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Sakorra Jefferson Reed

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Sakorra Jefferson Reed last won the day on April 18 2013

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About Sakorra Jefferson Reed

  • Rank
    Life is a Gift
  • Birthday 10/25/1975

Fleet information

  • Current Vessel
    StarBase 118 Operations
  • Current Post
    Strategic Operations

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  • Location
    Colorado
  • Interests
    creative writing, literature, lack of debt

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  1. Is it ironic that I don't like the desert?

  2. I like that. I often feel like an outcast, even among my own family. It hurts when I feel like I'm not liked, and I have to remember that I have beliefs that don't line up with theirs. I have things about me that they hate, and I'm constantly worried about stepping on toes or being diplomatic. But why? Why can't I just be me? If they don't like it, who cares? They aren't trying to not step on my toes or be diplomatic, either. Seeking true wisdom, searching out information. I always thought I'd go the way of intelligence, but I got into a rut. Perhaps, I should go that way again. That way, if people say they hate me, I can just say, "Ok, at least I'm smarter than you." But maybe that seems condescendingly stuck up?
  3. And that's what I get for not being fully awake. I'm going to pretend that "due" is a fancy spelling for "do" and not an entirely different word.
  4. The sigh passed swiftly and softly over the vast gray bulkheads. The Akira-class vessel listed sideways, her body torn open. A black starlit sky mercilessly ripped tiny hands clutching at her, and she cried out, a moan ripping through her core. Eileen sagged. Twin plumes of fire billowed and rolled, welcoming her tiny charge into its arms, and she felt a surge of power tremble through her torpedo tubes, eager for a small recompense. Energy pulsed through her veins. Eileen heaved her warp nacelles forward without success. Too much internal bleeding. Her bio-neural gel packs dripped slickly over deck tiers. “It’s not a good day to die, Eileen,” said Steven, patting her tactical console awkwardly. “I just upgraded your systems.” Eileen saw him glance at the communications officer. His name was Sutok, Eileen remembered. He was never gentle, not like her Lyla. But she still did not wish to see the green staining his uniform. His console sparked against his face. Lyla made a gentle sweep of fingers over her master systems display down in engineering. “Come on, old girl.” Lyla wiped a streak of sweat from her brow as it threatened to spill into her eyes. Her hand drew away blood. Eileen’s pulse quickened and then slowed, the thrums of her heart beating in quick slow ebbs. Lyla was her best friend. And she was hurt. Eileen couldn’t lose her, she couldn’t! Lyla pressed her hand hard on the console, her head falling forward and one of her shoulder blades sticking out sharply from a tear in her yellow and gray uniform. “Jack, I don’t think she’s going to make it.” It was Lyla’s breath catching and then the momentary throat clearing that roused Eileen. She knew Lyla. The woman was choking back a cry. “Casualties, Lieutenant?” Jack’s voice was hard. That was good. There was no defeat in this man. Her dear friend paused. It wasn’t that Lyla had to think. She knew the numbers. Eileen watched her close her eyes and bite her lip so hard she drew blood, her hands fisted against the console. “Fifteen, sir.” The answering silence pierced Eileen. She felt cold and empty and allowed herself only a moment of hopelessness to seep into her pathways. “All hands, this is the captain…” Her circuits simmered and hissed, igniting her phaser banks. “Abandon sh--.” Threads of fire cut through the nacelles of the massive vessel towering over her smaller form. The beast trembled and groaned. Eileen trilled a happy chorus of chuckles straight from her auxiliary power core. “Whoa, what was that?” Steven yelled, whooping, triumph and smoke crackling against his vocal chords. Eileen’s hummed. She wasn’t about to let Lyla or Jack down. Not even Steven, though he was one of the orneriest tactical officers she’d ever known, always making dry quips about the strength of her weapons. We’ll just see what he says now. But in all honestly, Steven had also been the most caring of her banks and tubes of any tactical officer with whom she’d served. He’d never let any green ensign slack off in her offensive upkeep. Eileen sighed again, life support struggling to maintain minimum levels. Her circuits popped and sizzled, remembering Samara of the little hands ripped from her only moments ago, sucked out into space. Samara who had drawn on her decks as a child. Samara who had failed her first entrance exam to the academy. If