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Alleran Tan

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Alleran Tan last won the day on October 23 2014

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About Alleran Tan

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    Lieutenant Spottyface
  • Birthday 09/26/1984

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    USS Avandar
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    Darwin, Australia
  1. Voting closes Sunday, November 11th, 2012 at 23:59 PM. This round of voting only qualifies one sim to move on to the next round of judging. REMEMBER: This is NOT a popularity contest. Vote based on MERIT, not the fact that someone is your crewmate. Any crews found “stuffing the ballots” or ratings, will be disqualified PERMANENTLY. Yes, that means the whole crew!
  2. Alleran Tan


    "Adequate" Haven III During the Gorn War It happened so fast. My blood poured onto the sand of Haven III, green and vivid and coppery, flowing from the burned stump where, seconds earlier, my hand had been. Another Gorn disrupter blast flew over my head, then another, little green beams in the twilight. My team hit the ground with the trained precision of Starfleet Marines. I fell with them, trying to spot where the deadly beams of light were coming from. "It's an ambush. Contact right, six hundred metres, four foot mobiles concealed behind dunes." As an afterthought, I added, "Medic." "SERVAN! Servan's hit, he's hit!" Her voice. Katelynn Evans. Pure Louisianan accent, now thick with panic. Illogical panic. I assessed my tactical situation; we were in a depression between two sand dunes, which made egress to either side extremely difficult. If we moved backward, we would have no cover and our attackers would enfilade us. It was easy to hit a target moving toward or away from you. A green blast struck the meagre cover shielding me from death, the sizzle of evaporated sand filling my sensitive nostrils. "Remain in a prone position!" I called over the sound of further disrupter fire, trying to staunch the bleeding with my remaining hand. My phaser was too far away to reach and impossible to operate with one hand. Preserving my lifeblood was the optimal course of action. I heard the chirp of a combadge followed by Evans's southern drawl. "Marine Captain Evans to USS Carl Sagan, request emergency transport; lock on to First Lieutenant Servan's combadge and transport him directly to sickbay!" Twin whines of fire from behind me and two crimson lances flew through the night, impacting some target I couldn't see behind cover. I heard swearing, which indicated Evans had missed. "You hang tight, you dang pointy eared [...], we're going to get you out of here. We're going to get- contact left!" Two more shots. Suddenly we were exposed from our flank, too. This was an extremely disadvantageous tactical position. "Negative on the emergency transport," came a response through Evans's combadge, difficult to hear over the sound of exchanged energy weapon fire. "Can't lower our shields." "Fine! I'll get him myself! X'xxar, gimme that coagulant charge!" My eyebrows flew up and I dared to poke my head above the tiny ridge that was keeping me alive. "Captain Evans! I request you remain in a prone position!" A shadow, familiar and Human, clad in a Starfleet uniform, ran towards me through the gloom, highlighted on both sides by lurid green flashes, like the fingers of some giant trying to catch her and squeeze the life out of her. Marine Captain Evans crashed onto the ground beside me, panting wildly, her hands grasping my uniform. "Where are you hit? Show me where you're hit!" She hadn't been hit, somehow. I felt the beginnings of the insidious tempting tendril of emotion creeping into my mind. Relief for this fact. Worry that she had exposed herself to a statistically disadvantageous course of action. Concern for her well-being. My wound was extremely painful so my ability to shield myself from the pry-bar of emotional instability was reduced. "Hand." I held up the stump. I saw her face, illuminated by the weapons exchange, a mask of horror and shock. "Okay. You can't stay here." She propped her phaser rifle against the dune, firing at distant shadows. "I'm going to carry you out so we can get that little boo-boo treated. Ready?" Taking stock of our precarious position I shook my head. "Negative. That is a tactically unsound decision. We should wait for orbital support." "There ain't no orbital support." Evans fired again. I swallowed, glancing down at the growing pool of green blood seeping into the hungry sand. "Then I must remain here. I... require you to not endanger yourself unnecessarily." She turned, staring at me, confusion painted on her face. "What? What does that even mean?" I grit my teeth, feeling another wave of pain couple with a light-headed feeling. There was a high probability my blood-loss was affecting my ability to control my emotions but I couldn't stop myself