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Welp, there's two of them! Just kidding. 😁 Here's another amazing read from @Doz Finch. How dare you to leave us in suspense like that. ((The Apa Farm, Bajor)) The Apa Farm was a towering sage spectacle; fields upon fields of the curious crops stretched for miles in the middle of nowhere, bleached by their warm and life-giving sun and touched ever so gently by a breeze that dared not blow too hard for fear of disturbing the peace. The smell in the air was just as dreamy, just as invigorating, with bits of the green stuff floating within it in tiny speckles—no doubt distempering the walls of her lungs with its natural tinge. It was ironic therefore that the reason she had found herself out there alone was not to volunteer herself to the efforts of the local agriculture, or even to sample and procure a basket of the farm's freshest corn, but instead to return a mischief-making robotic dog that she had, only half accidentally, temporarily adopted. Apa: Remarkable. Finch: It is, isn’t it? Apa: And it was found where, again? Finch: Toppling tourists on Deep Space Nine! I wound up on a goosechase with this stranger who claimed he bought it from you. Apa: I see. And he left it with you? Finch: Forced it on me! He said he couldn’t cope with it anymore. Said it was the single worst investment he had ever made. I mean, if I’m being honest with you, it isn’t hard to see why. Apa: It isn’t? Finch: Well, you tell me! The robotic dog chased after its metallic tail at high speeds, circling on the spot with just enough momentum to suck in any wandering insects that happened to glide idly by. Its head was a simple square, and its eyes a vestigial remnant of what was once a set of eyes, now instead a muddied screen of stains and scratches—and a mechanical panting also emanated out of hidden speakers, almost gurgly, as if it had at some point in the past taken a deep dive into a local riverbed, as would any adventuring dog. In the distance, hovering over the fields, she could see a drone sprinkling water in precise lines, cylindrical and silent, and moving along a dirt path between crops further along was another machine, almost humanoid, brushing and clearing the ground beneath its wheels. A brilliant blend of glistering silvers, browns and greens. Apa: No… I suppose it isn’t. Finch: Returning it to you seemed the only right thing to do. Apa: ::Hesitantly:: You can't take him? Finch: I would if I could. But I’m a visiting Starfleet Officer. ::She looked down at the dog, biting her bottom lip in thought:: I think it would be better off here, on the farm, where it can run and really, you know, ::waving her arms:: be a dog! Apa: ::Scratching his head:: I see. As the three of them stood there, momentarily in silence with only the sounds of the benign winds tickling the tall stalks of the sage coloured crops, Doz did all she could to suppress another memory resurfacing. Try as she might, though, it had become immensely difficult not to dwell on the past. It was as if her mind had become a boundless filigree of memories; an endless spider's web that she, quite like a little vibrating bee, constantly found herself entangled in. She thanked god that most of her memories were, however, very joyous. Memories such as the image of Murphy’s infectious smile, and the fragmented echoes of his laugh irradiating her thoughts, brightening her eyes from within. Or the better days of her childhood, when her home was a jungle of machines and contraptions thrown together by her brothers who all believed they were going to be the next greatest inventor, even though half of their inventions spewed sparks and had the tendency to spiral out of control. She had only ever seen her friend Murphy cry once in all of the years that she had known him, and it had been when the robotic dog that she and he had helped to repair was unfairly seized by another officer, and destroyed. A cruel act by a cruel woman—Gepe Grasa. That was the memory she so carefully tried to ignore. Apa: Follow me, would you? Finch: Right you are. Come along, you! ::she said, clapping her hands to the robotic dog:: Apa: I’m not optimistic. It looks quite broken. I think it may be the end of the road for it, but we’ll see what can be done. Finch: I’m an engineer myself, so I’ll help you however I can. Apa: Oh, you won't be helping me. I’m just a farmer. It’s my friend who designs the robots and the machines—he’s on the other side of the house, in his little scrapyard. Finch: In his little scrapyard, eh? Sounds promising! Apa: Yes. ::A curious look on his face:: Come to think of it… you're quite alike. That “accent”... strange. As Apa walked around the outside of his farmhouse, made entirely of wood, and decorated with bits of reflective metal and mirror along its beige panels, coruscating under the brilliant light of the sun, Doz and the dog followed behind him, both with quick steps due to their shortness. She smiled at the sights that came into view as soon as they turned the corner; piles upon piles of steel and metal were scattered around a yard, as well as bits of dismantled machinery, bolts and tools, a roofless shuttle and a handful more of the hovering drone she had seen earlier on, some with busied arms and one, even more obscurely, with an umbrella fixed on top of it. A smile instantly filled her wrinkled face. It truly was a marvel. The Bajoran farmer stepped over a box of wires, and looked back to Doz with a nervous laugh, as the two of them approached a table, upon which a half-balding man wearing a welding helmet was hard at work, fusing together two components, his back to them both. Apa: We’ve got a visitor. The half-balding man didn’t respond, but continued on with his work. Apa: I said, ::poking the man in his back:: we have a visitor! The man instantly stopped and turned around, his voice muffled under his mask. Doz tried to contain a laugh. Apa: We can’t hear you, you old fool! W. Finch: ::Removing the mask:: I said, you shouldn’t sneak up on an old man like that! I’ll end up having a heart attack, and then you’ll be sorry. As if she had been winded, air rushed out of her mouth with a gasp, her body stumbling back a touch. It was impossible, improbable, and yet it was true. She squinted her eyes at him, her heart racing in her chest at the unlikely coincidence. It was her brother Wallace. TBC -- Ens. Doz Finch Engineering Officer USS Gorkon

