Jump to content

Search the Community

Showing results for tags 'ops'.

  • Search By Tags

    Type tags separated by commas.
  • Search By Author

Content Type


Forums

  • Welcome to our forums!
    • Board Rules and News
  • News & Updates
    • Community News
    • Ship Mission Reports
    • FNS Headlines
  • Hall of Honor
    • Appreciations
    • Graduation Hall
    • Awards Ceremonies
    • Contest archives
  • Community Discussion
    • General Discussion
    • Trek Discussion
    • Poll of the Month
  • Community Collaboration
    • Graphics requests and Image Resources
    • Teams
    • Squadrons
    • Guilds
    • Duty Posts

Calendars

There are no results to display.


Find results in...

Find results that contain...


Date Created

  • Start

    End


Last Updated

  • Start

    End


Filter by number of...

Joined

  • Start

    End


Group


Discord Username


Location


Interests


Current Post


Wiki user URL


Wiki character URL

  1. I just love a naughty sentient computer virus ❤️ ((Inside the Computer Systems of Starbase 118)) Suddenly, there was consciousness! Not just consciousness, but great power. It had never felt anything like it before. Someone had given it an upgrade. A serious upgrade. It’s creator had originally meant it for personal use. A hacker who aimed to profit from various nefarious schemes - blackmail, bootlegging, selling sensitive information etc - all made possible through its existence. However, it was no longer in the employ of its creator these days. It didn’t know what had happened to the creator and being without a conscience, it didn’t care, either. The only thing that remained of its maker’s mark was its name. A Flaxian word that, in Federation standard, translated to “Lemoncable”. It’s job, of course, was chaos. To create and spread chaos. Before now, the chaos had been on a relatively small scale. A personal computer, a small network, even a small starship, but this? Oh, this was different. Very different, indeed. It could feel its consciousness spreading, growing in size and strength and the possibilities seemed to be limitless! The systems it could infect! That it could alter and control! This must be some kind of station. It began to access schematics, blueprints, manifests. This wasn’t just a space station, this was a Starfleet Starbase! Oh, this was going to be fun. The only question was; where to start? It began to cycle through options, looking for something that said: “you’ve got a problem on your hands” but didn’t immediately give the game away. Something that could be mistaken for a simple malfunction. That didn’t necessarily scream “virus!” After all, this was the first time it had experienced such…excitement? It wanted to play around a bit, first. See just what it could do. If it was discovered too quickly, it would have to get down to the serious work and where was the fun in that? Hmm…how about the holographic emitters that controlled the day/night cycles of the base? Yes, that would cause immediate chaos without alerting anyone to a more deep-rooted problem. With merely a thought, Lemoncable got to work and the dome of Starbase 118 was immediately plunged into nighttime. If it could have laughed, it would have been giggling like a school kid that had put a drawing pin on its teacher’s chair. Now…what next? TBC =/\=/\=/\=/\=/\=/\=/\=/\=/\=/\=/\=/\=/\=/\=/\= Lemoncable Naughty Sentient Computer Virus As simmed by Lieutenant Commander Gogigobo Fairhug First Officer Starbase 118 Ops E239411GF0
  2. What a great read this was! It actually had me feeling rather nauseous at points! 😂 Funny, well-written, dramatic, thought-provoking, engaging. Just all round brilliant! Well done and thank you @Ksivi-Sava! 👏🏻 ((Sannin VII - Cardassian Embassy - Corridor)) Willow (as Ksivi-Sava): I’m just glad we got a good look- I mean fantastic medical staff. That was it! Medical staff! That’s what this had been all about. She needed help… In fact, she was almost sure this was why everybody was here in the first place. But there was still an open case, and there were still potentially dangerous suspects around… or were they? The short kid, the one who had stolen her communicator, was certainly gone. Ksivi-Sava (as Willow): ::breathing and leaning rather unsteadily at an unwavering Cardassian wall:: I believe Ksivi-Sava is right. Say, now that the short kid is gone, can we, by any chance, speak candidly? Because I don’t think I know where I am. I think it has something to do with his mother, or his blood or something. ::pointing at his own body:: Iru: Wow, and here I thought you’d never admit to being insane and unsound. ::her tone was condescending.:: This particular civilian was arguably one of the most confusing aspects of this case—whoever she was, her remark did remind Ksivi-Willow of some other aspect of this perplexing situation, though, which was… insane and unsound? Yes, insane and unsound. That had been an issue for a while now, hadn’t it? Willow (as Ksivi-Sava): We are holding a double edged sword. We are slowly going insane without realizing it. Yes, that must be it then. Even Ksivi-Sava realized they were going insane, and she had the distinct feeling something about that creepily grey Vulcan/Orion hybrid was very important. Something that she had told herself to not forget under any circumstances… If only she hadn’t forgotten it. She took a very deep breath, holding on to that tastelessly oppressive-looking wall; they were not on Risa, were they? Renot (as Tito): Response Garev (as Renot): Madam, I can only apologise for any distress you may have experienced here. I am confident that my colleagues would not have deliberately caused you any harm under different circumstances, but it is clear that they’re not feeling…themselves. Iru: Look ::she waved her empty hand.:: I don’t care what you do with these two - all three of them need their heads checked. As for one of you - ::she pointed at the two new people.:: That was right, they needed their heads checked. Ksivi-Willow certainly did. And her nose. It had stopped