from saying what came next. "I need you to remain physically unharmed. I need... you." Feelings. Emotions, worming their way into my head. Evans stared at me in confusion. "What? I..." I reached out with my remaining hand, placing it on her shoulder. "You are..." I struggled to find the right word. "... adequate." A low, confused laugh. "My, you really know how to charm a girl." She lined up another shot, firing into the darkness. "Your timing sucks, too, by the way." "My linguistics capabilities are not relevant at this juncture, and while I may not be articulating myself at the optimum chronological and temporal placement I understand that-" Her lips pressed to mine and, suddenly, the raging combat around me disappeared. I felt like I was being transported away and, for a moment, I thought that the Carl Sagan had come through for me. But the kiss ended and the battle reappeared like a paused holoprogram. "Time to go." She threw her rifle down and, with a groan, hoisted me up. I was too weak from blood loss and shock from the surge of emotions to offer much resistance, although I wanted to. I felt my body being upended and thrown over her shoulder. Then all I could see was sand as she ran through the night, back towards our lines. My vision swam and, slowly, I felt my consciousness slip away. ***** Later... I recognised the light from sickbay before I even opened my eyes, the faint red glow around my vision being too bright to be anything else. "Wake-y wake-y," came Katelynn's voice. "You made it, big guy." I opened my eyes and, just as I predicted, found myself staring at the ceiling of the Carl Sagan's sickbay. "How long have I been unconscious?" "A few hours," she answered, "we fought off the Gorn and made our way to a cave network south of the dune sea. Finally we got a beamout. Doc' T'arr gave you one of them fancy prosthetics, and you'll be good as new in a few days." I shifted uncomfortably, raising my right arm. There, on the end of my arm, was a perfectly functional hand. I gave the fingers a controlled squeeze to test the functionality -- it was like nothing had ever happened. "This is adequate work." "There's that word again." Katelynn crouched down by my biobed, resting her chin against the side. "You remember?" I remembered. I remembered the invading feeling of emotions creeping into my normally disciplined mind. I remembered feeling weak, saying things I wouldn't -- couldn't -- normally say. I remembered liking it. I didn't say anything and Katelynn smiled weakly. "Does this mean you're going to 'request I remain in a prone position' later?" I blinked. "I do not understand." She laughed, patting my side. "Of course you don't." Her smile became strangely impish and she leaned in, her face close to mine, whispering into my ear. "I'll show you later."
  3. Voting closes Sunday, September 30th, 2012 at 23:59 PM. This round of voting only qualifies one sim to move on to the next round of judging. REMEMBER: This is NOT a popularity contest. Vote based on MERIT, not the fact that someone is your crewmate. Any crews found “stuffing the ballots” or ratings, will be disqualified PERMANENTLY. Yes, that means the whole crew!
  4. Voting closes Sunday, September 2nd, 2012. This round of voting only qualifies one sim to move on to the next round of judging. REMEMBER: This is NOT a popularity contest. Vote based on MERIT, not the fact that someone is your crewmate. Any crews found “stuffing the ballots” or ratings, will be disqualified PERMANENTLY. Yes, that means the whole crew!
  5. Voting closes Sunday, August 19th, 2012 at 23:59 PM. This round of voting only qualifies one sim FROM ROUND 13 to move on to the next round of judging. With only a single nomination for Round 14, the winner for Round 14 is LTJG Lanius: "The Truth Hurts". REMEMBER: This is NOT a popularity contest. Vote based on MERIT, not the fact that someone is your crewmate. Any crews found “stuffing the ballots” or ratings, will be disqualified PERMANENTLY. Yes, that means the whole crew!
  6. Voting closes Sunday, August 5th, 2012 at 23:59 PM. This round of voting only qualifies one sim to move on to the next round of judging. REMEMBER: This is NOT a popularity contest. Vote based on MERIT, not the fact that someone is your crewmate. Any crews found “stuffing the ballots” or ratings, will be disqualified PERMANENTLY. Yes, that means the whole crew!
  7. Thanks for that! But, ah, I know I "signed" it as Tan, I just wanted to be clear that it wasn't Tan in the story. It was an unnamed Ferengi. I can amend the signature to make it clear who the point-of-view character, if people want?
  8. Despite the temptation to write 5,000 words... I think I got the right length for this kind of competition. I hope everyone likes the story, but there's sufficient time to fix it if there are problems; if there are typos, missing words, storyboard issues etc... lemme know via PM and I'll fix them ASAP. And hey Flt. Capt. Mar, long time no see. I see you hiding back there!