@Quinn Reynolds Just because this is an awesome read. ((Holodeck, USS Gorkon)) A ribbon of crystal water weaved through rolling hills which stretched toward the horizon, finally flowing into sea waters which glittered in the sun like liquid sapphire. Ancient trees reached for the sky, their lush boughs swaying in a summer breeze. Flowers bloomed among the long grasses, their colourful faces turned toward the light. Their fragrance drifted through the air, sweet and perfumed, mixing with the rich scent of warm soil and wood. A paradise. Lost. A Romulan walked among the wildflowers and long grasses she played among as a child. Her short hair framed a face with high cheekbones and striking green eyes, pale skin which probably hadn’t bathed in the rays of a real sun in quite some time. She moved with the feline grace of a predator, a sinuous mix of lethality and artistry, the figure of a martial artist who fell in love with dance. In her arms, she carried a baby nearing the celebration of her first year. Hazel green eyes, a subtle echo of her mother’s forehead ridges, and her father’s luxurious mahogany hair. Sienelis: This, Rybka, is where Mama was born. ch’Rihan, although the Federation called it Romulus. Isn't it—::she paused, correcting herself::—wasn’t it beautiful? Llaira looked around with a curious gaze, drinking in this new experience with the innocent wonder only children had. Valesha smiled, but the expression wavered at the corners, unable to quite shake the hot coal which had burned in at the bottom of her ribs since waking from the Skarbek. Sienelis: This is where our people settled at the end of our long journey through the stars, after the Vulcans forced us from our home. Two thousand years later, they preach Infinite Diversity in Infinite Combinations—but only if you’re not Romulan. Then you can only be a liar, a spy, or happy to murder your own family for reasons they cannot explain. Her dark, straight brows pulled into a frown, and Valesha took a deep breath. The ship’s new counsellor had cast herself into the role of Romulan spy in Skarbek, and it cut the scientist to the quick. Another Vulcan who looked at her people and saw only deception and menace. The meal at the tea room in Japan with Alieth still ricocheted through her mind, every humiliation engraved in her memories. Vorin’s accusations, and the accompanying investigation, still hung over Valesha’s head. Now T’Lar, whose Skarbek persona—the worst version of herself she could imagine—had been a Romulan spy. Because a Vulcan simply couldn’t imagine being deceiving everyone around her without being Romulan. Sienelis: Pay no mind to Mama. Things will change. It will be better for you. She grimaced, trying to ignore the barbs twisted deep in her heart. Was that hope, or foolishness? Her greatest fear was that her daughter was going to suffer through the same sort of prejudice as she did. It was exhausting, fighting every day for what so many others took for granted. To have her integrity assessed on the basis of her actions, not her genes or birthplace. To have her work judged on its merits, and not the author. Sienelis: That isn’t why I brought you here. ::Valesha took a deep breath, trying to push away the hurt, and gestured ahead of her.::This is the Jhianhre province. Do you see that cottage and the building next to it? That’s where Mama grew up. A solitary cottage in white stone stood not far from the treeline, windows sparkling in the bright sunlight. A garden bloomed behind it, filled with brilliant colour and life, clearly the result of a dedicated steward. Smoke rose from the tall chimney beside it, and light glowed inside. Sienelis: That was your uncle’s garden. ::She smiled, melancholy threading through.:: Taeval had such a way with plants and flowers. Now he cares for people the same way he tended to his garden. If you ever have a problem and Mama and Papa can’t be there, you go to your dinam-ri'ranai.¹ He’ll take care of you. Few moments in Valesha’s life compared to the rare joy of finding her twin again. Thought dead in the supernova, discovered alive via a chance meeting during the Warp XV tests, and finally reunited on Ketar V. It had been like finding the lost piece of her soul, though she still wasn’t sure how he felt about having to leave his home shortly thereafter. They had both changed in the intervening years, and he was no longer a teenager too easy for his sister to read. Sienelis: That, ::she gestured to the building with the smoking chimney,:: was our forge. The House-Clan of t’Sienelis is very old, one of artists and craftsmen. Your grandmama, your hru'nanov, she was one of the finest smiths on Romulus. She made dathe'anofv-sen² for the high houses, and tan qalanq³ for the Qowat Milat. People used to travel from across the Empire to beg for her work. It’s how she met your grandpapa, your hru'diranov. She paused at the mention of her father. Valesha had no idea what he thought of her current situation, though she didn’t doubt he knew of it. Things had been quiet of late, no more attempts to cajole, push, or physically drag her home. Maybe he had accepted she was where she wanted to be. More likely he was simply being patient. What were a few years, or even decades, to a Romulan? Sienelis: That’s a... complicated story. ::She smiled ruefully, and shook her head.:: Not one for today. Today, we are going swimming. Perhaps in response to the smile and the shift in her mother’s tone, Llaira excitedly babbled, clapping her tiny hands together. Her mother’s heart grew several sizes, still finding ways to be amazed at how her daughter could both wrench her heart and soothe her soul simultaneously. Sienelis: My little fish likes the sound of that, hmm? ::She laughed.:: Swimming in the same river Mama learned to swim in? Maybe we’ll teach you to dive when you’re older, too. There’s magic in the sea, Rybka, and don’t let anyone tell you different. The happy chattering from her babe in arms confirmed that Llaira would, indeed, refuse to stand for any contrary opinions on the matter. If she had even a gram of her parents’ stubbornness, that would be a battle she wouldn’t lose. Feeling a little lighter, with the grass and wildflowers tickling bare dancer’s legs beneath her skirt, Valesha picked up the pace. Sienelis: Come on then. Papa will be here soon. ::She shared an impish grin with her daughter, mischief reflected back toward her.:: Let’s see if we can get in the water and splash him first. ¹ Romulan: Uncle, maternal. ² Romulan: A traditional weapon which translates as “honour blade”, passed down through Romulan families and ritually sharpened. ³ Romulan: A straight, singled edged sword preferred by the Qowat Milat. -- Lieutenant Valesha Sienelis Assistant Chief Science Officer USS Gorkon simmed by Vice Admiral Quinn Reynolds Commanding Officer USS Gorkon T238401QR0

A good NPC is worth its weight in latinum but the challenge can often be bringing life to a character or species that we have very little canonical knowledge of. Here Lt. Jg. Hobart swings for the fences and nails a delightfully disgusting characterization in this introductory sim. It's the first sim I've posted in appreciations that made me nauseous, so, cheers! ======================================== ((Command Hub, Central Ventrical, SCS Imperative)) An alarm chimed strangely at Senior Associate Regional Vice Director Of Exploitation Goo’py. The alarm itself was perfectly ordinary, but the fact of it was strange. The humanoid tenant of the Federation facility, one Boo-Fard, had requested an arrival at a specific time, but Vice Director Goo’py didn't get where he was by taking directives from lesser species. He departed Shev’Unden when he was ready, and not a moment earlier or later. But the strangeness of the alarm bothered Goo’py. A ship on an intercept course, of unidentified allegiance, was detected by the Imperative's long range scanners. The trajectory matched a Ferengi origin. The Ferengi, as a species, were easy enough to corral. Their sense of independence could be easily and entirely subsumed by their desire to reap a profit. But their nature of profit was deeply flawed. Measured in terms of currency, the Ferengi were a people wealthy beyond imagination. In terms of power, their greed was a flaw to be exploited. But also managed. On Naz, they had been allowed to fester as an infestation. It was a tale as old as time. Director Flur’psh had thought to allow the Ferengi access, as something of an invasive species. It was on the surface, a sound idea. Mining operations would continue, but the burden on corporate assets would be reduced. Flur’psh was an idiot, who had lingered far too long in a position he clearly couldn't handle. His mind had grown sloppy, and his folds sagged and reeked of a career gone stale. He was, to Goo’py’s photoreceptors, ripe for the picking, and Naz was where he was softest. A victory here would not only reinforce the vital flow of resources from within Naz, but secure Goo’py’s future within the Corporate hierarchy. As his ship blurped out of warp within sight of the horribly spindly looking Deep Space 33, Goo’py gripped a control crystal and accessed the ship's navigation and control suite, setting course for an open bay. Not waiting for instruction from the station. If he was forced to wait for the Federation to catch up with his requirements, he would shrivel and die of old age before even setting foot on their ramshackle excuse for a Starbase. No, Station Ops would accommodate him, at his leisure. The Federation wouldn't risk anything else. With the course programmed and autopilot engaged, Goo’py disabled the Imperative’s artificial gravity. He was no longer required to stay at his station, and zero-G movement was, of course, the most expedient way to get from one compartment of the compact destroyer to another. Leaving his small crew behind, Goo’py prepared himself for the inglorious work of interfacing with lesser lifeforms. ((Timeskip, Docking Bay, Deep Space 33)) Vice Director Goo’py loathed the station from the beginning. The atmosphere was appropriate, but the architecture was gaudy and insistence on making him fight the artificial gravity was obnoxious. He surveyed the motley arrangement of officers and diplomats. In contrast to the Ferengi, the Federation was resilient, a begrudgingly-acknowledged threat. The variety of cultures contained within it meant it could at times struggle to survive, but, in doing so, became more resilient against manipulation. The treaty, for now, held, but the Federation was not his concern this day. Naz was. From his core a deep bubbling and burping, a glopping and sloshkng preceded his speech. Goo’py: Speak carefully or your own words may doom you. The traditional Sheliak greeting was true enough. It's why speech was often a last resort. Script and law and rules could and should be made as lengthy and complex as they needed to be. But the inferiority of the meatier species inevitably presented itself in their preference for speech. Hasty and vague, Goo’py often wondered if it was due to the fear of their meat going to spoil. Any: Response More gurgling and squicking could be heard in the room, as Goo’py formulated his speech carefully. Goo’py: I am the Sheliak Corporate Authority in the Naz region, and, for the extent of thisss… summit, on thisss… space station. When you address me, you address Shev’Unden. Any: Response TAG/TBC ——— Goo’py Senior Associate Regional Vice Director Of Exploitation Sheliak Corporate Authority as simmed by Lieutenant Junior Grade Nolen Hobart Engineering Officer USS Arrow (NCC-69829) A240001NH3

Of course, I had to submit this excellent piece from @Jalana with Queen dealing with the loss of Lazurus due to the quantum swap that brought the Connie Azura Ada.