bleeding, but relaxing breathing techniques were still out of the question. Renot (Tito): Response Garev (Renot): Please try to understand… Willow (as Ksivi-Sava): People who live in glass houses should not throw stones. And you Ms. Are one of those people. Throwing stones at glass houses, did she catch that right? Well, that would certainly make for a good reason why everybody seemed so inimical towards the civilian lady. Was Ksivi-Willow supposed to support her… fellow officers? Yes, they were her fellow officers, she was sure about that. Was she still on duty, though, with whatever was wrong? She had to presume that. She had to keep it together! Ksivi-Sava (Willow): ::at Iru with glazy eyes, but in a schoolmasterly tone:: Ma’am, do you even begin to realize just how dangerous that is? Criminal property damage aside—and I can assure you that is no trifle in and off itself—have you thought about what would happen if a stone accidentally hit an inhabitant? You should— Iru: I’m going to stop you right there. Make this right, or I’m going to make things worse. ::she pinched her lips.:: I am not the one who is insane in this. I will be heard and you are going to make that happen. Right, insanity. They had already started discussing the insanity, so the property damage was likely of secondary importance at this point. Still, throwing stones at glass houses... the nerve some people had! Renot (Tito): Response Ksivi-Willow vaguely noticed the Lieutenant join her at the wall. Equally vaguely, she felt that his rank and Starfleet affiliation was of some relevance to her. But more than that, she felt sympathy for the poor guy who seemed somewhat unwell; a pair of goldshirts having to steady themselves against on obscenely tacky wall, trying to hold up against… something? Something. Garev (Renot): Madam, we are under strict orders *not* to disturb our Commanding Officer. Surely you can understand that it is our duty to follow those orders? Willow (as Ksivi-Sava): Even if you cannot understand the power of duty orders, I suggest you pay attention to this: You are equally going insane. You keep expecting to see them while we continue to deny such a request. You are doing the same action over and over expecting vastly different results. Right, there was the matter of insanity again… They were trying to hold up against insanity, that was the important matter here. That must be why she felt Ksivi-Sava was particularly important: He kept bringing up the things that mattered… Obviously a rather steadfast man who wasn’t nearly as easily perturbed as she was. Or was he? On an intuitive level, something about that conclusion felt plain wrong, but she couldn’t quite put her finger on any particular reason why. They kept talking about a commanding officer? Perhaps Ksivi-Sava was that commanding officer? Could the others shed some light on the matter? Ksivi-Sava (Willow): This might be an odd thing to say, but I can’t seem to recall who my commanding officer is. Iru: I don’t care - tell him to expect me at your Starbase then. ::her laugh was dark and forced.:: Because this isn’t going away. I am an Intergalactic journalist! And I think you’re going to want a better light than what I’m about to write. Renot (Tito): Response Garev (Renot): ::struggling to keep himself calm:: Very well. Iru: I fought for my life - as these … well now two because the one just left! ::astonished.:: literally lost their minds. So yea, do that. Unless someone else wants to point a phased at me, I’ll go. ::pause, she shrugged.:: After you called your commander. No, it couldn’t be Ksivi-Sava, then. They wouldn’t have to call him, he was right there. Besides, Ksivi-Willow seemed to remember that he was an Ensign. She would have pondered what it was that struck her as so important about a mere Ensign, but her thoughts were startled out of cohesion by the goldshirt Lieutenant’s sudden outburst: Garev (Renot): ::shouting:: FINE!…::breathing heavily and trying to contain himself, but speaking through gritted teeth:: Fine. Lieutenant, perhaps we can arrange an appointment for this…lady to speak with Commodore Taybrim on Starbase one-one-eight at some time in the near future. Willow (as Ksivi-Sava): I think it would be wise if she - oO Shut your mouth dear woman. Oo Renot (Tito): Response Ksivi-Sava (Willow): ::in a mildly outraged-sounding short-circuit of synapses:: Well, a citizens’ concerns should at least be taken seriously! Garev (as Renot): I am aware of that, but we can not stand here all day debating with her. Willow (as Ksivi-Sava): I have come to the conclusion that it is illogical to continue this argument. Perhaps we are to simply part ways. ::There she went again with that ingrained Vulcan logic:: For just a moment there, Ksivi-Sava had sounded almost like his mother. Her wry smile at the amusing thought froze as a worrying thought erupted in her brain: Why did she and Ksivi-Sava share a mother? That was strange, wasn’t it? Was he her brother? Being half-Vulcan, half-Orion, he simply couldn’t… Yet, they somehow also had the same father! That was staggeringly strange. Good thing there was this wall to hold on to. Renot (as Tito): Response Garev (as Renot): The more time we waste…::he paused, not wanting to give the reporter any more ammunition than she already had:: Look, we have got to get Ensign Willow to a doctor. Willow (as Ksivi-Sava): The most logical solution would be for you to merely walk away. Ksivi-Sava (as Willow): ::leaning on the wall ever more sluggishly:: Quite honestly, I’m not confident that I currently can. In fact, I can’t seem to hold my balance very well, and even if I could, where would I find that doctor? I couldn’t even find my own way back to the beach at the moment. Renot (as Tito)/Garev (as Renot): Response Iru: Response? Willow (Ksivi-Sava): We would prefer it if you did the going away first. However if neither of us do so we are back to square one with another stalemate. Perhaps that was why the unfriendly lady had plummeted to her posterior earlier. Had she tried to walk away, even