not for that, she wouldn’t have even been on Eileen. She would have been in San Francisco, not dead against the stars. Fourteen years that child had been nestled in the womb of her bulkheads. Stubborn child had probably been trying to help. She had one quantum left. Eileen tilted and trembled, not yet completely blackened in battle. The scorching blaze of the enemy had yet to fully snuff her gleaming surfaces. She was not about to go down without a fight. She sheltered precious cargo. And not one more would fall on her watch. The torpedo burst forward, careening from the launch tube of the feisty Akira-class vessel. It hurtled towards the core, the weak underbelly of the hulking ship, goring through the metal plating. The enemy craft blazed bright; belching fire and ice, sulfur and carbon dioxide as it tumbled into the gravity of the planetary body. Eileen ascended higher, now a giantess watching her foe shrink. “She did it,” said Jack, grinning in shock as he leaned forward. He shook his head in disbelief, watching the downed brute of a ship spin, breaking up in the atmosphere. He patted the arm of the captain’s chair gently. Eileen breathed softly, reveling in the loving gesture. “Looks bad for a captain to doubt his own ship, ya know,” Steven drawled. “I mean, I know the old girl isn’t exactly the most talented in that department, but give me some credit for spiffing up her lacking systems.” And he had the gall to sound affronted. Hmmmph! Eileen shimmied a bit, sparking a tiny surge of power, right up through the tactical console. “Yeooww! Son of a…,” Steven began, catching his captain’s frown. “…tribble,” he finished, sucking on his singed fingers. The Akira-class vessel chuckled softly, her attention turning to Lyla as the young engineering officer fluttered a worried brow, her fingers flying over the master console that was already beginning to translate commands into gestures that soothed Eileen’s scorched conduits. “I’m sorry I doubted you, my friend,” she said. Her smile was genuine, though sad. “I should have known you wouldn’t go down easy.” No. She never would. She was the USS Eileen, NCC 63559. And at least this once she agreed with Steven. Well, there was a first for everything. Today was not a good day to die. Eileen fired up her engines, determined to make it back to base on her own steam. It would not due for Steven to be spreading it around that she had to be towed back. Lt. Sakorra Reed COS USS Drake
  5. But isn't that exactly what your signing on to when you agree to marry anyone in a military service even in this day and age. I'm not saying being faithful would be easy in that situation but marriage isn't about convenience. Just another side note on this point, in the case of deep space missions wouldn't it be possible to have your spouse posted on the same ship as yourself. Just as you would take your family aboard with you depending on the ship and captain's preference. Gotta agree with you there, Arden. In sickness and in health. In good times and in bad. But yes, you should be able to request assignments together and be assigned as long as there are positions to fill that fit both members. When you get married, you are making a covenant and effectively binding yourself to that other person. It's not something that you should be able to end easily or that you should want to end easily, in my opinion. I had a couple of friends in the military together who were married, and they served together and were transferred together, as well.
  6. Loving these. Last one is my favorite, as well. Yeah, don't like the stripe either. I'm guessing that by this time, new variations on technology, uniforms, etc., would be very cool. A lot of the technology on the new Star Trek seems more advanced than even on our latest Next Generation movie. New uniforms would be a good start.
  7. Agreed. Being that I don't really believe in the possibility of a utopian future, at least from a Star Trek concept, I would definitely love to see a grittier Star Trek. I want to see war and disease and planet-wide evacuations. I want to see floating hospitals and refuge colonies. I want to see more hand to hand combat, and I would really love to stop seeing every species in outfits that aren't that varied from one another. How come we've never seen a species that wears tutus with combat boots? JK. It would be nice to see clothing, buildings, etc. that fall more into the lines of what we tend to sim sometimes than what we see on the television or movies.
  8. I think it's a way to have marriage without the responsibility, love as a verb, and oneness that is supposed to come along with it. Unfortunately. Call me old-fashioned. Thank you.
  9. Right? And after the requested alotment of time, you can just say you want a divorce because the honeymoon phase is over, reality set in, and you realized marriage is HARD!