I've been a fan of @LuxaLorana since she came aboard the Artemis, but this is a really lovely "nothing" sim. My act three opener for our current mission was intended to communicate time and boredom, and Olivia has seized upon that and taken it to wonderful depths. I particularly like the note on Genkos' drumming fingers and how she has built upon it beautifully. Keep up the good work!

The contrast between @Zenno's training flashback and his speech is marvelous. May we all stay at zero.

I really enjoyed @Randal Shayne's use of flashbacks, here! I read this on my phone yesterday and just now remembered to share it here. It's a solid sim that gives us both an understanding of the coming mission, and the character. It was a joy to read, and, as I said when I finished reading it: "I guess that's why he gets paid the big bucks."

((Promenade, Miranda VII, Early 2378)) What had drawn Nestira Aristren to the Trinity Sector and surrounding areas was the fact that it had remained relatively untouched by the devastation of the Dominion War, which made it the preferred location for anyone trying to get away from haunting memories and remaining obligations. And while the Klingons and Federation were focussed on rebuilding, there were several smaller and larger groups that benefited immensely from the lack of regulation that opened up creative ways to trade and seek entertainment. The Rodulan found observing these customs a worthwhile passtime, but despite having been on Miranda VII for several months, never partook in either, and with each passing day, she grew more desolate. She was lonely. She wanted to interact with the different species that called the spacedock their home or came here for business, but had quickly learned that blending in was far more difficult than it seemed. She couldn’t quite understand why that was, she only knew that it… was. There was a Trojan class I spacedock closeby - Starbase 118 - that Nestira considered visiting, hoping for the officers to be a little more accepting. But not now. For now, Nestira was content to simply observe and try to figure out what to do next. Tucked away in a quiet corner of a not-so-quiet establishment she kept her eyes fixed on the beverage in front of her, and on blocking out the vibrant minds of the people who had come here to relax, celebrate, or simply grab something to eat. Anethra was on Miranda VII for one reason. To seek out new pieces of art. One didn't open a gallery with nothing to show in it. The war had not been kind to her trade, and in fact many people had been hoarding various pieces of art, secured away in vaults all over the quadrant. War was not good for business. But the war was over. And the Ferengi had another saying; Peace was good for business. Anethra certainly hoped that was the case. For now though she was hungry, and hunger overrode pretty much every other desire. So the Rekarian had made her way to a mostly full eatery on the Promenade. It was noisy and there wasn't much seating, so when she found an empty seat at an otherwise occupied booth she decided to simply ask to sit. Anethra: Is this seat taken? The Rodulan looked up in something that was supposed to convey surprise, but in reality looked like her staring the woman down, wondering what species that one might be. Vulcan? But Vulcans all had the same haircut, and this one did not conform. Interesting. Anethra stared back at the dark-eyed woman in front of her, waiting for an answer. She couldn't say she was enjoying the gaze she was under, but again, hunger overrode most things, so she waited still. Nestira, who had fixed her gaze on the woman, returned her attention to the mug in front of her. Or rather, she sensed her discomfort and decided to alleviate it by simply looking away. As she responded, her tone was flat and unanimated. Aristren: This seat is empty. Silence spread between the two women, and Nestira realized a split second too late that she should probably say something more. The telepathic undercurrent of her statement relayed interest and an invitation to join her, but of course the Vulcan-eque female was unable to perceive it. Perhaps, Nestira considered, she should ask a question in return to show interest. She just wasn’t sure what. Anethra in the meanwhile glossed over the fact that it wasn't a yes or a no. She shrugged, choosing to sit anyway. If the woman hadn't wanted her there, she would have just said so. Once a waiter had provided food and drink, she turned her attention to the Rodulan woman on the other side of the table. Anethra: So what brings you to Miranda VII? Aristren: Visiting. ::there was a long and somewhat awkward pause as Nestira convinced herself to ask a question of her own, and then had to think about what to ask the stranger:: Is there something wrong about being here? While the woman considered her response, Anethra took a bite of her food, savoring it. Anethra: Nothing wrong, just don't normally see a Rodulan so far from home. It makes such an encounter unique… Rodulans were indeed rare - many did not want to leave Basul Rodul. Which in turn meant that many other species weren’t even aware they existed, which explained why Nestira struggled to blend in. Aristren: I decided to travel. ::pause, then a sudden raising of her eyebrows as she finally thought of a question to ask in return:: Do you travel? Anethra: I do. :: She chewed for a moment, then continued after swallowing. :: Quite often in fact. This was going well. A lot better than most of Nestira’s other encounters. She was pleased, deciding to take a leap of faith and trust the woman with her name. Aristren: You can call me Nestira. Anethra: I am Anethra. Anethra observed the beautiful woman in front of her. A curious sight on a station full of curious sights. Aristren: What do you do here? Anethra: I travel for many things, to see new places. Meet new people. For business and pleasure. :: She paused. :: Currently, I do so for business. Aristren: What kind of business is it you do? Now that she had started to ask questions, she was getting the hang of it, and she quickly realized that asking them was not considered intrusive. At least not in this setting. It seemed Anethra enjoyed talking about herself. Anethra: I am an art dealer. Looking for pieces to go into a gallery I intend to open one day soon. The Rodulan’s face seemed to light up at that - or at least she no longer motionlessly stared at the other woman. Aristren: My mother is an artist. Her paintings have been shown in galleries for a long time, and I am very proud of her. My sister was like her, I am more like my father, but perhaps in the future I can learn to create something so expressive. ::pause:: But she paints differently now, my mother. And my sister does not at all. The words came quickly and with an inflection that seemed …. off. But it was the most she had spoken for quite some time, which was reason enough to forgive the overload on personal information and context that had not been requested. Anethra: A shame… I've found most of the pieces that have come out of Basal Rodul to be incredibly beautiful. Nestira could sense that there