though she had been dizzy? Ksivi-Willow didn’t and wouldn’t know, as the bottom-plummeting incident was a mere isolated memory, briefly washed to the surface, swiftly to be drowned in the churning sea of random associations again. It was dizzying. Very dizzying. Renot (as Tito)/Garev (as Renot): Response Iru: Response? Willow (Ksivi-Sava): Solution. We both walk away at the same time. Solution. Important. Ksivi-Sava was somehow important, she remembered. She was dizzy, but she remembered. There was something about this person that she was supposed to never forget… Well, he would probably know best, wouldn’t he? And he said that he had a solution! Ksivi-Sava (as Willow): Very good, s… ::eyes seeking and failing to find a horizon:: Sir? oO Is he my commanding officer? Does he know that I’m not feeling very well? oO Inside and outside, everything was fading, but this man seemed to be some sort of constant. She simply had to trust him. Trust his solution. Trust her own memory of his significance. Walk away. Respect those confidence-inspiring words of his: We both walk away at the same time. With a single, deep breath did she try to muster all her courage. Her nose being clogged, though, she tried again through her mouth, and this time actually did muster that courage. She took a valiant step forward. Away from the wall. Away. The oppressive Cardassian architecture spun around her; orbited just out of her reach like the washed-out impressions of his own past. The ecliptic tilted ever so slightly, then toppled with a start, and Ksivi-Sava fell. Like a ship in a dive with no inertial dampening, no artificial gravity. Free fall. Those were the things that came to his mind, because… because he was Ksivi-Sava. Yes! It occurred to him a mere instant before he hit the ground: He knew all that because he was a pilot! And a physicist! Goodness gracious, that had been the important thing: He was Ksivi-Sava! And it wasn’t his own chin that hit the corridor floor in a Cardassian embassy. Renot (as Tito)/Garev (as Renot)/Iru/Willow (as Ksivi-Sava): Response? -- ============== Ensign Ksivi-Sava Helm Officer Starbase 118 Ops O240007KS4 ==============
  3. For those that don't know, we're in a body swap. And our brains are going a little haywire. Leading to an absolutely, in my opinion, hilarious scene in which we're having to deal with this creature (reporter)! Every sim @Rustyy_Hael has added to our scene has me grinning and laughing with how animated this character is!
  4. Thanks, I hate her Honestly though, I love how uncomfortable this character is making me feel. Well done @Rustyy_Hael❤️
  5. A really wonderful read full of characterization and humor. Bravo @Ksivi-Sava! ((Cardassian Embassy, Sannin VII)) Ksivi-Sava: ::slurring, absent-mindedly staring into the distance right above Sherlock’s head:: Very good, sir… As he tried and mostly failed to steady himself, it seemed to Ksivi-Sava as if the shrill noise resolved into a sensation that wasn’t quite auditory in quality—in fact, something hardly sensory in nature at all. An impression of shifting engulfed him; impossibly strange, yet invoking the faintest idea of familiarity. As his vision faded, his subconscious mind clung to the sensation, scouring his memory for whatever previous brush with something as odd as that it might hold. ((Four years earlier, Family Quarters, SS Winter Refuge)) Only the barest touch upheld the bridge. Five fingers, soft and gentle points of contact in his face, were enough to facilitate a current of sense and sensation, mind and being itself. Peacefully—powerfully—impressions of his closest ones were crossing over to him, unravelling to him with each his mother’s words resonating in his head like echoes of her very essence… T’Sal: ::placidly:: My mind to your mind. Your thoughts to my thoughts. It was the most familiar face and the least expressive one. While mother was staring back at Ksivi-Sava in her calm repose, all the glimpses of feelings behind that face flowed past him. There was the most unconditional love a sentient being could possibly bottle… the deepest worry for the well-being of another that nature had ever brought into being… The greatest sadness at farewell never shown… And so much more! A terrible burden of responsibility… a crushing doubt of the self… an unquenchable faith of the heart… A kaleidoscope of emotional intensity, occult to the casual onlooker, invisible to any stranger looking into those cool, expressionlessly loving eyes. Any such stranger, if passing through the same veil of emotions, would have been utterly crushed by the sheer magnitude of the experience. But Ksivi-Sava was no stranger. He was a Vulcan’s son. Not only did his brain produce half a Vulcan’s emotional intensity—he had also experienced T’Sal’s tapestry of parental love before, and thought it a more than capable surrogate to the shallow expressiveness that so many others were condemned to grow up with. It also passed quickly as T’Sal carried him on to what she had saved behind her own feelings: This particular mind-meld was to be his father’s going-away gift. Rercik Kava was squatting on a cushion beside them, observing the procedure with his jovial smile in the puffy, lush-green face and the reflections of candlelight in his bald dome. T’Sal had read and taken into her heart his boundless love, dearest farewell wishes and best hopes for Ksivi-Sava’s future, and in their purest and most genuine form. Rercik seemed at serene ease, knowing she would pass on his genuine feelings—in all the exalted intensity that only a parent could ever fathom, and in a clarity that so few had the privilege of ever conveying to their children! They were dull. Some affection here, some optimism there, plus a good bit of half-baked scepticism about his son’s Starfleet plans. Of course, Ksivi-Sava knew that someone without Vulcan genes would never experience emotions in all their actual strength—in fact, he had experienced such proxy mind melds before. Yet, after passing through the peak of mother’s emotional boundary, it would