  10. (( Main Bridge, USS CRAZY HORSE)) :: Having received a distress call from the USS PROSPERO, their former adversary in a simulated war game, everything on the Bridge suddenly took a serious turn. The over-confident air vanished into a flurry of professionalism. :: Rocar: Ensign Obsidian, disengage all modified beams. Obsidian: Aye, Sir bringing weapons systems to full ready, might I also recommend Red or at least Yellow alert at this point? Rocar: Indeed, yellow alert and make it clear that this is no longer a drill. :: The tall Ktarian sat and watched the nebula ahead of them. 2 seconds passed. Beat. :: Rocar: Mr. Rogg Maximum Shields. Rogg: response Rocar: Helm, follow the warp signature. Moon: response Rocar: Any sign of the Prospero yet? Readdy: Negative. It's as though they cloaked somehow! I think something has developed inside that nebula. :: From the back of the Bridge the Commanding Officer was informed that the warp trail had stopped ahead of them.:: Rocar: Cut all engines, bring us to a standstill. :: Everyone waited with baited breath as an enthusiastic looking blue collared officer appeared in the centre of the Bridge carrying his suitcases.:: Fatuus: Admiral, sir. This might not exactly be proper timing given the circumstances... Ensign Ignis Fatuus, reporting for duty. :: The Admiral watched with a bemused jovial smile as the Ensign placed down his luggage on the floor so he could salute. Rocar tried to remember if he'd ever seen someone bring their suitcases to the Bridge before.:: Rocar: No need to salute Ensign we're not in the Kzinti marine corps… someone ought to have met you in the transporter room and taken your baggage to your quarters Mr. Fatuus. Fatuus: Perhaps the war-game prevented that, no matter. I will find a place for these until I receive word of where my quarters are. This will by no means interfere with my duties. Rocar: You can stick them in my ready room for now so as to assume your post until the crisis is over. :: Although not a telepath, Rocar was a former Federation diplomat and thought the new officer's smile to be somewhat suspect. :: Fatuus: Very generous of you, thank you. ::glancing at the main viewer and the officers at ops, helm and tactical.:: Tell me... are we winning? Rocar: The war-game has rather taken a turn for the more serious…simulation is over and we're on a genuine yellow alert. Fatuus: response Rocar: We've responded to a distress call from our vessel and… ::The Admiral cut himself abruptly short as Ensign Obsidian raised his voice from the tactical console.:: Obsidian: Admiral, the Prospero :: Usually the Commanding Officer would have signalled for Obsidian to hail them but the old Miranda class' movements were irregular. He'd been wearing a red collar on the Bridge of Starships long enough to know what was about to happen and it was almost as if a sixth sense brought the older flag officer standing-up onto his feet. His mouth felt dry and his mind blankly silent but decades of training seemed to still bring words out in a calm, steady and clearly audible voice…:: Rocar: Helm full reverse; Ensign Rogg give me full power to frontal shields. :: The Ktarian felt his stomach clench violently as the USS PROSPERO carelessly tumbled towards them, flames now flickering over her hull as her bulkheads ripped open under the force of the explosions. Even if the transporter room could get a lock on the 6 away team members then he'd have to lower shields and that would put the other hundreds of lives under his command in direct risk. It was a tough choice to take but really there was no choice at all as the Commanding Officer left the away team to their death and ensured the CRAZY HORSE's crew remained save behind shields. Antimatter met matter and anyone looking at Admiral Rocar would have seen his face squirm in pain.:: Rocar: (whispered almost silently under his breath) Great Birds of the Galaxy :: Two sharp, green catlike eyes pierced out to the viewscreen in front. Most people could now see fire torn pieces of hull being scattered as dust and debris as the PROSPERO erupted into a fireball and the CRAZY HORSE's red alert rang out, however, Rocar barely saw any of it… instead the smiling faces of Ventu, Reed, Ramirez, Reynolds, West and Webb all flashing by through his head. :: (((Flashback))) :: Rocar handed a much younger looking Lily Ventu her reassignment orders for the USS CONSTITUTION and told her about his former First Officer Captain Taboo :: (((Flashback))) :: Reed sat in his office on Starbase 118 and looked at a holoportrait of his twins Xan and Cheliz as they settled down to discuss the joys of parenthood with a smile.:: (((Flashback))) :: A young Ktarian in a blue collar towered over an adolescent version of Cyrus Webb and ran a tricorder over the Betazoid's brain :: (((Flashback))) :: Rocar stood scowling as he reprimanded Ramirez for what was always the Lieutenant's "the final chance" (((Flashback))) :: Rocar sat at his desk on long range communications with the commanding officer of the USS STEADFAST as the young commanding officer spoke enthusiastically about Major Heath West. :: (((Flashback)) :: A Lieutenant sat in Rocar's office trying (but failing completely) to keep her eyes off the piano that occupied a portion of his office. She'd always had to make do with roll-up, portable versions and holographic facsimiles... None of which were quite the same as the real thing, no matter how much technology advanced.:: Rocar: I realise that's a slightly unusual thing for a Captain to keep in his office but it helps me clear my mind when things get hectic and there's decisions to be made. ::He hit a couple of random notes as he walked passed it to the replicator.:: Reynolds: It has a lovely sound. Rocar: Yes, do you play? ::Lieutenant Reynolds had paused for a second. It was something she didn't usually tell people; her musical inclination. Quinn liked having something that was just hers, that she didn't have to share. But then again, very few people ever asked and the last one that had... Well, she missed being able to share with a fellow musician.:: Reynolds: ...Actually, I do. ::A hint of colour crept back onto her cheeks at the admission.:: Though not usually in front of anyone. (((End Flashback))) :: His stomach churning, Rocar brought his attention back to the present and the Main Bridge that had fallen to total silence. :: TBC… Rear Admiral Rocar Drawoh Commanding Officer Starbase 118
  11. (( Space, the Final Frontier )) ::The crew had gone and the Prospero had been tossed aside by an alien civilisation that for once, perhaps truly embodied the meaning of the word alien. Alone, she tumbled through the nebula on a careless trajectory. With no one to stop it, fire took hold in her innards. Flames licked up bulkheads and through conduits, explosions feeding the inferno, systems failing in a cascade of vibrant colours. Alarms screamed in vain, begging for an answer, until they too were silenced by the blaze. ::The gases parted like liquid gold washing over the hull when she finally emerged from the nebula. Not forward, but sideways, the top of her saucer section came into view first. Languidly, she continued to roll, at first appearing no different to how she looked when her new crew had come aboard... Until the roll brought her underbelly into view. Blackened and eviscerated by weapons fire, multi-coloured flames blossomed out from the hull before being snuffed out by vacuum. Bulkheads ripped open by explosions and twisted by tractors reached out into space like claws grasping for some kind of salvation. ::One final alarm cried out in a futile protest. The lifeblood of the ship, the pulse of her heart, could not longer be contained. Antimatter met matter. The raw fury of annihilation violently burned through the core of her being. In a matter of moments, she was consumed by fire and torn to pieces, and when the flames had died, the only traces of her presence were the dust and debris speeding toward the stars.:: -- USS Prospero RIP
  12. ((Crazyhorse Corridor)) ::He chimed at her quarters, nervously shifting back and force. Pace away, pace back. No response, so he chimed again. Paced away. Paced back. A third chime.:: SHELA: Alright, already. Come in. ::The door slid open, and he came face to face with Petty Officer SHELA, clad in a white bathrobe with a towel wrapped around her hair.:: SHELA: Hello, Ash. What is it? ASH: You're ... you're gorgeous. SHELA: Goodbye, Ash. ::She stepped away and let the door slide shut; Ash caught it with his hand, stopping the door from closing.:: ASH: No, that's ... that's not what I'm here for. I'm sorry. I just ... can you... SHELA: Hang on a minute. ::She snatched some clothes from her bed and vanished into her bathroom.:: What is it? ::Ash stepped into the room tentatively:: ASH: You... well, you remember the mission to Ergelon VII, getting plant samples? And Yon found the eggs, so we brought them as samples as well? SHELA: Of course. ::She came back into the room brushing out her hair, now dressed in her uniform.:: ASH: And you wanted to keep a few of the eggs to see what sort they were? Maybe.. .maybe have one as a pet? SHELA: Right. But we didn't, since that would violate Starfleet regulations. ASH: Right. We, well, didn't ... ::he wrung his hands.:: SHELA: ... Ash, we DIDN'T, right? You didn't keep any, did you? ASH: Well, I wouldn't ... that is to say ... maybe? Yes, I did. ::She closed her eyes, slipping down into a chair.:: SHELA: Did they hatch? ASH: Yes. SHELA: Okay. This isn't TOO bad. We can dispose of them properly, get someone from science to take a look at