was something more to the statement, but after a few minor telepathic incidents, she had grown increasingly careful and almost distrustful of her senses. And so she decided on another question instead. Aristren: You like our art? Anethra nodded, taking a sip of her drink. Anethra: I especially like the basotile sculptures that I've had the pleasure of viewing. The Rodulan nodded. Basotile was an integral part of her culture, and the sculptures crafted from it were deeply personal items that were said to contain part of one's soul. Amongst their own kind, those pieces were gifted to each other, and returned when a relationship changed or a bond broke apart. Many possessed personal pieces of basotile, and Nestira was not an exception. Aristren: I have one. You can look at it if you want. But I am not an artist. Anethra’s eyes widened slightly. She nodded enthusiastically. Anethra: I would very much like to see it, yes. For a moment, Nestira was hesitant. She did not usually showcase something so personal to a stranger, but in many ways she was starved for social contact, and Anethra seemed.. nice. Anethra: Shall we go somewhere a bit more private? Aristren: We can go to my quarters. The quarters I… rented. Anethra: Sounds good. ((Nestira’s so-called ‘quarters’, Miranda VII, Early 2378)) Calling Nestira’s home ‘quarters’ was perhaps a little too generous. She had rented a small room in a larger apartment, and that room fit not much more than a bed and a desk. There were a few possessions strewn about, but it quickly became clear that she did not, in fact, own much. Anethra: Its very…. cozy. Anethra hadn't expected much. The Cardassian designed space station did not provide much in the way of amenities. Even her own quarters were not much. Aristren: I am … not sure I will stay long. It's very complicated. Living here. Here, on Miranda VII. Here, away from home. Anethra: How so? Aristren: I am not yet sure how things work. Anethra: Ah, I understand. :: She nodded. :: I found it similarly hard when I first started out… That was interesting to Nestira. Her own species valued and understood progression and development - but also had several centuries to do so. Other species had a much shorter lifespan and her assumption was that they were simply born with a skillset that lasted them for the entirety of their existence. Aristren: When was that? Anethra: Many decades ago by now… it took time to figure out the best ways to blend in… and just what I could get away with. Another aspect that was interesting to the Rodulan. She enjoyed being apart from the group, but she did notice how detrimental it was to finding a footing in this new environment. Blending in seemed like an appealing skill to have. Aristren: You look and seem just like anyone else here. Which was her way of affirming that Anethra was, in fact, blending in. Anethra: As I grew older… I stopped caring so much… Nestira was unsure how to reply to that, and simply opted not to reply. Instead, she made her way to the desk, where her travel-crate was sitting. Opening it, its contents were revealed, and they were …. not much - largely clothes. Clothes which seemed to cushion the sculpture settled in the middle. While light-reflecting glass was popular on Basul-Rodul, the variety of basoltile that Nestira had chosen for herself was ivory in color and its sharp edges had something tribal, almost feral about them. Anethra’s eyes widened slightly taking in all the various facets of the ivory coloured sculpture. It was unique, though pretty much every Basotile she had seen was, but most of the ones she had seen were much more flowing in contrast to the one in front of her now, with its sharp edges and comparatively muted ivory colour. Anethra: Wonderful. Simply wonderful. :: She looked to Nestira. :: How long did it take you to create? Aristren: It takes a very long time to make something like it. I practise a few hours every day. Because she did not have anything else to do. She hadn’t made any friends here, and she spent far more time alone in this room than she cared to admit. Anethra nodded slightly. Anethra: You said you weren't an artist, but you sell yourself short. Aristren: I disagree. She gestured to the sculpture. Anethra: I know many who would desire such a thing, simply for its unique beauty. Curious, but understandable. Aristren: I have found people desire a lot of things. And she had no intention of gifting her basotile sculpture to someone else. Because that was what she assumed was meant. Anethra knew the significance basotile held to Rodulans. She nodded slightly. Anethra: That is true… have you ever considered selling it, however? The Rodulan frowned deeply and pressed her lips into a thin line - an expression she had seen on others, and was now trying for herself . Sell it? That seemed like an utterly alien concept to her. Aristren: I did not know someone would want to buy it. Anethra: As you just pointed out, people desire a lot of things. Most will pay to acquire what they desire. That gave her pause. She had hoped to find some kind of work to do, but with her current adjustment issues, that was… difficult. And eventually she would run out of funds and have to return home, much earlier than she was planning to. Anethra: If you plan on travelling for long, having latinum to spend will be an unfortunate necessity. Aristren: Do you know people who would want to buy it? Anethra nodded again, considering for a moment just who might make the right buyer. Anethra: Yes, I think I know just the right buyer for such a sculpture. A collector who can appreciate its elegance and beauty. She nodded. She had seen those people who visited Miranda VII to conduct business, and who showcased their wealth with intricate jewellery and costly looking dresses and robes. Part of her had liked what she saw. Aristren: And can you show me to appear like them? You said you learned, I want to learn too. But I don’t want it to take me a long time. That hadn't been an expected request. Yet it was intriguing. Anethra smiled faintly. Anethra: I can't say how successful I’ll be, but I can try to teach you how to blend in more. Aristren: Good. Anethra: But first– She looked back to the sculpture, then to Nestira. Anethra: You are certain of this? If it is sold, it may not be easy to reacquire, and certainly not for a small sum. After all, one didn't get repeat business by taking advantage of people, and Anethra tried never to do that. Aristren: I am… very uncertain ::she admitted:: Can I think about it first? Anethra: Of course. I will be here for a while yet. There is no rush. Nestira gave a nod. She did not truly want to part with something so precious to her, but the alternative was having to return home because she had failed to blend in and explore the galaxy. And that would turn her promise to Elidi into a lie. The loss of a piece of basoltile was a small price for keeping a promise. END SCENE Lt. Nestira Aristren Strategic Operations Officer Starbase 118 Ops J239809TA4 and PNPC Anethra Wandering Art Dealer as simmed by Lt. Commander Solaris McLaren Director of Intelligence Starbase 118 Ops C239210SM0