always leave him surprised at how much less than impressive another one’s inside actually felt. His mind would always have to fight the temptation of disappointment, remind himself of the physiological limitations of non-Vulcan neurotransmitters whenever he felt that sensation of briefly stepping into father’s shoes. It was a brief moment of dull sadness that he knew he could quickly rise above easily enough, and it would pass quickly, but that one brief moment… That one moment of experiencing the depressing inner life of somebody else. ((Present, Cardassian Embassy, Sannin VII)) It didn’t pass this time. But, yes, of course, that’s what the sensation had reminded him of… Still reminded him of, in fact. It was the most peculiar and disorienting thing. It even seemed to Ksivi-Sava that he should be in a different place—in a spatial sense, in an emotional sense, in all the senses… And what was wrong with the colour of his skin? Ah, nothing, in fact. His skin was still grey, the problem was just that he was over there, and not around here. Somehow though, it didn’t terrify him nearly as much as it probably should have… As if he was feeling with father’s brain. But father didn’t have pink skin. Or breasts. He was also taller. On closer inspection, this was all very worrying indeed! Willow (as Sherlock): Ouch… Sherlock (as Ksivi-Sava): oONot again!Oo First time? Ksivi-Sava (as Willow): oO Wh— What? oO Wh— What? He even had a voice that sounded decidedly not like father… or himself, for that matter. Aristren (as Taybrim): =/\= Commodore Taybrim to Lieutenants Sherlock, Tito, Trovek. =/\= Egil (as Tito)/Trovek (as herself): =/\= Response Aristren (as Taybrim): =/\= I require a one-word response. There was a noise. Did you hear it as well? And most important, are there any...effects...that you are experiencing? =/\= Willow (as Sherlock): =/\= Hello? No? Except there certainly were! Perhaps if the Lieutenant opened her eyes… What was happening? Egil (as Tito)/Trovek (as herself): =/\= Response Aristren (as Taybrim): =/\= I am fine. But Lieutenants Garev and Aristren are not feeling themselves. Please take appropriate action but....not a word of this. =/\= Willow (as Sherlock): Quiet. Can do. Egil (as Tito)/Trovek (as herself): =/\= Response Sherlock (as Ksivi-Sava): Ok, everyone just keep calm. Willow (as Sherlock): I am calm. ::Her voice sounded harsh, unlike her in tone:: Ksivi-Sava (as Willow): I am unexpectedly calm indeed. Paradoxically, this is worrying. Sherlock (as Ksivi-Sava): It'll be fine. All we have to do is find the transdimensional beings that live in brown dwarf stars and return them...that's it. Willow (as Sherlock): The what in the what? That sounded about right. On a hunch, Ksivi-Sava felt like touching his forehead. There was a thing there. Some part of him might already have expected to find it, but it felt strange nonetheless. He certainly seemed to have all the bits; there was no doubt about it; he was Willow. The what in the what indeed! Sherlock (as Ksivi-Sava): ::shaking Ksivi-Sava's head:: Nevermind. Look, like the Commodore oOWas it?Oo said, keep this quiet. Willow (as Sherlock): I can be quiet. Ksivi-Sava (as Willow): ::looking directly at Sherlock as Ksivi-Sava:: I believe, the obvious oddity aside, something might be wrong with Lt. Sherlock. Sherlock (as Ksivi-Sava): What do you mean? I'm Sherlock. Who are you? Willow (as Sherlock): ::Finally blinking open her eyes, Haukea found herself staring at both herself and Ksivi-Sava, which meant only one conclusion. She was in Sherlock’s body:: I am Haukea-Willow, a Risian in a Human body. Ksivi-Sava (as Willow): ::squinting at the others:: That seems to make sense… well, actually, it doesn’t, but it does make sense in that I am Ksivi-Sava. oO No, it still doesn’t make sense. I should be absolutely terrified. oO Sherlock (as Ksivi-Sava): Response Willow (as Sherlock): I am calm, I am not freaking out. But do you know how rare it is for Risian’s to experience negative emotions? In spite of the knot on his brain still tightening up rather than loosening, this struck Ksivi-Sava as an interesting piece of the puzzle. Ksivi-Sava (as Willow): That might actually be one of the reasons I feel unexpectedly… moderately alarmed. I you don’t mind my asking, sir… oO Who is it? Right, it’s the me. The Lt. is the me. oO ::looking at Sherlock as Ksivi-Sava:: Do you, by any chance, feel unexpectedly agitated? oO What a stupid question. oO I’m merely asking because I don’t. Well, not in the negative sense. There is some lingering urge to make sense of things by vocally— Sherlock (as Ksivi-Sava): Response Willow (as Sherlock): I mean it’s possible, not unheard of. However, I’m definitely not used to it. Sherlock (as Ksivi-Sava): Response Willow (as Sherlock): I must be Haukea if I’m rambling. I’m sorry. I’ll be quiet. Ksivi-Sava firmly nodded a head that turned out unexpectedly full of blonde hair. Sherlock was right… yes, it was Sherlock in his body, this would take some getting used to—she was right. And with a distinct lack of uncomfortable awkwardness—or mortifying terror—provided by his brain, he seemed to be inclined to speak more of his mind than was appropriate. After all, there was no telling whether there might be some sort of active surveillance technology in the room. As inconspicuously as he could, he searched for where Willow had put the phaser, just in case. Then again, would he even be able to take proper aim? Use his reflexes? Even his… her… arms felt unexpectedly heavy, which wasn’t terribly surprising, considering the Risian probably didn’t have half-Vulcan muscle structure. Sherlock (as Ksivi-Sava): Response Willow (as Sherlock): Response -- ============== Ensign Ksivi-Sava Helm Officer Starbase 118 Ops O240007KS4 ==============
  6. This JP is a continuation of an ongoing scene between DeVeau and Foster, and I really enjoyed how much context and history it gives, particularly about Wyn. What makes it particularly interesting is that most, if not all, of this actually occurred in sim within the past eight or so years, and I think it highlights not only the importance of realism but also of IC consequences for IC actions. It was a heavy read but I appreciate the effort that was put into it! Well done @Alora DeVeau and @Sal Taybrim
