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  1. 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.
  2. 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!
  3. The contrast between @Zenno's training flashback and his speech is marvelous. May we all stay at zero.
  4. 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."
  5. ((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
  6. 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.
  7. 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
  8. 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!!
  9. 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)
  10. 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)
  11. 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
  12. ((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
  13. 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.
  14. 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!
  15. ((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)
  16. @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! 👏
  17. 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.
  18. This has been a really engrossing ongoing scene between these two characters and a wonderful read!
  19. 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)
  20. 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
  21. ((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
  22. (( 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)
  23. I enjoy writing Liz, but I absolutely adore reading Sill-con in this constellation. This sim is exactly my kind of humour and adds an amazing nuance to a very duty-focussed character. Well done! ❤️
  24. We've had some amazing sims written at the end of our mission. @Doz Finch you already had me with the suspense of who the stranger was but honestly those pyjamas..., imagine the looks Doz will receive when wandering outside her quarters like that. 😁 ((Niu Hotel, Borrel District, Witherington Indre III)) The three of them—Finch, Lark and Seva—had awkwardly began an escape route through the vents of the Niu Hotel, as the communications centre succumbed to fiery oblivion behind them, the guards that had entered it now undoubtedly a melting pot of flesh, metal and incomprehension. Incomprehension for a situation that they had likely believed impossible. That somehow, through some unexpected twist of fate, their deaths had been sealed by three women whose appearance did not resemble anything like that they were taught to worship; grandeur in height, in muscle. Wide shoulders, and even wider necks, painted by mother nature with solid strokes of greyish-white, clad in armour. Instead they had been masterfully hoodwinked by two women and their old grandmother, and left behind to simmer and stew, like a crucible of etiolated losers. Tahna: Just…crawl faster. Finch: Don't you think I am!? ::she barked:: They moved as would a caterpillar, the differing sections of its long body undulating with each movement, connected by a common purpose, to keep on going until the head had reached its target location. In this case, Lark was their head, blocking the view in front, as if she could see much at all anyway through the thickening smoke that threatened to fill and turn their lungs to bags of ash. Then, as they turned a corner, a familiar cold wetness greeted them. It was the end of the vents; Seva: Kick the vent open, Tahna! Now! The woman tried with all her might to do it, but like a mole in foreign tunnels, their “hill” simply would not budge. The idea of this being the way she died sat inside her throat, like a clump of hair, difficult to swallow, teasing at the inner lining of her esophagus. Of all the ways to go out, it had to be through suffocation inside a vent, didn't it? after everything they had gone through. Finch: Use your hands, Lark, ::she choked:: unscrew the— ::coughing:: Moments later, it was opened, and the three of them climbed out of there, the icy breath of the storm reaching down into her throat like an angel sent from heaven, and with a heave, dislodging that which had caused her to nearly suffocate. She tumbled forwards, her eyes bloodshot, everything blurry, her muscles squeezing themselves desperate to inhale the oxygen that her mouth now syphoned with vigour. She could feel Lark beside her also spinning in her own typhoon of pain, the sounds of her feet splashing tempestuously against the floor of the rooftop. Or was it Seva's footsteps? She couldn't make it out in the frenzy. In that moment they had no organised movement, no clarity, just sharp inhales and exhales, as the hammering rain that they had grown to detest fed them with everything that the hotel had tried to steal. Forgiving them for their bitterness towards its plight, bearing no resentment, no judgement, just simply doing what it had been artificially forced to do. And what an irony it was that in her emergence onto that rooftop, away from the fiery pits of the Niu Hotel, she would come