as a medical officer and beyond. Possessing very little in the way of conversational skills, he often found himself tongue-tied when it came to common topics such as his day and his thoughts on living on the station. The residents of Deep Space Nine were nothing but persistent, though, and after much effort, frustration and some measure of yelling, managed to get him up to a somewhat acceptable level. He remains in contact with some of them to this day.

At the end of those six months, it was finally time for his entrance exam. Suffice to say he turned many heads as he walked into the test venue along with many of his Academy hopefuls. Of course, stories of the first reasonably successful Jem'hadar officer had already gone around, but one that further subverted the norms currently known to the species to such an extent was thus far unheard of… and their jaws dropped further upon finding out that he outperformed a good many candidates in his passing score.

His first day of class went as one might expect. Though his classmates included one Klingon, a people already not commonly seen in the field, it came as a shock to his professor and classmates to see among their number a people who supposedly held life in such low regard studying to preserve it. Even as he dutifully took notes and listened to his professor for the duration of the lesson, he could not help but feel their eyes on him. Unsurprising, considering how drastic a change this was for the accepted species norm. Not that he cared. He'd earned his place here and he was damn well going to use it well.

His Academy tenure went by reasonably well, all things considered. He acquired a reputation for being blunt and abrasive and favoring directness - typical Jem’hadar candor, of course. Possessing little tact or anything else in the way of bedside manner (the need for the latter in the first place baffles him), When not studying in his quarters, he would spend time using combat programs on the Academy’s recreational holodeck on the hardest setting - and then complaining that they were too easy for him. It was definitely better than paying for the Ferengi-owned holosuites on Deep Space Nine, though.

The other aspects of being a full-fledged person took him months more to figure out - and even then he was only with a limited understanding of each aspect. With the help of some of his classmates he found out that he favored dark-colored clothing that kept him warm, at least, which colors exactly he did not seem to care about. Also among his discoveries was a dislike for cherries and dragonfruit as well as a taste for curries and the like. Why exactly any of these were his preferences, he did not know. They just… seemed right, for lack of any better explanation.

At the encouraging of both the Academy commandant, he also delved into some of the clubs and activity groups on campus, theater (which he failed miserably at - it turned out that he had the acting chops of a cement brick, and even those act better by sitting still and doing absolutely nothing), martial arts (which he was thrown out of for being a little too enthusiastic) and boxing (which he was again thrown out of for being too enthusiastic) among them.

His relations with his classmates remained largely stiff, though he made attempts to try and socialize. He thought of them as his fellow soldiers in training and as such tried to learn as much as he could about them (if only for the purpose of being able to function more effectively as a ‘unit’ with them) - which didn’t exactly earn him what he sought after. If anything his habit of silently observing them like a hawk or being absolutely blunt with his questions put them off even more, and sadly his conversational skills weren't quite up to snatch either - at least, not yet. This being said they did eventually get along, albeit not without much work on his psrt.

He was not satisfied with staying in a sickbay, though, he wanted to stay close to where he thrived - and that was the field of battle. In addition to his studies, he also took up training to be a field medic, where he could do what he did best… while doing what he was supposed to do best. Initial test scenarios were somewhat difficult for him to adjust to (it had to be explained to him that one did not first bludgeon their enemies with their medical kit before commencing treatment, even though the carry case was made of hard material and would certainly cause serious injuries if swung hard enough at someone's head), but he gradually rose to the top of the class in training scenarios for having no fear of charging straight into danger and yanking the injured to safety, where his classmates would sometimes panic. Having no fear of horrible death certainly seemed to help. He wound up as the course valedictorian, receiving a ribbon from the course chairperson for the same.

But, as with most good things, of course there were strings attached. Upon hearing that he was about to embark on this next step in his life, the Dominion wanted to place him under careful watch. After all, he could betray information that they did not want to fall into the hands of the Federation - to which the Federation agreed. Better that than risk ties deteriorating any further than they already had in the latter's eyes. Of course, the logical choice was the current Dominion ambassador to the Federation herself. Suffice to say that Ramat found, and continues to find, her just as insufferable as the Founder who made him an exile.