  9. Hi all, I hope you all enjoyed reading this story as much as I liked writing it! It was interesting to explore first person perspective, something we rarely get to do in UFOP: Starbase 118. I would like my entry entered into the Ongoing Worlds contest, in addition to the Starbase 118 competition. Cheers, Tan.
  10. Ethical Considerations Starbase 55, population 1,203 Stardate 239102.04 I was born on Ferenginar and, much like most Ferengi, I was raised with the principles of our species: a form of hyper-capitalist profit-seeking completely out of place with nearly every other warp-capable civilization in the Alpha quadrant. For all of my life this was all I cared about, a numbers game. How many bars, how many strips, how many slips. Credits and debits, stock options, negative gearing and dividend reinvestment. How small and pathetic all that seems to me now. My assimilation and subsequent "liberation" changed me. I'm not going to lie. My family thinks that I'm ill; my father successfully sued for my power of attorney while I "recovered", and he won because I didn't contest the ruling. I didn't care what happened to the small fortune I'd amassed over a lifetime. So, as a former drone still undergoing the process of having all my implants removed and any last traces of the DNA sequencing removed it may seem strange to say, but the Borg are not evil. They are merely amoral. During a period of Human history called the "Second World War", scientists who were part of one of the nation-states involved performed experiments on their fellow Humans. They immersed healthy individuals into freezing water, slowly lowering the temperature to gauge a Human's lowest survivable temperature. This research had a purely pragmatic, military application; to see if pilots who bailed out from their craft over freezing water would survive, to assess if a rescue was worth the effort. Retrieving corpses was not considered a priority to this particular group. The method used to obtain this knowledge was horrific and unethical, but it was accurate and meticulously documented. This research forms, even today, the basis of our knowledge of how hypothermia affects Humans. Yes, we have holograms and simulators and computers that can perform amazing feats, but there's no simulation that can perfectly match reality. We use simulations, but we always check that data against the experimental evidence. Some are unable to divorce the actor from the result when considering these things. To them the outcome of an experiment is forever tainted with the actions of immorality and that the ends never justifies the means. I disagree, though. Facts are not burdened with ethical considerations. Assimilation is painful, but life in the hive is actually remarkably pleasant. The Federation squawks about equality and egalitarianism being the ideals that it strives for but that's just a façade. People still judge. They still have greed, and ambitions, and are selfish; they still have their instincts and those instincts lead towards individualism and away from true collectivism. True community. Yesterday I went out of the starbase's sickbay for the first time and sat in the promenade, my body full of holes, the Borg implants not yet replaced with Federation issue prosthetics. I imagined I looked positively ghoulish, deliberately staring down passers-by and studying their reactions. Revulsion. Fear. Pity. The irony was it was I who pitied them. Today I went out again. The medical doctor, Vaughan, thought it best that I stay in the recovery ward, but I lied loudly and I lied proudly. I said was feeling well, I needed some air, I enjoyed the open space of the promenade. It worked. I didn't go straight to the promenade, though. Instead I found a public replimat and replicated a plain titanium casing, a low grade status field generator, a hypospray, a high band microwave emitter, a knife and a PADD. With no implants, no more active nanites flowing through my veins, physical communication with the Collective wasn't possible. The nanites in my blood had been neutralized by a high burst of gamma radiation. They were inert, unmoving and silent. But the primary, distinguishing feature of the Borg was their resiliency. Their adaptability. Some former drones report that the voice of the hive sometimes whispers to them in their weaker moments... that the Collective's voice is never, truly, stifled. I think the truth is more complex. Instead, the effect is entirely psychosomatic. The Collective holds no sway over ex-drones if they choose to reject its siren song. Yet, strangely, that subconscious voice sometimes whispers useful information. Medical information, scientific curiousities, obscure facts... suggestions. I took my replicated items and found an unused shopfront far from prying eyes. It was unlocked. I didn't question my good fortune, slipping into the dust covered lobby, gently laying each item out on a workbench. The