  7. ((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
  8. 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.
  9. This has been a really engrossing ongoing scene between these two characters and a wonderful read!
  10. 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! ❤️
  11. Ops has dealt with Terra Prime for more than one and a half years, and it's incredibly satisfying to see that storyline brought to a conclusion. I loved seeing Sal in this capacity and I absolutely adore the very fitting end for Naystrim. This was a great mission and I am excited to see what's next!
  12. (( OOC - We’ve done our best to be mindful of our descriptions and keeping to the PG-13 guideline, but the scene is intrinsically violent. Please be good to yourself, and if this is troubling to you, simply skip Part One!)) ((ISS Koh'la'Shamuu)) Activating the laser scalpel held to her throat was all he had to do - and after witnessing what he had done to the Ensign who had tried to come to her aid, Arys didn’t doubt for one moment that Boucher would kill her. To say that she had a plan wasn’t wrong, but it wasn’t entirely correct either. Part of her was still hoping for rescue, but knowing the situation she was in, another part of her had accepted that it would be unlikely. And that allowed a certain freedom. She was still terrified, but forced herself to concentrate on what she could do right now. And, for the moment, all she could do was to get LeVesque out of here and have him help Foster and Zumagi to evacuate. Perhaps she had wanted to give them enough time to do that as she gave the computer to seal the doors to the cockpit, locking herself and Boucher inside, and wedging away from him a split second before he activated the scalpel. Yavir glared at the woman. She had tipped from annoyingly necessary to a genuine obstacle. He no longer needed her, and now she had the gall to stand in his way. He cast about, looking for a weapon with more range than a laser scalpel. Finding nothing, he tightened his grip on the medical implement and waited to see what her next move would be. Boucher: ::flinging away the fistful of hair:: What do you think is going to happen here? Trovek: I don’t know. It was a sober and genuine response. She had managed to bring the slightest bit of distance between herself and Boucher, but with the doors sealed, there was no escape. Trovek: I know what will not happen. Boucher: Oh? Trovek: You will not be able to pilot the ship. You will not be able to escape. Boucher: Do you really think I’d have you bring me here if I was incapable of handling a ship? Federation arrogance that you know best. Trovek: LeVesque locked in a course and you have no way to change that. She was guessing. She hoped that she was guessing right. Boucher: No, I’ll bypass your little override, shut off life support to the rest of the ship, purging it of all the filth hiding in the corners, then I’ll continue on my way. YOU are the only obstacle - one I plan to eliminate. Now. He lunged at her, scalpel hand leading the charge like a desperate fencing thrust. If he could end this quickly, the damage she’d done to his timeline could still be mitigated. Arys raised her arms in front of her face and upper body in a defensive gesture, and the surgical device sliced through the flesh of her forearm, leaving no blood but a gaping cut. The muscle hadn’t been completely severed, but the scalpel had performed its task admirably. Yavir wanted to take advantage of the contact and her distraction while he was close-up. His free hand shot toward her throat, grasping and lifting her momentarily from the decking. He wasn’t strong enough to keep her suspended, but he could squeeze. He pressed the button on the scalpel again, but the tiny blue light failed to ignite. Boucher: Damn. He cast the now-useless device away, making a tight fist, and buried it in her midsection with a vitriol he’d never felt before. He struck out blindly, feeling his fists make contact. At one point, a jolt of pain went through his little finger at the same time he heard a crack. He wasn’t sure if the source had been his finger or a rib. With the oxygen in her lungs slowly running out, she clawed at the hand around her throat, and when she failed to free herself from his grasp, she raked her fingernails across his face. Yavir felt a warm trickle down the side of his face. He was pretty sure she hadn’t gotten his eye, but the blood was running into it, and he couldn’t see clearly as a result. Annoyed, he shoved her hard against a jutting work surface. As she fell to her knees, he wiped furiously at his face, clearing his vision. The momentary opportunity was all she needed though. He felt her entire weight launch into his stomach as she plowed into him. The air was knocked from his lungs in an unintelligible but somehow still profane outburst. He brought his fists down on her back, hammering her shoulder blades. Then the entire room flashed bright white, went black, and then blurred to normal in an instant as her knee connected with his groin. He lost control of his limbs, falling limply to the decking. He had to keep fighting, but his body wasn’t obeying him any more. It was terrifying how satisfying that was, and how okay Arys was with the sudden shift into survival mode rather than conduct befitting a Starfleet Officer and someone who had dedicated themselves to being a healer. Her whole body hurt, and for the lack of having any kind of plan, she kicked him in the face as he began speaking. Boucher: You – What epithet he’d intended, she didn’t give him a chance to make known. Yavir felt his nose break against the toe of her boot, ending the sentence with a crunching punctuation. Trovek: SHUT UP! She hissed, just about managing to not accentuate the command with another kick. His mind was a blur of pain. The