them, something. What do they look like? ASH: Well... well... that's problem number two. SHELA: You HAVE them, don't you? ASH: Not as such. They... well, there's no sign of them, just eggshell. SHELA: They're loose? You brought ...contraband creatures onto the ship and now they're loose? ASH: That's the short of it. ::He sat down heavily, his face in his hands:: What am I going to do? SHELA: You need to tell the Captain. ASH: I can't tell the Captain! I'll get court-martialed. A dishonourable discharge. SHELA: Okay ... just let me think. ... ::she stood up, pacing back and forth across her room.:: We need to find them first. Before someone else does. ASH: Right. SHELA: We just need an excuse to scan the ship.... what did you do with the eggshell? ASH: Nothing... what should I do? SHELA: You need to make sure no one can tie this to you. So yes, get rid of the eggshell. With your breakfast. Unless it's nowhere near your quarters. ASH: It's under my bed. SHELA: Then now is the time to learn to vacuum. Don't worry, Ash. We'll get you through this. No one even has to know. -- PO Ash and Shela
  13. ((Corridor)) ::Kyros made it part way back to his quarters .... well. Back in the direction that he assumed his quarters were, as far as he could tell. Midway, he came across someone watching a news broadcast on one of the hallway panels. He stopped for a moment out of curiosity.:: MARG: Askade Cha'par was murdered on the Federation Starbase 118, on stage in the middle of a performance after an explosion of the plasma conduits that fed the pyrotechnics. Two Starfleet Officers were caught backstage, moments after they had activated the device that caused the explosion. ::The image changed, showing two starfleet officers. One he recognized instantly -- the knave who had assaulted his lady-love at the dinner. And ... a skinny waif of a girl who seemed oddly familiar, in some way. Not conventionally beautiful, but there was a vulnerability to her that played very strongly to his chivalrous instincts.:: Man: I can't believe it. They've captured my love... ::the somewhat portly man shook his head:: Gideon: Thou dost care for her? Man: No, no no no ... him. ::he gently stroked Ram's face on the panel.:: Look how brave his is. And his singing voice -- he's an angel made flesh. ::he sighed:: Gideon: Ahhh.... ::He watched for a moment, trying to work out the details -- he had known the knave was up to something, but had not expected murder. Obviously his thimble-brained lover (for why else would such a one as she been along with him?) had come with him and had not been party to the events in question... but shared equal measure in the blame.:: Gideon: Hold a moment. The events in question didst take place this very day? At the theatre? Man: Yes, it's not ... huh. ::he watched as Kyros ran off down the hall, back to the turbolifts; then turned his attention back to the panel:: Don't worry, my sweet. Someone will save you .... somehow.... ::a single tear ran down his left cheek:: ((Opera House)) Gideon: I am telling thee. I hast information on the attack ... ::Reed glanced sharply at Webb and then at the officer. :: Reed: Let him through, please. ::Kyros took a deep breath, and stepped forward. He racked his mind for names.:: Gideon: M'lady Reed. M'lords Rocar. Webb. Brunsig. Reed: What do you know about the attack? Gideon: I know not of that which took place on stage after -- of that, only that which hast been displayed on the walls. Yet midway through the opera, I left mine seat early and found the lady Ventu under assault from five miscreants, who didst attempt her abduction. Their attempts thwarted, they didst flee and I didst follow. Webb: response Reed: What else can you tell us about them? Species, distinguishing marks or speech, any names mentioned? Gideon: Human, each, as I could see. Had I charcoal and parchment, I would sketch for thee what I remember, but I suspect the local ruffians. ::he closed his eyes for a moment in remembrance:: Hold a moment. When I found them again, 'twas a sixth among them. Tall, dark and ::he touched his forehead:: rigid. Anyone: response Gideon: I know not where I saw them last. The ways of this station are still unknown to me, and -- in all honesty, the sun of Mydjya didst provide the grounding to mine directional sense. It wast some time ago, so they are far beyond mine tracking skills by now. Anyone: response Gideon: Then what is it we are to do? -- Sir Kyros Gideon Knight-Errant