hypospray extracted a thimbleful of my blood. I used the status field generator to create a thin invisible sheen over the inside of the titanium casing, then the blood was deposited inside. I coupled the microwave emitter to the PADD and used the device as a power source, listening as it hummed and bathed my exposed blood in energy, breathing power back into the nanites. Reviving them. With my crude device in hand, I moved back out into the promenade, took a quiet seat with a view of the crowd and used the knife to slice the tip of my finger. Surrounded by the hustle and bustle of the crowd I dipped it in the vial of my blood, frothing with invisible nanites, and waited for them to come back to life. For them to swim up into my finger and into my bloodstream, to transform me back into the drone I once was. Some might say that what I was doing was horribly unethical. I was voluntarily surrendering my will, yes, and that might be arguably my own choice but the Borg that I would become would force others to surrender theirs... and I knew that it would. That whisper in the back of my mind told me that when I turned, this station's defenses were weak. There was no way they could stop me. This crowd of judgemental, individualistic simpletons would, in a matter of hours, all be Borg. I knew my choice was not their choice. I accepted this fully; yes, I was doing a terrible thing and I didn't expect that anyone to, really, understand why. Not really. I was sure in the years to come my actions would be widely analysed. Studied, in a clinical sense, to try and find out why I did what I did. They'll come up with complex answers: Stockholm syndrome, latent neurasthenic breakdown due to the radiation treatment, or an extreme cry for help. Some would call me a monster. Sick, twisted, ill... or outright evil. But the fact of the matter is I was helping these people unify and become something better. Move to the next level. Evolve as a society towards true harmony. And facts are not burdened with ethical considerations. End ----- Lt. Commander Alleran Tan Operations USS Avandar
  11. ((USS Avandar – Ready Room)) T’Lea: Captain, a moment please? :: At Della's somewhat wry nod, T’Lea waited for everyone to exit, and for the door to close before breaking her stiff Vulcan stance. The entire meeting she’d been teasing the Trill telepathically, so it came as no surprise to her lucky victim when she sauntered over a mere foot away.:: T’Lea: Hmm… :: She eyed the gap between them as a problem, and quickly rectified it by hooking an arm around the Trill and pulling her flush in a very un-officerly snuggle, cheerfully ignoring the somewhat indignant squawk that provoked.:: T’Lea: That’s better. How’s your shoulder? :: With a little sound of frustration, Della managed to put a tiny bit of distance between them, and was privately impressed with *that* much, given how much stronger the Romu-vulc was.:: :: There was also no reason to comment on the fact that she had taken a bit of time to summon up the will to make the move.:: Vetri: It's fine. Though some other parts of someone might get damaged in the near future... ::smiling softly:: What's brought this on? T’Lea: Well, since we manage to frak up our relationship so often with these frelling work related boundaries, I thought we’d try mixing business with pleasure. See if that works better. :: Neuropressure point initiated to help smooth over the idea.:: Vetri: Hmmm.... I might appreciate some more of that... ::a little firmer:: Later. T’Lea: I can do later. Now then, I spoke with Lt. sh’Shar. She’ll be undergoing a sobriety program- :: Close and cuddly shifted into a curious lean-back when Della’s hand discovered something hard under T’Lea’s jacket. The Romu-vulc simply smiled.:: Vetri: What the frell is that? Are you hiding a bomb in there or something? T’Lea: Unzip me and find out. :: Playfully spoken, T’Lea’s hands came to a rest on the Trill’s low back, refusing to let the Trill go, but she also gave the other woman enough room to unfasten the jacket and reach inside her breast pocket.:: :: Inside was the confiscated flask from sh’Shar’s quarters, which earned the Romu-vulc a medium-withering glare as Della held it up by the neck.:: Vetri: Keeping this one for later, are we? :: Embrace broken, exactly as T’Lea thought might happen. Getting the Trill a little riled up was perfect, so said her smile.:: T’Lea: No, actually, it’s for you. I took a couple of security guards to Mikali’s quarters and we removed all of her jolly juice. :: Scooping the Trill back into her arms she got cozy again, nuzzling at her neck.:: T’Lea: That one I couldn’t toss. Romulan Ale. Put it with the rest of my stuff, and maybe one day when I’ve been an *exceptionally* good girl you’ll share it with me? Vetri: Maybe. But I wouldnnnmmmmm.... ::banging the flask down on the desk:: *Stop* that! So sh'Shar's dry now, huh? Good, but I doubt you stopped there. T’Lea: She’s pulling