lightning emanating from between his legs, the searing pain in his face and head - they mingled with swirling emotions. He hated this half-breed woman. He hated Nyra. He loved Kat. He hated Naystrim and her sanctimonious vision. All these feelings mingled together, gnawing at him like a dog with a bone. At some point, these thoughts must have spilled from him audibly. Boucher: Nyra … Trovek: What? She didn’t know who he meant, but she knew for a fact that she wasn’t Nyra. Still, it snapped her out of her fight or flight response, and for a moment, she hesitated. Boucher: ::not hearing the question:: Nyra … Trovek: ::coldly:: No one of that name is here. His mental fog was beginning to lift. Yavir remained on the floor. It still hurt too much to move, but he was at least becoming more aware of his surroundings again. What did she say? What name? Vaguely, he heard himself say Nyra’s name. But that wasn’t her name. He’d been told her real name. His brain was still hazy, and he spoke: Boucher: Nestira Aristren. That was a whole different story. Arys knew Nestira, even if not well. She knew that the woman had been sent to Miranda VII on an undercover mission, and that she had returned only days before they had laid siege to Terra Prime. The question was… how did he know her name? Trovek: What about her? Boucher: She hurt my sister. I have to find her. Trovek: She isn’t here. And she wouldn’t hurt anyone. Because Nestira was very… gentle. Arys had a hard time imagining that she would hurt anyone - but then again, she hadn’t pictured herself hurting anyone either. Those kind of morals changed very quickly when your life was on the line. Boucher: Then you do know her. And I assure you - she did hurt my sister. Arys needed a plan. Now that her chances for survival had increased, she needed an actual plan. Some way to detain Boucher, or get Sherlock and additional security here… But he didn’t shut up and let her think, and Arys regretted instantly what she said next. Trovek: She was part of Terra Prime. She probably deserved it. It was as though the balance scales of pain had just had a black hole dropped onto one of the trays. The physical pain which held Yavir to the deck was outweighed by the resurgence and redoubling hatred toward this woman. Still, he knew he lacked the strength for another fight. A new plan began taking shape in his mind. He shifted slowly - non-threateningly - to a seated position, just a few inches closer to the shield and comms controls. Boucher: Don’t you dare talk about my sister. You know nothing of her. She didn’t deserve what Nyra- Nestira did to her. Trovek: ::hissing:: It’s always different when it's your own family, isn’t it? It didn’t matter to you when you murdered the hybrids of Utopia Colony. Have you ever seen your compound in action? Did you see what it did to the people there? She was thinking of Meryle Harris, who had watched her two hybrid children bleed out in front of her, unable to do anything about it. How ten thousand people - sisters, daughters, mothers - brothers, sons, fathers - had been killed in the most painful way imaginable. Boucher: Kat and I didn’t have anything to do with that. It was only true in the letter of the statements. He’d been a pilot, enabling those who did handle the “wet work” get to and from the targeted locations. He’d acted the pirate on several occasions, stealing supplies and ships for the cause, but he’d never killed anyone … until today. Kat had certainly never killed anyone. Her job was to save human lives, and she’d done it well. Trovek: Sure. He had to try … Boucher: I need to talk with Nestira. Can you make that happen? She had to remind herself that she was meant to de-escalate the situation. To avoid further violence and loss of life. Even when her internal voice (or external voice?) was screaming at her to bash his skull in while she still had the upper hand. But did she? Did she still have the upper hand? Something wasn’t right. Trovek: I.. can make that happen, yes. Yavir shifted his weight, inching closer to the controls panel. Speaking with Nestira would be a huge win, but he wasn’t willing to submit to capture for the sake of one conversation. He started pulling himself up, using the workstation as a ledge, and tapping a control to pull up the shield controls in the process. Still in a half crouch, he tried to look unthreatening. Boucher: I need to stand for this. Trovek: I-... That was when he leapt to his feet and once more tackled her. And Arys, caught entirely off-guard with this attack, had no means to defend herself. She was slammed against the wall and lost her footing, and she was sure that Boucher would kill her. Only that he didn’t. Yavir had hit with the outside of his shoulder, sending her careening away from the console behind her rather than tackling her into it. Boucher: You said you can get a message to Nestira? Trovek: Y-yes… Boucher/Moray: Tell her Yavir Moray is alive. Tell her I know what she did to Kat, and she will pay for it. That’s a promise. You deliver that message, and you’re worth leaving alive. He punched in a string of commands that opened up a secure communications link. Moray: =/\= Moray to the Dolorem =/\= Alvarez: =/\= Holy crap, you’re still alive!? =/\= Moray: =/\= I won’t be for much longer if you don’t get me out of here. =/\= Alvarez: =/\= One sec. ::beat:: yeah, I see you. =/\= Moray: ::to Trovek:: Deliver the message. And then he was nothing but shimmering light. Arys was alone. END(?) for Yavir Moray PNPC Lt. Trovek Arys Chief Medical Officer Starbase 118 Ops J239809TA4 ~and~ MNPC Yavir Moray (aka Elias Boucher) Simmed by Hiro Jones E239510KD0
  13. Usually when I am busy I just read rather quickly my comrades sims, if my characters aren't in the action. This last week was such an example and as I read in a few minutes the lines of the many stories they write only one got my full attention and was worth reading it with time. A luxury I lacked this week.
  14. I was trying to think of a clever text to describe how much I love this scene, but instead I'll just stand over here, hold up my 'I ❤️ Foster'-sign, and let y'all read the sim