If you know me at all, then you know I'm a fan of a good antagonist. And I love this one from @Freck The sass is my favorite. "It was reckless. It was practically suicidal. It was downright rude, is what it was." is hysterical to me, but honestly, this whole sim just rocks overall.

This is an incredible debut sim from our newest recruit, @Enzo Solari, who has joined us fresh from the Academy! — Personal log, stardate 240006.18. Dr Enzo Solari, Medical Officer, USS 'Oumuamua reporting. It has been a whirlwind since my arrival on the ‘Oumuamua from Starbase 118. I am excited to have graduated after a final training exercise on Starbase 118. Since my arrival, I have had just enough time to unpack my belongings in my small cabin before checking in with my superior officer Dr Vlen Kel. Unfortunately, I did not have enough time to meet with Dr Kel for more than a quick greeting before he rushed off on preparations for the mission to the E-Sho. Now, I am getting settled into one of the desks in Sickbay, minding the store while Dr Kel runs some errands. I hope to develop a good working relationship with him. ((Deck 7, Sickbay, USS 'Oumuamua)) Solari: Computer, end personal log. Dr Ensign Enzo Solari yawned. He stretched his legs under a pristine white polymer desk attached to the wall. No rest for the wicked, he thought to himself. The courier vessel to the 'Oumuamua followed a different clock that left him space lagged. It feels so nice to have a real sickbay job after so many years of training, he sighed to himself with tired satisfaction. He stared outside the office partition. The Sickbay sparkled with metallic surfaces and glowing state-of-the-art monitoring equipment. Rows of biobeds lined the circular wall as if waiting to welcome any patients. V'Airu: =/\= Bridge to Sickbay. =/\= Enzo started in surprise. He quickly reeled in his limbs and tapped his combadge. Solari: =/\= This is Doctor Solari. Go ahead, Bridge. =/\= V'Airu: =/\= Report to the bridge, please. I have some (beat) unusual symptoms to discuss. =/\= Solari: =/\= On my way. =/\= Enzo stood up and grabbed his plain gray standard issue Medical Kit and hurried out of Sickbay. Alrighty! First day on the job, he thought excitedly. ((Deck 1, Bridge, USS 'Oumuamua)) The turbolift doors whisked open to show the bridge abuzz with voices, computer beeps, and officers moving around. In the center, a viewscreen of swirling blue and gold colors caught his attention. That must be the micro-nebula everyone is talking about, he thought. He glanced away before he got dizzy. He shook his head and walked towards the dais where the Commodore sat with her other bridge officers. He heard the Commodore conversing with them as he stepped up. He suddenly felt his heartbeat pick up, feeling nervous. Solari: ::speaking quickly:: Dr Solari reporting, Commodore. What can I assist with? V’Airu: Response Solari: Please hold still, sir, as I run some quick scans. Enzo opened his gray medical kit case and removed a medical tricorder and scanner. He activated the tricorder and leaned over to wave the scanner slowly around V’Airu’s cranial region. He half-listened in on the conversation between the Commodore and the other officers he hadn’t formally met yet. Herrick: I’m not detecting anything internally; all green signals on my end. If we’re experiencing this here, do you think the away teams are also experiencing it? Katsim: My first assumption would be yes, however we have no empirical evidence to support that hypothesis. Enzo noticed some slightly elevated readings. These readings don’t seem out of the ordinary but who knows the effects of this space phenomena, he thought, nodding to himself. Solari: Sir, if I may, your scans show nothing particularly concerning aside from slightly elevated neural activity in your amygdala. This part of the brain is responsible for emotions. Have you experienced any abrupt shifts of mood? V’Airu: Response Katsim: The readings are not any clearer, but they do seem to spike with those waves. They get stronger, then fade. Enzo suddenly felt excitement and exuberance, flooding his mind, his eyes unfocused for a moment. Then it faded away. Whoa I haven’t felt like that since the day I received my medical school diploma, he thought to himself. Solari: Did anyone else feel that? ::voice cracking:: Herrick/V’Airu: Response Katsim: Commodore, it seems to be coming in steady intervals. Enzo ran to the various bridge officers waving his medical scanner like a wizard casting a spell on his subjects. Herrick/V’Airu: Response Lastly, Enzo awkwardly waved the scanner over his own brain. Solari: We all show signs of elevated neural activity in the amygdala. I would like to see everyone come to sickbay for scans when able, Commodore. Herrick/Katsim/V’Airu: Response --- Ensign Enzo Solari Medical Officer - USS 'Oumuamua Writer ID: O240006ES4

I absolutely loved this sim, @Doz Finch. The dialogue ("All I’ll say is that I’ll be sleeping with my eyes open from now on."), the descriptions, and present events and how they relate to the past. There is so much I adore about this and if I listed them all... I would just end up rewriting your entire piece here, haha. 👏 Nicely done!!

All I did was laugh from start to finish, reading this sim. Cain is so playfully and deliciously satirical, from the narration right through to the dialogue. Just brilliant 👏 Ens. Xandria Cain - The Enthusiastic Diplomat Special (google.com)

I really enjoyed this submission from our newest Ensign, @Josh Herrick. He perfectly captures that undeniable thrill of a first mission! -- (( Herrick’s Quarters, Deck 7, USS-‘Oumuamua )) Josh looked around his new home; it was certainly quieter than the bunk he had been in since boarding the ‘Oumuamua. He had inquired about his room assignment after he noticed that Ensigns Dahlquist and Tyber were assigned to quarters and had a more comfortable living space. It was at that time that the logistics officer realized that an error had been made, mixing him in with the enlisted crew when there were available quarters. Josh had moved in the previous night with what little belongings he had (a poster, a plasma extinguisher shaped magnet, and a few padds). He hadn’t yet seen his roommate, but he suspected that it wouldn’t be long before they bumped into each other. Overall, the young engineer didn’t care whether it was a small bed or a room to himself, but he had found it easier to sleep in the less-tight space. Herrick: (excitedly) oO I’m going to be on the bridge! Oo He did a final once over in the mirror, making sure he looked picture perfect. This would be the third time he’d meet the Commodore, and the first time he’d see the bridge in action; both equally exciting. In the Academy, Herrick had taken the initial command training courses and had been exposed to some bridge operations, but this would be his first real mission as a commissioned officer. He headed to the turbolift, and extra spring in his step and after stepping inside the pod, he called for the bridge. It was perhaps a bit too excitedly, but no one was around to judge the green ensign. After a few moments, the doors slid open to reveal the bridge. (( Bridge, Deck 1, USS 'Oumuamua )) Josh stepped across the threshold and took a moment to let it sink in. Just like his time in the arboretum, meeting Kammus, and seeing everyone at the awards ceremony, he wanted to burn this moment into his mind. He turned his head to each side scanning the room, and while doing so, realized that he wasn’t quite sure where he should be. Herrick: oO Do I ask someone? Oo At that moment, he noticed a lieutenant approaching him. Katsim: Response Herrick: Yes, I am. Ensign Josh Herrick, Engineering. Katsim: Response Herrick: It’s good to meet you, Lieutenant. It’s my first time on the ‘Oumuamua bridge, so bear with me. Katsim: Response The doors of the ready room slid apart and V’Airu stepped on the bridge. As she approached Herrick and Katsim, she invited them to take the co-chairs beside her and asked for the viewscreen to be activated. The blue-gold cloud was beautiful to Josh. The shifts of colour were almost hypnotic in a way; he felt more at ease as he continued to stare at the image. V'Airu: Before we turn to our sensors, which are likely to operate below peak capacity, let us consider. Have either of you seen a phenomenon like this before? Josh racked his brain; he hadn’t focused on interstellar space phenomena in the Academy. His studies had mostly focused on making sure that the ship’s internals worked as expected, something he would need to correct as time progressed. Katsim/V’Airu: Response The newbie was glad that Katsim had spoken first, it had taken some of the bridge jitters away. It appeared that commanding officer wanted more analysis, as she continued to prompt. V'Airu: What do you see? I don't expect a diagnosis, but let's use our own senses, limited though they may be, for a moment. What could this phenomenon be? Herrick: If we’re going on looks sir, forgetting the gold for a moment, it somewhat looks like a cerulean nebula? oO Was that the right name for it? Oo It was a shot in the dark, but Herrick wanted to contribute something to the conversation so that he’d be invited back to the bridge again in the future. He also hadn’t remembered a nebula to be so relaxing when he had seen them on his cadet cruise. It didn't seem very scientific but he didn't want to leave out anything that may be material. V’Airu / Katsim: Responses Herrick: And, to me at least, it seems to have a calming effect. V’Airu / Katsim: Responses Tags! and TBC! --- Ensign Josh Herrick Engineering Officer USS ‘Oumuamua O240005JH3 he/him/his (player/character)