extra duty shifts, and *surprise*, I found out she has a daughter, which turns out may be a related issue to the drinking. Vetri: She's...? Hang on, I think I remember that from her file... ::frowning:: Didn't see anything about the little one's current status, though. T’Lea: She’s somewhere. Not sure where exactly, but the dumb Andorian has it in her head that the child is better off without her mother. :: A thoughtful expression on her face, Della gave up trying to get free of T'Lea's hold and settled instead for tapping her fingers on one arm as she considered what she'd just been told.:: Vetri: Sometimes true, but mostly a cop-out. And I'm more than a little sure you agree. So what did you threaten her with? :: Quite deliberately phrased, that one. She *did* know her mate, after all.:: T’Lea: I left the ball in her fort. ::knit brow:: Court? Whatever. If she wants to bring her aboard, I offered to help make it happen. ::getting a little serious:: I don’t understand how she can just walk away from her own flesh and blood. I’d destroy all creation to keep T’Sara with me. ::frowning at herself:: That’s not really logical, is it? If I destroy the universe, then we’d have nowhere to live. ::shaking her head:: You get what I mean. Vetri: ::chuckling:: Just about. And I'm right there with you. :: After her apparent surrender to T'Lea's hold, she gave another quick try to get free - which got about as far as every other one. The weak struggling just made T’Lea enjoy the closeness that much more.:: Vetri: ::muttering:: Dammit... ::louder:: You got more to pile on her, or are you lulling her into a sense of paranoid anticipation? T’Lea: No, that’s pretty much it. For now. Oh, and York took the last shuttle out. Extended leave. What do you think? Vetri: ::shrugging:: About time. She needs it. T’Lea: ::nuzzle, nuzzle:: Not that, what do you think of my brilliant idea about mixing business with pleasure? :: This time, Della managed to summon up a reaction in less than ten seconds, planting a finger right in the middle of T'Lea's chest and pushing hard.:: Vetri: Your timing sucks. Put me down and go make someone else's life difficult for a while. :: Her stern tone was totally at odds with the smile on her lips. The *timing* could have been better, but the sentiment was definitely appreciated.:: :: Backing off, but leaving her hands on the Trill’s hips, T’Lea struck an officer’s stance.:: T’Lea: Yes, Ma’am. But first you need to zip me back up. ::off her look:: You’re the one who *un*-zipped me. So zip me. Unless you want me to exit onto the bridge looking like you had your way with me. Which… I think we might have time for-- Vetri: Stop right there. If at *all* possible, now would be a good time to find a different track for your mind to run along, you lecherous loon. :: T'Lea's sum total response was to nod down at her open uniform jacket.:: T’Lea: Zip. Zip. :: Rolling her eyes, Della did as she was told, if only to get back on track as fast as possible. The process of refastening the jacket was done with little regard at all for any sort of delicacy, but the way her hands smoothed the fabric down when she finished was an very different story – a story that T’Lea wouldn’t mind being told over and over again….:: Vetri: There. Now go away. :: Lifting an eyebrow she dipped her head slightly, ready to tempt the Trill some more.:: T'Lea: Are you certain you’re done with the pleasure part of our business, because I can- Vetri: Lilyali, if I can still see you in three seconds, I will cheerfully toss you out. Your uniform, however, will be staying here. T'Lea: I think you got that backwards. Vetri: ::laughing:: You wish. :: Picking up the flask from the desk and examining it, she turned thoughtful again. All this talk of family and mothers and such had sparked an idea, and it seemed... appropriate, especially given the heritage shared by half of her girls.:: Vetri: I think I'll do some viinerine tonight. :: T’Lea stopped at the door before she triggered it open, and turned with a feeling of warmth… more innocent than previously felt.:: T’Lea: ::heartfelt:: I’d like that very much. :: Heading for the door with a sly grin.:: T’Lea: Especially if you don’t burn it. Vetri: ::laughing as she pointed to the door:: Go. Away. TBC -------------------- Captain Della Vetri Commanding Officer USS Avandar http://wiki.starbase118.net/wiki/index.php?title=Vetri,_Della "Understanding is a three edged sword - your side, their side, and the truth." & Lt. Cmdr. T’Lea First Officer USS Avandar
  12. Voting closes Wednesday, July 8th, 2012 at 23:59 PM. This round of voting only qualifies one sim to move on to the next round of judging. REMEMBER: This is NOT a popularity contest. Vote based on MERIT, not the fact that someone is your crewmate. Any crews found “stuffing the ballots” or ratings, will be disqualified PERMANENTLY. Yes, that means the whole crew!
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