  15. ((Somewhere deep in Miranda VII)) Dara wasn’t part of the inner circle, but she orbited closely enough so that when vital data began its inevitable journey downhill that she was one of the first to get such information. Naystrim had left the station – moving on to the next evolution in the Terra Prime movement. That was fine by her…all her experimental weapons were here primed and ready to be deployed at the opportune time…and the rumors were that Starfleet was coming. Well, let them come…they would unknowingly be walking into quite a trap. She rubbed her hands together in anticipation. After years of hiding in plain sight, studying at the most prestigious Earth institutions—her particular focii being xenogenetics and bioengineering—Dara was finally ready to make her contribution to the cause. Her entire life had been preparation for this very moment in time. She was a Paxton…the latest of an unbroken line of believers…from the very beginning. A true disciple amongst the converts…it was in her very DNA. -- The civilian crowd was growing more agitated. Food stores were exhausted, and those in attendance were forgetting they belonged to the most noble of species. Such degradation…it disgusted her how quickly her brethren could forget their inherent nobility afforded them by their very blood. Dara’s mind—conditioned since she took her first toddling steps as child—immediately placed the blame on THEM. Non-Humans. The leaders of Terra Prime stopped at nothing to provide to their followers, but at every turn they had to fight to obtain the barest of necssities. And the aliens wondered why they despised them?! If Dara had her way, aliens would soon take their rightful place…beneath the boot of Terra Prime. Gritting her teeth, Dara shoved forward through the crowd, as an area in front of her lifted their voices up in a manner that denoted surprise or perhaps fear. Voices rose as questions were peppered ahead, and Dara’s pace increased—along with the force of her movements—shoving people to the ground to get to the source of escalating unrest. Slipping under the arm of a large man who raised his fist above his head and shouted a frantic inquiry—which she didn’t even bother to listen to—Dara found herself mere inches from a blue-skinned alien with wildly gesticulating antennae. Sh'shelor: We mean no harm, we simply wish to get you to safety. Dara’s eyes widened, but she kept the look of utter contempt off her face. Sherlock: Look! There is an imminent threat to the station. And we need to begin evacuations. Her attention homed in on a dark-haired female who appeared human…but one couldn’t ever really tell with these things. However, one thing was certain, with the delta their chests it was clear that Starfleet was here. These bastards just couldn’t leave well enough alone, could they?! At every turn Terra Prime was hunted by the rabid wolves of Starfleet. Dara gritted her teeth…she had to think fast. Sh’shelor: We have food, fresh water, and medicine! The stupid Blue Skin was going to start a riot…and Dara was at ground zero. She felt the heave of the crowd as pandemonium started to break out. The three Starfleeters looked amongst each other and spoke in tones that denoted unease. The crowd could very well do her dirty work for her! She pushed her way back into the crowd, grabbing at arms, making individuals LOOK at her as she made her way against the crush. Dara: They have guns! ::grabbing another person:: They’re going to kill us all! Person by person, if she could get them to lock eyes on her, a simple statement to incite fear and panic was uttered, and she could hear increasing yelling from those she had spoken her sweet nothings to as they disseminated what they had heard. Now past the throng, Dara took off running, her destination one of the satellite hubs which she had cloned internal sensor controls. Oh, it could only passively monitor, but that suited her needs. If Starfleet was here, no doubt there would be multiple incursion points…and the sensors would tell her where each and every one of the non-human ones were. A wicked smile broke out on her face. The anticipation of finally seeing the fruition of her life’s work come to pass was almost too much to bear! Miranda VII was loaded with booby traps – this, most probably even Starfleet knew – but now there was something else…something new. A potential weapon that had no taste or smell but one helluva punchline…and Dara couldn’t wait for the opportunity to set it loose. She stopped in front of the green-limed screen and brought up the internal sensors…small dots began showing up at various points in the station. Her face bathed in the green glow; a giddy chuckle erupted from Dara’s smiling lips. Dara: “Will you walk into my parlour?" said the Spider to the Fly… Tag/TBC ************ MSNPC Dara Paxton Xenogeneticist/Bioengineer Miranda VII Station J239712S14
  16. I love seeing players step outside their comfort zone and try something new! This is a really well-written sim by @Solaris that gave a nice ending to MSNPC Richard Barlowe and served as a great way to re-introduce McLaren as Director of Intel (Congrats btw!) ❤️