Oh man, I just loved everything about this sim from @Freck. Funny, clever and imaginative. 👏🏻 (( Temple Grounds, Oslau III )) Freck: Wait a second...I'm picking up an anomalous lifesign. There’s someone on temple grounds who doesn’t belong here…and I don’t mean us. Oddas: More details, as in another species? Some other anomoly? Freck looked closer at the data coming in. Essentially, there was a mobile object – a person – that was so bathed in a mixture of tachyon and chroniton radiation that they were practically putting off the same readings as the Orb itself. Fairhug: Someone who survived the time jump like us? Freck: I think you’re right on the money, Commander…if I’m reading this right. Whoever it is, they’re saturated with chroni- A loud laugh, a clap, and some more quiet laughter made Freck and the others pause, ensuring they weren’t being listened upon. Oddas: ::narrowing her eyes:: Can you track it to its source? Freck: Yes, sir, as well as we can the Orb. They’re on the other side of the temple grounds from us. Fairhug: Surely whoever that is knows what the *orb* really is. It’s too much of a coincidence…and I’m willing to bet that’s our Xern. Freck: You’re right, it’s probably the Xern, but they might just be irradiated after carrying it back here. Well, okay, they are still mobile, unlike the people in the village, so the radiation doesn’t appear to have debilitated them, but I can’t get a read on their species, so I can’t tell if they’re native or not. Oddas: Response Fairhug: It does put a crimp in the plan ::he paused, stroking his beard again:: but does it *have* to be a Xern? If we can get our hands on any monk's robes, it should be enough to at least get us inside, right? Freck: Logically? I’m no Vulcan, but with a decent enough distraction, I don’t think anyone’s going to be looking at anyone in robes. The Xern robes would probably be safest, but…well… Freck shrugged. Risk yourself procuring a disguise or risk being detected while in disguse? This was a decision he didn’t have the experience to make. Oddas: Response Fairhug: Then I say we stick to the plan. Freck, you create a distraction, I’ll get the robes…somehow…while the Captain contacts Ton and Raimor. Agreed? Freck nodded. Standing up, he slipped the tricorder back into his pouch, but slipped his phaser into the box in its place. Oddas: Response Fairhug: Response Freck: Aye, sir. The Ferengi turned and broke away from the others, leaving the tent. Walking back in the direction they had arrived in, he pretended to scope out the merchant stalls that had been set up while they were planning, but in actuality, was looking past them. The temple grounds were surrounded by stone walls, so if they did set a fire here, even if it got out of hand, it should hopefully be kept within the complex and not spread to the village itself. Plus, the cleansing fountain would be a very convenient source of water, even if it had to be bucketed. After several minutes of looking at the merchants’ wares, he spotted something that looked promising. A small wooden shack in the corner of the complex. Smiling wordless greetings at the various monks and other members of the crowd, Freck meandered his way as discreetly as he could to the shack. Expressing fake exasperation, Freck set down his box and knelt down to fiddle with his shoes. He didn’t exactly have laces, but he figured having to mess with one’s footwear on occasion might be a universal issue. In actuality, he was using it as an excuse to check out the shack door. It swayed gently in the morning wind, kept shut by a simple latch. Thankfully, there didn’t appear to be any kind of lock. Looking around one last time to see if anyone was eyeing him in particular, Freck casually stood up, unlatched the door, and stepped inside with his box of goodies, shutting the door behind him. Immediately, Freck pulled out his tricorder, and scanned the area behind him through the door to see if anyone was following him. Then, he looked up and realized he should have probably checked to see if anyone was inside the shack before pulling out his futuristic technology. Thankfully, it was empty. Even better, it was filled with simple tools, for farming and cleaning. Things that could be replaced. Besides, if this temple was anything like his culture’s religious centers, they’d have more than enough money to replace a few tools. Still, he kicked himself for not checking, especially after already being in hot water for having to barter his comm badge away…which then reminded him that he didn’t have any means of calling for backup. If he was caught, or worse, there really wasn’t an easy way for him to call for help. Taking a moment to breathe, and calm his nerves, Freck took in the details of the shack. In terms of needing to start a fire, there wasn’t much working against him, thankfully. The shack had a dirt floor, but the entire building was old and dry. There was even some sort of lantern hung from a rope which ran the breadth of the ceiling, but he couldn’t just throw it to the floor and let it consume everything while he was still there. Even if he got out, he wouldn’t make it far before he was grabbed and accused (correctly) of arson. What he needed was a fuse. Something that didn’t start a fire immediately while he was still in the shack, giving him enough time to get away. Something like exactly what was in his box of souvenirs! There were plenty of necklaces and bracelets, made with stone and probably clay beads, but strung on flammable twine of some description. A plan suddenly formed in his mind, he set down his own box, and pulled a larger crate of some unknown supplies from one of the shack’s corners. Next, he grabbed one of the surprisingly numerous brooms lying against the wall, before setting it up on top of the crate so that the wooden handle was leaning against the rope holding up the lantern. After making sure the broom wouldn’t fall over, Freck reached into his box and pulled out two long necklaces, breaking them and letting their attachments scatter, before tying the strings together, which he then tied to the bottom of the broom. Finally, the rest of the brooms in the shack were placed so that their straw was directly under the lantern. He’d use his phaser to light the necklaces, which would burn slowly but steadily up to the broom, which would hopefully light up fairly quickly. The flames would lick up the broom handle, lighting the rope on fire, breaking, then allowing the lantern to fall and set the rest of the brooms on fire. The shack itself would likely follow. Satisfied with his plan, Freck took one final look around the shack, made sure his tricorder was secure in his pouch and his knick-knacks were packed away in their box. Finally, with no other reason to stall, Freck pulled out his phaser, and lit the fuse. TAG/TBC ---------------------- Lieutenant Junior Grade Freck Science Officer Denali Station D239911F12

((Private Quarters, Schtroumpf Residence, Vulcan)) The nice thing about being retired, Schtroumpf thought, is that there was no paperwork. Not that he resented important, if trivial, work, when necessary. But after decades of guiding his people through the minutiae of bureaucratic maneuverings that (eventually) resulted in the rebuilding of their society, it was nice to just… do nothing. And he could actually relax these days. He had left the Grand Papastaship in good hands—a former aide who had come into her own during the Great Pulsar Crisis. She was his own hand-picked successor (he had always had a special ability to pick good talent and good help was hard to find), but she had really blossomed in the years that marked the Great Reconstruction and, later, Federation membership. But as much as he loved his people, the former Grand Papasta felt that he had, well, outgrown them. A weird new religion had taken grip of the population and while Seccna Gpft was a decent enough individual (may they rest in peace) many of their zealotous acolytes were… less so. And they seemed to have an unhealthy obsession with cookware. Furthermore, the Gelf were not, by in-large, interested in exploring the grand beyond of space. Perhaps these younger generations, relatively speaking, were a little weary of it after the space-borne disaster of yesteryear. But Schtroumpf had felt the call. The call of the stars had been spurred by his first encounter with the aliens and then, later, by the process of joining the Federation. After his Papastaship he had joined the diplomatic corps for a spell and traveled to many distant planets, but even that was part of a former career now. In his retirement, he had taken up residence on Vulcan. He didn’t tell many people this, but he still held out hope that he would again meet the captain of that vessel who had first come to save his people. He stopped actively looking decades ago, after his loud inquiries into Starfleet records had earned him a visit from agents of a new group called “the Department of Temporal Investigation.” He gave up actively looking, but still discreetly, made inquiries here and there to friends. Which was how he got his latest tip. Parappa was still (or again) at the embassy on Earth and had just sent him a most intriguing communique. It was almost too good of a lead to be true. But at last there was a Comodore V’Airu that fit the profile of that woman he had met over a century ago (Earth time). Daring to hope again, he drafted a subspace message: To Commodore V’Airu of the Starship ‘Oumuamua, greetings. I am Schtroumpf, formerly Grand Papasta of Gelf. I have searched in vain for the first Vulcan captain whose crew were so instrumental in my people’s salvation, but have been disappointed for many years. The second Vulcan captain of the same ship was of no help in this matter. But if, through some accident of time or twist of fate you are she, I would very much like to convey my lasting gratitude again to you and your first officer Greaves for your role in giving us hope when there was little of it to be found. Because of your example, I pushed my people to join with the Federation. And while Gelf has not made as much of a contribution as I might have wished, I am proud that we are upstanding members of the galactic community. You may be interested to know that Gelf served as a place of refuge during the Dominion War While I doubt we saved as many lives as Starfleet did during the Great Pulsar Crisis, I am grateful that we were able to, in some small part, pay back the contribution and grace that was once so richly extended to us. I hope our people may yet again, prove as instrumental in saving others as we were saved. If possible, I would like to meet you again, in person. If you are who I think you may be, we have much to catch up on. I am retired now and have the luxury of time and space and would be happy to meet you in any location. I have retained my chef and would love to share again some mushroom tea and crumpets. Regards, Schtroumpf of Gelf With eager expectations, Schtroumpf programmed the address his former aide had found for him and hit “send.” [End Scene] -- Schtroumpf Former Grand Papasta of Gelf Vulcan O239910AP4

I have been, and always will be, a Lurys fan. Dammit @Nestira Aristren again you wrote a very powerful and relatable sim that really shook me.