to finally appreciate the rain for what good it could do. Tahna: Clear. Let’s get out of here. Finch: Get in the shuttle— As her senses regained themselves, she pointed with a croak to the shuttle that had marvellously gone untouched, ready for them to climb into and soar off, just as she had pictured she would. Only now the picture had two more people in it, who despite her best intentions, she now felt a great deal of care for. But then a figure appeared on her periphery, clad in black, face cold but eyes malefic… his appearance marked by the shooting of his phaser, that soared past Seva’s body and missed her own by a few inches. Seva: Time to go! ::Shouted as she ducks under a phaser blast:: Finch: Get inside! As the other two disappeared behind her, she stopped, her stature small, and her posture weakened by her knees, but her spirit fighting with defiance to be just the opposite. Her beady eyes, the shape of almonds, and the colour of cedar, squinted hard together to get a clearer look at him. He wasn’t firing at her, despite her stillness, yet watched her from his position, the rain crashing hard against the lapels of his coat, and a breeze flicking at its tails. Finch: Who… who is that? Her heart banged violently at the inner walls of her ribs, as if wishing to leave and never come back, made uncomfortable by the space taken up by her heaving lungs, that pulled more air inside of them than they could really hold. Her legs started to tremble first, and then her arms down through to her hands, followed so very quickly by her jaw, clattering the tombstones within them. Everything inside of her screamed, from the tiniest cells to the goosebumps that lifted the pinprick hairs of her skin, along which droplets of rain swerved like miniature racers. Everything except her mouth—whether stubbornness, or shock, or exhaustion, or all of it mixed into one, no scream left her body. And yet everything in her told her she should. Finch: Touch that shuttle and condemn those women and I will kill you— The figure: Oh, Doz. Is that how you greet an old friend? She stumbled. As if she had been putting all of her weight in her tiptoes. A breath fell out of her mouth, its release accompanied by a short sound, like a punctured tire. All of the colour drained from her face, its bumpy surface now a cordillera of distempered white. The voice from the figure in front of her pierced her soul like a rose, its tone tender like its petals, but its arrival sharp like its thorny stem. The only voice in the universe that could turn her own upside down in an instant. But it couldn’t have been… not there. Not now... when she had just started to find purpose again. Finch: No… no it can’t be… She whipped her head around to the shuttle, and through the misty, swirling air, the image of it began to stutter, with harsh thumps. Her breath catching on something, her body now difficult to move, and her clarity tapering away. Like being punched in the face, each head movement felt like a jolt, the vision in front of her snapping between moments like a video tape out of sync, three seconds forwards, three seconds backwards, repeating the man's words back to her. Doz...Old friend... His face flashing before her, zipping forwards and backwards with each blink, revealing more and more of it with each static welt, until she was sure of it. The eyes a shade of stone blue, the hair a wispy cotton. It was him. Finch: M…Mu… Her eyes filled with water, the vision before her zipping in and out of sequence, and then… ((Personal Quarters, USS Gorkon)) …Ensign Doz Finch woke up with a sharp gasp, body flung upwards with a start. Finch: Murphy. She swallowed, her mouth as dry as sandpaper, her lips chapped and split in places. Her hand instinctively reached for her throat, feeling its tough exterior, hard as if it was full of sediments of rock. A bit of sweat dripped down off of her chin and landed on her slightly leathery hand, slowly returning to her that sense of reality, while still stirring within her a bit of disorientation about whether or not she was still on that rooftop, fresh from the sweltering vents that nearly took her life. Finch: Computer ::she said through a gravelly voice:: What time is it, love? The computer’s familiar and factual voice gave her the time, as the lights in her quarters began to slowly increase the visibility of everything around her. Her pyjamas, thick and soft and with the pattern of hundreds of ducks on them, were saturated through to the skin, which explained the dryness of her mouth. She heaved herself to the side, legs dangling below her, and waited just a moment before stepping down and into her slippers. With small and awkward movements, she found her way into her bathroom, eyes squinting, and leaned in to get a look at herself, instantly recoiling at the sight. Her hair wasn’t long, but short and strewn, as if she had been mercilessly beat up through the night. Her eyes were also wet, as if tears had filled them, or sweat. Smacking