Out of the Academy, he was posted to the Titan-class U.S.S. Camelot. Here he certainly felt welcomed, at any rate - the staff of the ship’s sickbay were only too eager to help him adjust and so were his other crewmates.
He found his tenure aboard thereafter to be pleasant though boring. He often spent his days in Sickbay treating sick and injured crew members; a task he considered somewhat mundane. Despite this one of the things he became infamous for doing was working long shifts - he would sometimes take 15-hour shifts without hesitation, not noticing or simply ignoring that he was growing tired. Not that he really had anything else to do with himself save train or work. Needless to say he was chided for the same; his mission was to learn from the crew too, and he couldn't do that locked up in sickbay all day or tired. On said orders he would occasionally wander out and explore - in such situations he would sometimes encounter the occasional crew member who seemed all too eager to interrogate him about his choice of career and usually immediately gush over how he was a groundbreaker, how he was so bravely subverting stereo- blah blah blah… at some point he stopped listening and caring. Didn't people know when someone had heard enough of something? Regardless he would proudly tell them of his intentions and reasoning - which often proved to be a decent enough talking point, and earned him the respect of the majority of his crewmates.

Of course, there were the 'bad eggs' too; crew who jeered at him for donning Medical white. A Jem'hadar's place is on the battlefield, they said, not in Sickbay! He let them comment as they liked. Let them laugh. He would prove them wrong sooner or later.

Things took a turn for the better during a confrontation one day. The Camelot was adrift in space, heavily damaged and largely unable to fly. Klingon boarding parties were swarming the ship deck by deck - and sickbay was accordingly overflowing with victims of the ensuing assault. When the Klingons did finally reach sickbay, for a brief second they were shocked to see a Jem’hadar, the Dominion’s renowned supersoldiers, in Medical white and turquoise. Surely there was a mistake? Had the Federation finally gone insane? They certainly didn't expect Ramat to put down the dermal regenerator in his hand and make short work of the boarding party, sustaining several disruptor wounds and a bat'leth slash wound to the cheek in the process, and promptly go back to work after being treated. All who bore witness that day, including his colleagues, were stunned to say the least. And here they were (well, for some of them) thinking that he’d lost his teeth and claws to get where he was.

From that day onwards, at least, Ramat could feel that his crewmates regarded him with the faintest bit more respect than they normally did - and possibly fear. At the very least, the crew members who’d doubted him before had stopped whispering behind his back. Though the path he walked was certainly unconventional, he was a warrior at his core in their eyes. He received several apologies, in fact, which he accepted.

Eventually even the Camelot became somewhat… boring. Being assigned to a ship put on border patrol at the Klingon/Federation neutral zone only ever gave one so much to not expect after all. He came to know of the Phoenix and her sterling reputation through a crewmate - and he was pleased to see that she was looking for more medical officers, especially ahead of the trouble the ship always seemed to run across in its extensive adventures. Perfect. Just what he wanted in a career - and so he requested a transfer to the vessel.

He did not expect to spend the few months aboard the Phoenix aboard a proverbial rollercoaster, making friends and more, nearly endangering his own career and even being captured by Iconians and held on a prison planet and de-aged to just a few hours old. It was a whirlwind of events, but a very agreeable whirlwind indeed. It was also during this period that he would be released from his obligation to the Founders, which he found most pleasing indeed.

Of course, all things had to end at some point - he was soon transferred away to the USS Bradford in order to assist with ground relief efforts on Midas IV - a Federation colony hit hard by Iconian ground campaigns. Serving there meant evacuating civilians while fighting off the remainder of Iconian herald troops and treating them often under harsh field conditions, nothing he'd never seen before really but still time-consuming and often exhausting even for him.

Thankfully the mission only lasted for a short while; with the assistance of the Bradford's crew the colony was able to rebuild and handle the remainder of the civilian casualties within a few months, and he was thereafter transferred away to the USS Montauban, where he would remain for the next few years before being transferred to Starfleet One.
Service Record 2416-2418: Cadet doctor, USS Merlion (Rotational training)
2418: Graduated from Starfleet Academy, assigned to the USS Camelot
2418-2424: Medical Officer/Combat Medic, USS Camelot
2424-2427: Medical Officer/Combat Medic, USS Phoenix
2427: Medical Officer/Combat Medic, USS Bradford (Temporary assignment)
2427-2432: Medical Officer/Combat Medic, USS Montauban

Other achievements/commendations:
Best Trainee, Starfleet Medical Basic Combat Medic Course
Best Trainee, Starfleet Medical Advanced Combat Medic Course