Love the set up and the concept of "Humanoid Resources" come to investigate a little light workplace safety issue. (And this is right after a lot of the crew had to deal with DTI bureaucrats!). Nicely done @Etan Iljor!

((Shared Quarters, Deck 8, USS-’Oumuamua)) Herrick had finished pasting the poster against the top of his bunk. Since he had the bottom bunk, it would only be visible to him… unless someone decided to snoop inside it. His first couple days had been jam-packed. He took off his shirt and looked over his back in the mirror. Tracing the back of his spine was a dark red scar, which he assumed would turn white over time. He knew, without a doubt, that he would never forget his first day on the ‘Oumuamua for better or for worse. Turning the mirror off, he bent over and eased into his cot. Movements were getting easier but there were moments where he could tell his body still wanted him to take it easy. The awards ceremony was going to start shortly, but he had enough time to record a promised message. Herrick: Computer, begin recorded message to my sister and also store a copy as a personal log. Hey, Em. Hope you understand the delay, it wasn’t to build suspense. To say that my commissioned career is off to a great start would probably be the opposite theme to this letter. To give you a peek into how things are going, I may have accidentally put the waste reclamation services out of commission for the good part of a day on the lower half of the ship. I heard the turbolift queues were getting a bit out of hand as folks needed to… go. But aside from blowing up a conduit, landing in Sickbay, and a momento for my efforts, I will say the crew here is super approachable. The Commodore is more approachable than her title suggests, the engineering crew is light and easygoing, and my health is in good hands with the med team. The doctor suggested I speak with the local counsellor about my claustrophobia… At first, I tried to not-so-directly reject the idea. But, it’s been gnawing at me. When I used to get in compact spaces, that memory would come back in an instant. You know, the one where you think it’s going to end, the deck lights flashing in the window as the turbolift free falls and you’re not sure if it's going to stop in time or slam into the final deck. But now, when I close my eyes, all I see is that green plasma fire from the explosion I got caught in during maintenance in a Jefferies tube. So… if I decide to see her, I’ll let you know how it goes. I’ll try to keep my next letter brighter, but we always promised to be open with each other. I need to head out to this ceremony they're doing down on Earth, it will be good to mingle with the crew in a location where I have… limited opportunity to create an explosion. Lots of love sis, and may the gods be gracious with your path. They've had some humor on mine. Herrick: End message and send. With that, Josh pulled his dress uniform out. At that moment, he realized he wasn’t quite sure where his old uniform was. Not that he wanted the singed fabric, which likely had pieces of him still attached to it. He made a mental note to get a new duty uniform when he came back up and proceeded to get ready for the exciting event that awaited. --- Ensign Josh Herrick Engineering Officer USS ‘Oumuamua O240005JH3 he/him/his (player/character)

@Vylaa - absolutely loved this sim! Seeing her reconnect with family after the lovely adventure that was Skarbek, and the news!! I always enjoy how you bring Andorians to life in sim. Great work! 👏

I found the following a delightful fleshing out of everyone's favorite Bolian/Tellarite hybrid's backstory. I appreciate that it's written well--it has tantalizing elements of potential intrigue but doesn't overdo it and just the right amount of technical details that remind me this is a Star Trek sim! Kudos.

This has been a really engrossing ongoing scene between these two characters and a wonderful read!

A few days later than I had intended—but I loved this sim, Bryce. There is such a flow to the words that makes it so easy and fun to read. We go from moment to moment with Tagren-Quinn as he tackles with the differences between what is real, and what was a dream, identifying things in his environment, such as the cat that he hadn't even wanted, now an anchor to the real world. Ensign Bryce Tagren-Quinn - Anchored in Reality (google.com)

Really enjoyed this whole sim from @Alex Forsyth. Love the little touches of internal dialogue and insight into the nerves of sitting in the big chair! Not to mention the banter with @Alan Letts. 😉 ((Bridge, Deck 1, USS Eagle)) Forsyth: Eyes on the Road, Ensign. That broke him, after she had just stared longingly at a chair for a solid 15 seconds. He thought it was rich and very entertaining. Letts: Hah :: Sarcastically:: and miss THIS captivating image not a chance. :: He winked before rolling his eyes theatrically and shaking his head:: oO Let hope my family curse doesn't applied to acting captains.....Oo She let out a nervous sigh, Trying to get comfy and relax. oO Huh, I was expecting it to feel a lot nicer.... Oo Letts: Eyes on the Road... That poor chair probably needs counseling after being ogled like that. Forsyth: Letts, Please don't embarrass me. Letts: Sorry Ma'am. I will attempt to remain focused. She smiled, Proud that Letts could hold back the jokes. oO Maybe there hope for him yet?..Oo Letts: So is your Captain's pose more Janeway or Kirk? She ponders for a moment, Wondering if to humor him or focus on the task but her curiosity won out. Forsyth: Not sure, I was going for Rachel Garrett. Alex never really thought about her sitting pose, It wasn't something she was going to need at any point in her early career. She shifted slightly, Feeling bit awkward now but that feeling didn't last as a series of small alerts went off at Letts and tactical stations. Letts: Uhhh okay. Forsyth: What is it, Ensign? Before Letts could reply, Ensign Clara Halloway at tactical spoke up. Halloway: Ma'am, I'm getting a distress call. Forsyth: Clar-Ensign, Can you Identify it? Halloway just shrugs as she works, Alex turns back to Letts. Forsyth: Letts, Stand by to investigate. Letts: Aye Ma'am Alex didn't like this, She had hoped to just keep the ship here until the Commander returned but Ignoring a SoS was against protocol. Forsyth: Have you Identified it, Clara? She curses herself for not addressing her by her rank or last name, Being captain is hard. Halloway: Yes, It....It is one of ours. Forsyth: Another starfleet ship, We weren't informed of other ships in the area. She flipped through her memory, The closest ship was the USS Lockerbie and that was another sector away. Letts: Response Halloway: No, I mean it's one of ours as in it from the Eagle. Forsyth: You mean It from the away team? Letts: Response Forsyth: Hold on, Where is the signal coming from? Halloway: Somewhere in front of us, Where our friends are at. Letts: Response Forsyth: Agreed, We should inform the commander. ::Looking at the door.:: Do I knock or call him? Letts: Response Forsyth: Yeah, I'll call him ::Tapping her combadge and clearing her throat.:: =/\= Bridge to Commander Flat =/\= Falt: =/\= Response. =/\= Forsyth: =/\= We're picking up a distress call, It identifies as Starfleet. =/\= Any: =/\= Response. =/\= Forsyth: =/\= It saids it from the eagle but it was also coming from that ship. =/\= Any: =/\= Response. =/\= Forsyth: =/\= Should I plot a course or wait until we get a better picture? =/\= oO And let you take over....Oo Falt: =/\= Response. =/\= TAG/TBC _____________________ Lieutenant.Jg Alex Forsyth Tactical Denali Station D239910AF1