her dry lips together for a moment, the realisation began to dawn on her that she had been dreaming… and that it wasn’t just any old dream, but a bloody nightmare of epic proportions. Faces and names drifted in her mind like swirls of dust. The girl, Lark… no, Tahna…And Seva… and Mister…Imul? Doz stared at herself in the mirror… in disbelief. Finch: Computer…what date is it? When the computer returned the information, all Doz could do was stand there in shock, looking around at the objects in the bathroom, glancing up at her face in the mirror again, her hands now clasped over half of it. Finch: Computer, love…is this real? Am I alive? Computer: Please restate question. A relieved smile lifted the corners of her mouth, bringing with it a small chortle, and a shake of her head. Finch: Oh, I’m definitely alive. Suppose I should get ready and find out what’s gone on here… but first things first…I need a bloody good cup of tea. fin -- Doz "Gramma" Finch Associate Skarbek Fixer The Maquis & Ensign Doz Finch Engineering Officer USS Gorkon
  25. How @Vylaa let us go through a train of emotions with her latest sim is amazing. ((Stolen Hideki Ship, Indre III High Orbit)) It was all over. The Cardassian ships had been thoroughly smacked down, ripped to shreds by their own exploding ships. For the first time, the Bridge of the stolen Spoon ship was still. Quinn huffed a breath and leaned back into the pilots seat. Vylaa’s sharp eye caught a ghost of a wince pass across the humans face. The pain from her leg must be terrible, and a tiny whiff of necrosis reached her nose and antennae. She stepped back over to the Engineering station as Quinn turned to look at the Vulcan and Andorian. Reynolds: I’ll call that a win. ::She smiled faintly.:: Let’s hope the rest of our lot can say the same about their corner of the liberation. zh’Tisav: I’m restoring full life support to the rest of the ship. Then, I’m going to find the transporter room and beam these dead bodies into space before they really stink up the place. Then I’m going to see if this crate has a med bay. ::She turned to Quinn.:: And see if they have any good painkillers and antibiotics onboard. The zhen turned and walked toward the door they had so recently burst through with guns blazing. Her bruised tuchus made her limp a bit, but she kept her back straight. There would be time to rest and release all of the stress of this mission later, with the aid of lots of alcohol. She raised a hand to wave to the other two. zh’Tisav: ::She raised her hand.:: Failing finding a med bay, I’ll be in the cargo bay having a smoke. T’Lar waved back at her, and… smiled. Vylaa’s eyebrows nearly reached her hairline. Something felt… wrong. Reynolds: ::Quietly,:: There isn’t a med bay. There’s no room for it with all the modifications they did. T'Lar: Where is the music coming from? Vylaa stopped at the door. The most nagging feeling tugged at her gut, like a heavy weight had been dropped into it. Had T’Lar really just said that? And that smile… The only time she’d smiled was when she’d had the concussion, and was ogling Caeden like an animal in heat. Reynolds: ::Quieter still.:: There’s no music. zh’Tisav: T’Lar? Then the strangest thing happened. The Vulcan began to sing. Vylaa shared a glance with Quinn, who pushed herself up. The zhen approached T’Lar cautiously, not wanting to get too close lest she make the wrong move. T'Lar: Street lights... People oh oh ahhhhhhhh... zh’Tisav: Hey, T’Lar. Tell us what’s wrong. Now that she was closer, she could see a dab of green under the Vulcan’s nose. The nagging feeling turned into a vice grip on her soul. T'Lar: Don't— And then, she just dropped. Like a scarf dropped onto the floor, the Vulcan crumpled up into a pile. A very still pile. Too still. The zhen dropped to the floor at almost the same time as Quinn and knelt across from her, T’Lar lying still between them. While the human fished out a tricorder and started a scan, the Andorian grabbed T’Lar’s hand and squeezed, hard. Hard enough to draw a response. But there was none. Reynolds: She’s dead. ::She shook her head.:: Looks like a massive brain bleed. Vylaa couldn’t believe what she was hearing. It couldn’t be true. They had been through too much together, and now, at the very end? They had won. Winners weren’t supposed to die... zh’Tisav: How the hell did that happen?! She was fine! Reynolds: The doctors cleared her back at the clinic, so it must have happened some time after we left. ::She sighed, message sent, and put away the PADD.:: I don’t know. Could have been anything. We’ve had explosions, firefights, space combat... The Andorian waited. That wasn’t a good enough explanation for her. It was half-a**ed at best. They’d all been through the same hell. There was no reason why a Vulcan, even an injured one, would have succumbed and they didn’t. Reynolds: My guess is whatever the Romulans did to her brain made it particularly susceptible to injury. Or—::she frowned, darkly:: —or they’d built in a kill