  14. ((Solok's Personal Quarters, USS Tiger)) Solok: Computer, begin personal message number 77-X-010-Alpha. ::The computer chirped acknowledgment. :: Solok: Major Reed ... Sakorra ... It is me. Solok. Your husband. ::Break.:: I communicate to you from my personal quarters aboard the USS Tiger, under the command of Captain Sidney Riley. I am uncertain what information pertaining to my new assignment you already possess, and ask pardon for any unnecessary repetition. I have been posted to the Tiger as Chief Medical Officer and, after my extended and officially unexplained absence from duty, have been reassigned at the rank of Lieutenant. None of this should be unknown to you, however, as logic dictates one remain aware of the location and status of those to whom one is ... contracted. As we are. Computer, pause recording. ::The computer chirped while Solok briefly attempted to assess the many possible interpretations of the message he was recording. Sakorra was a Vulcan, but one raised among Terrans. She had studied the Vulcan mental disciplines, including the control of emotion -- studied them with Solok as her tutor, in fact -- but her mastery of them was incomplete, at best. She was prey to emotion in a way Solok could not understand, or predict. And this left his calculations woefully underinformed -- underinformed, and often inaccurate.:: Solok: Resume recording. ::Chirp.:: Solok: I trust you have used the time since last we spoke to the advantage of yourself and others, including Sabek, our son. No doubt your grandfather, Ambassador Satelk, has been a constructive influence on the both of you. He has made me aware of his concerns for Sabek's education, specifically with regard to his training in mental control. In the absence of any evidence disputing his claims, I admit to sharing his concern. ::Another brief pause, while Solok tried to word the next point as diplomatically as possible. Even the most logical Vulcan mother could become as ferocious as a le-matya in defense of her young, and Sakorra was far from the most logical daughter of Vulcan. Her attachment to Sabek was great, and was increasing each day -- illogically, given the demands of her profession. This was one of the reasons Solok thought it best to separate the two for a brief period, not to exceed ten or fifteen standard years. Both mother and son would be much improved, Solok thought, by achieving a state of personal detachment more characteristic of Surak's disciples. A state Solok had already achieved, with much effort.:: Solok: Ambassador Satelk and I discussed this matter thoroughly, and his flawless logic has persuaded me of the correctness of his conclusion -- that it is necessary for Sabek to be transported to Vulcan, where he can be educated in a manner in keeping with the traditions of his people. ::A long pause.:: Our people. The Ambassador has insured me that he will supervise Sabek's education personally, and take full responsibility for Sabek until he has successfully undertaken the kahs-wan. At which time, naturally, we would discuss the system of study most appropriate for a man of his specific talents. Ambassador Satelk has many interesting thoughts on this matter, as well, and I encourage you to afford him your attention in these matters. Familial obedience is a virtue to which Sabek would benefit from much exposure. ::He paused again, this time to conclude his message.:: Solok: The Tiger is likely to depart Deep Space 17 in the next twenty-four hours, and the opportunity for communication will undoubtedly be limited. Convey my greetings to Sabek che'Solok che'Spivak of Vulcan, our son. Live long and prosper. ::Break.:: Computer, end recording and transmit to Starbase 118. ::The computer chirped acknowledgment and sent the message. Solok, preparing for his nightly meditation, saw that while recording the message to his wife, a fleetwide announcement had come through -- somewhat delayed, he saw -- from Starbase 118. Looking through the various announcements, warnings, awards, and promotions, Solok's eyes focused on one name, a name that belonged to one of the few persons in Starfleet with whom the Vulcan had more than a professional relationship.:: Solok: Computer, begin personal message number 77-X-011-Beta. ::Chirp.:: I wish to communicate only that respect for your accomplishments recommended by Surak in his Second Analects. Although there is a possibility of 23.774 percent that the decision in favor of promotion was in error, and that the acknowledgment is undeserved, logic dictates that an officer such as myself trust in the decisions of his superiors when he has no reason to the contrary. ::Break.:: Congratulations, Commodore Rhys. ::He paused again, allowing just a hint of their old friendship to be recorded in the message.:: Quite satisfactorily done, Bejain. ::Solok looked briefly away, as if considering some other matter.:: Also, King's bishop takes King's knight's pawn. Check. ::No doubt, Rhys would find a way to evade Solok's attempt at capture. Illogical or not, he always did.:: Lieutenant Solok Chief Medical Officer USS Tiger
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