((Kapitol City, Sannin VII)) There was a distinctly relaxed feel in Kapitol City once the news of the destruction of Terra Prime reached the city’s wary ears. Almost celebratory – almost. But Sannin VII was a bit too jaded to celebrate the defeat of another petty tyrant at the hands of Starfleet. At least openly. That wasn’t to say that mugs were not lifted to Terra Prime’s demise and the opening back up of the tradeways. That was good news for everyone on the planet and it was worth a drink at least. Nacien Rixx, too, was pleased. The drama of the Trinity Sector had played out, with a few highlights along the way. Not in the least was the crossed paths with the time travelers, which was perhaps the catalyst for many things. The brush with the chaotic tachyon energy opened his mind for a moment to the vast realm of possibilities. Futures that could be, would be and would never be. It made him think about the future once again, instead of wallowing in the ennui of a too-long life lived in exile from his people. A life that started to see the people around him like ants in a farm that he could shape and mold for his entertainment. Which was lonely. He had long since disassociated from any meaningful relationships and taken the backseat role of a puppet master. Never really backing one side or the other, merely moving pieces to see how things played out. Sure, with each move someone was hurt. That was the way of things. When something gained, something else lost. But with a future one started to think of personal paths. And a personal path required some sort of connection to others beyond the role of the chess master. It was a terrifying thought. To become connected to someone or something again. But, as in all the things he did – it was go big or go home. And on StarBase 118, he connected, briefly, to the minds of thousands of people. A distraction. A momentary hold. And then he released them and there was chaos. And he rode the wave. It was the most invigorating thing he could remember doing in the past fifty years. All those minds. All those fragile little possibilities and fears and delusions of grandeur. He had expected them to be dull and laughable, and yet they were so full of fire and brightness. And for the first time he realized that these tiny little transient things were not a tiny low pinprick of light that quietly burns out of sight and mind, but instead tiny little transient bonfires, each flaring with hopes and dreams before getting snuffed out by the march of time. It was mere coincidence that me met another exile of his own species soon afterwards. But it reinforced the decision to consider if he had a path for the future, and if so what that path was. And now he craved that presence. He wasn’t ready for a connection yet. But he enjoyed the presence of someone else like him. And so he had left a suggestion, buried in their conversations to come back. He hoped she had unraveled it consciously or unconsciously. And then there she was. He could sense her as she landed and drifted his way towards her. Rixx: ~Well, as the small folks say, fancy meeting you here.~ There was a quick of humor to the thoughts. Familiar thoughts and a familiar presence, even though his appearance had changed from a rugged, muscular human freighter pilot into something that felt more natural for him. A slender man with dark hair, clean shaven, unassuming. Rixx: I wonder, did you come here for a meeting? That sounded like a typical greeting on Sannin VII. Aristren: I will leave that open for your interpretation. Interpretations were vast and varied. There was a heaviness to her thoughts. Clearly what happened on Miranda VII was dangerous. Nacien Rixx had, for a long time, not given much thought to danger. Because he hadn’t given any thought to the future. He had an exceedingly long life, doomed to spend it all cut off from his homeworld and everything he desired. So each new day was just another mark in the endless slog of time. But now that he was starting to think about the future, the concept of danger became more tangible. Rixx: That is always a dangerous prospect. Never let someone else define your actions for you. His dark eyes twinkled a little. Aristren: Perhaps these are my investigative skills. Perhaps it is fate. I am certain it is not the former, so it must be the latter. Fate. A concept Rixx had put very little stock into in the last few hundred years. He believed that his own hand could control worlds – and if applied right it could. But that was a rather selfish point of view that did not take in any sort of wider scope. There were always things that happened outside of one’s machinations or control. Rixx: Perhaps it is a bit of both. Aristren: ? He looked around the busy square – he was sure she could sense the relaxation of the general population. The almost but not quite celebratory nature of the day, the genial feelings resting under the placid pink sky. Rixx: It is hot, you look parched. Perhaps you will join me for a beverage? Or perhaps to go somewhere quieter. With fewer eyes. Aristren: ? Rixx: I do know a place. He started through the crowds, past the embassy district and into the commercial center that was adjacent to the embassies. It was filled with nice, quiet establishments that catered to diplomats and business people. Places where private conversations were the norm. Arsitren: ? Rixx: One of the perks of an independent trade town is that everyone wants to do business in a quiet secluded place. And the businesses want to cater to that, because latinum makes the world turn. Aristren: ? He gestured to a side street and filled in the details telepathically. There was a place that catered to sweets and teas, a place that catered to fine cocktails, a place that catered to bracing breakfast beverages and savory cakes, and a place that was eclectic and just catered to people who wanted an interesting place to be left alone. All of them had private conversation spaces. Rixx: Take your pick. Aristren: ? ~*~ tags/tbc ~*~ pNPC Nacien Alasafor Rixx Rodulan Puppeteer Unaligned

(( Clyia's Pleasure Spa, Risa )) The last several weeks were rough. First, he tried posing as a refugee when the Starfleet officers found him fast asleep coming down from his trip. When that didn't work, he posed as a refugee forced to join the pirates under threat of violence. Add in a few batted lashes, some sultry tones, and a wink or two, and they bought his story, at least well enough to not throw him right in the brig. It's so good to be this handsome, he reminded himself. After that, he wandered away from the refugees and sweet talked his way onto a ship. A few hops later, he found himself on Risa. And he had some latinum after all! That sweet widower on the last ship demanded to bestow Yeaban with gifts, and Yeaban was happy to oblige. And now, it was time to indulge. Risa is, of course, post-currency. But throwing around latinum didn't hurt. And he decided to splurge and have it with one big go. And here he was, wedged into a pile of more than willing Risans. Risans loved Yeaban and his looks, and Yeaban loved that about them. With the latinum, he sent out for any and all needs for the party: food, drink, towels, more drink, and ice packs. And they had continued to partake in all of them. In between an ice pack, a liter of water, and a back massage; Yeaban picked up a curious fruit from the table. It looked like a cherry, but with an extra lobe, with two spines sticking out the top. He sniffed it, and watched the Risans pop them into their mouths with glee. Yeaban shrugged and decided to give one a try. It was succulent! It was plump, and sweet, with just the right amount of tart. The texture was compelling, almost erotic. As he reclined in relaxation, he let out a loud sigh of satisfaction as he positioned the ice pack. Suddenly it felt like a singularity formed in the pit of his stomach, and his innards were going through spaghettification on the event horizon. His eyes bulged in fear, and the Risans immediately rushed toward him as the blackness overcame him, and the pain receded. A victim of his own indulgence: Risian orpino cherries are poisonous to Talaxians. He was so focused on throwing his latinum around that he insisted on the caterer sending the most luxurious foods "no matter what." —— MSNPC Yeaban Devastatingly handsome Pirate simmed by: Lt Commander Azura Ada Second Officer? Chief Science Officer? USS Constitution-B IDIC team member ASDB team member C239510LD0 (she/her, character) (she/they, writer)