switch. zh’Tisav: What the **** are you talking about? Reynolds: She was a spy for the Romulans, Vylaa. ::Quinn looked up at the Andorian.:: Valesha had reason to be suspicious, and then... well. There were so many things which pointed to it. The V'Kor are police officers on a planet free of violent crime. The V’Shar is Vulcan intelligence, but they’re primarily analysts, and they prefer to leave fieldwork to Starfleet. ::Her gaze fell back onto the fallen woman.:: Her skills didn’t match her background. Parts of her story kept changing. Vylaa couldn’t believe what she was hearing. Had Quinn hit her head? A Romulan spy, here? Vylaa was about to tell the human exactly what she thought of the idea, when she continued. Reynolds: And I’m a touch telepath. I picked up some... things when I was dragging her around in the council building. Suppressed memories, where her handlers talked about a constructed personality to hide the spy, and why she was being sent to the Maquis. That mistake with the shields; my guess is the Vulcan and the Romulan were getting mixed up in her head, and she briefly confused shields with cloaks. Vylaa frowned, tears beginning to drift down her face, a feeling of betrayal creeping across her soul. Not just at T’Lar, or whatever her real name was. Someone she had, reluctantly, begun to consider a friend. But Quinn as well. She hadn’t trusted her enough to tell her that she was working side by side with a potentially dangerous individual. Hell, she’d even been alone with her a couple of times, she could have been killed. She suddenly no longer regretted the words she’d said back in the tunnel. zh’Tisav: Gee, thanks for letting me know… She sat back and scooted away, away from living and dead. Reynolds: She has a daughter. They’re grooming her to infiltrate Starfleet. ::Quinn heaved out a deep sigh.:: I’ve still got some contacts there. I’ll reach out to them, make sure she doesn’t suffer the same fate as her mother. If T'Lar was ever real, I imagine she'd want that more than anything else. zh’Tisav: I suppose… And when we get back, I think I need to take a break. I don’t like being lied to, and I like being kept in the dark even less. I need to figure out where I belong. She stood, and dug the crumpled cigarette pack out of her pocket. Her last smoke in the pack was slightly bowed, but still intact. She lit it as she made for the bridge door, not caring who the smoke bothered. zh’Tisav: Don’t follow me. Reynolds: We should— ((Vylaa’s Quarters, USS Gorkon)) Vylaa’s eyes snapped open. Cobalt irises darted about, trying to sus out her surroundings in the dark. She was in her bed, the air of her quarters refreshing and cool, not the stifling heat of a Cardassian bridge. Cardassian bridge…? The blanket slid off her bare shoulder as she bolted upright, her bare feet landing on soft carpet, not booted feet on hard deck plates. zh’Tisav: oO Was that a dream? Oo It had felt so real. She rose, confusion ruling her mind, and cast a foot about the floor to find where she’d dropped her robe when going to bed. Upon finding it, she slid into it, and shivered when the soft fabric touched her bare neck. Hadn’t her hair just been long? She wasn’t sure what was real and what wasn’t. Was this the dream? She shuffled across the floor, trying to remember more of the dream. She seemed to remember a tunnel, and being terrified to be underground. She’d never felt that way before… The deep dark had always been a friend. She stopped at the bathroom door and turned on the light. She stared at her face in the mirror. zh’Tisav: oO Has my hair always been this short? Oo And black. She could have sworn it had just been her natural white, and much longer, down to her shoulder blades. She leaned closer, trying to see beyond the edges of the mirrored glass, half expecting another version of herself to peek around the edge. The motion sent her shapla swinging out the open front of her robe. She reached for the lucite pendant, glanced at the four twisted hairs buried in the acrylic. She smiled at the soft warmth radiating from the material.. It was as if a knife suddenly cut through the confusion. Her mates were her anchor, the dream feeling less real now. And her… She spun and ran across the dark bedroom, to the front room, stopped at her sofa and grabbed at two photo frames on the end table. There they were, her mates. And in the other, her children. She sighed in relief, feeling guilty for not remembering them. And her sisters... She grabbed a third frame, one of the three of them together at her bonding ceremony. Sataa was alive. Alive and well on Andoria. Happy at her forge, turning Tharan blade steel into weapons. The tall Andorian collapsed into a chair, the relief washing over her like a wave, the pictures clutched close. It hadn’t been a dream. It had been a nightmare. Vylaa "Cable" zh'Tisav Computer Specialist Skarbek Simmed By Lt JG Vylaa zh'Tisav Engineering Officer USS Gorkon
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