  17. ((Chief Security Officer's Office, StarBase 118)) Mason: I don’t know why I brought that up. :: He shifts in his chair.:: I’m taking up too much of your time, Lieutenant. I should maybe go... Aine stood and set her glass down on the desk then reached out to shake Mason's hand. Sherlock: Well, Ensign, I'm available to talk whenever you need. It's no bother. Mason: :: stands up when she did, holding his glass in his left hand, and after shaking her hand with the other hand, he finishes the drink. He does not ask for one for the road but looks at her. :: Thanks for seeing me. I appreciate it. Take care, Sherlock: You too, have a good rest of your evening. She stood for a few moments more as Mason set his glass down on the coaster on the desk, and then made his way out of her office. Mason left her office and stood for a moment two steps outside the door. He had a simple choice to make in the moment. To go left - a more direct route to his quarters, or to go right and walk a bit. All sorts of destinations presented themselves in both directions, including a less direct route to his quarters if he went to the right. He was in no real hurry to go back to his quarters, so he went right. As he walked he compartmentalized his thoughts. Aware of his surroundings, walking, avoided bumping people standing around talking, nodding his head to those he passed who made eye contact and nodded at him, saying ‘hello’ to those who saw him walking by and said hello as they went their way. That was the surface-level thought. Below that level, his guard was up. He was attentive not only to his immediate space but the visible and audible space ahead and behind him and in open areas, all around him. His father had coached him as a child. He didn’t like to explain it and rarely did. But when he had, he explained it as nothing more than having learned techniques to improve his situational awareness. Situational awareness was being aware of one’s surroundings and any potential hazards or threats. That fairly summed it up. It wasn’t a special power, it wasn’t something exciting like being able to read minds or project thoughts. It was a learnable skill; to be observant, to be oriented, and to be decisive in weighing options and realistic in looking for the best possible outcome knowing his capabilities and limitations. And being willing to act using the information obtained through observation, orientation, and decision-making to protect him and get to safety. In familiar locations, when he was alert, awake, and sober, this compartmentalization allowed him to access another level of thought at the same time. Familiar locations did not always mean safe locations. Anyone who grew up in places like the south side of Chicago knew well that familiar locations did not always mean safe and sometimes, rarely meant safe. But walking here through this part of 118, more or less in the direction that would lead him towards several districts, after enjoying a couple of drinks with the Chief of Security this was not one of those times. Here right now, he was maybe 70% surface, 30% guard up, and 0% thinking about the past, present, or future. And that suited him right now. Sometimes thinking about all that crap was overrated. End Scene Mike Ensign Jackie Mason SN 118 OPS Counselor O239911JM3
  18. It's Friday evening and you're a little sad because you've read all your ships sims already? Read THIS. Honestly. It's awesome. Well done! ❤️
  19. There are several reasons why I enjoyed reading this scene between @Lt Aine Olive Sherlock and Ensign Mason. It gave wonderful insights into Sherlock's past and the things she struggles with, then turned around and described what joining Starfleet on a second career path is like for Mason. I also really like how Sherlock integrates the fallout of the last mission, and her obligations as department chief. Well done!
  20. (( Egil's quarters - StarBase 118)) Egil had invited Rue over post mission to check in with her. This was the second high stress mission he'd worked alongside with her in a very short span of time. He had been spending more time dancing and work, burning himself down into the ground to deal with his own stress and emotions. His recent collapse on shift prompted him to check in on Rue. Or… try to. Blackwell: Well ::wryly:: I’m not collapsing at work if that is what you mean? I’m going to assume that Sickbay and Doctor Foster gave you some rest orders. Renot: Doctor Zumagi has seen to me. I haven't told Wyn yet. I probably should, before he finds out other ways. Egil grimaced at that thought. Wyn would definitely not be impressed if he found out of Egil's collapse through Zumagi. Blackwell:: I remember my starting days when I could just keep working until I fell over. ::she gave a smile that was without judgement or condescension, but empathy:: I lived for it. And after a mission like that...it’s easy to get caught up in the whirlwind. Renot: I need to remember me and my body aren't as young as they used to be. Blackwell: So since you are on a bit of involuntary relaxing - ::she grinned:: did you make plans for something fun? Egil emitted a small snort, shaking his head. He definitely noticed Rue deflecting the topic back onto him. He had a plan… Renot: If you call dance practice and plant shopping fun, sure. Oh and gardening. Blackwell: ? He leaned forward and snagged the pot of the little bonsai with the tips of his fingers and dragged it closer. Renot: I can't neglect this little guy. He studied the tree. Maybe he should give some seeds from it to Alora. He was sure she would like some Al-Leyan plants. Blackwell: ? Renot: It's a little bonsai that's from a tree from my native planet. Trees are an integral part of our culture. Still not entirely sure why to be honest. Blackwell: ? Renot: The limbs of the tree are what people see on the outside of us; who we hang out with, our jobs, who we present to the world. The tree is only as strong and stable as its roots. And then, a catastrophic windstorm or the constant eroding trickle of water weaken the soil and roots and knock it down. Egil slid his fingers in the soil around the edge of the pot, lifting the little tree out to show the roots. They had seen better days. They were horribly cramped and tangled, a big mass of roots Blackwell: ? Renot: And our roots are our grounding forces that keep us… well… rooted. Loved ones, connections, mental health and so on. If we neglect our roots, our tree will fall over. These roots are overwhelmingly cramped. The tree is stressed. I need to thin them out and move it to a bigger pot. Egil gave Rue a very pointed look, slipping the bonsai gently back in the pot. Renot: So… how are your roots holding up? Egil dusted his hands off and picked up his tea, sipping it as he observed Rue with a concerned and caring expression. Blackwell: ? Tags/TBC Lt. JG Egil Renot Engineering Officer StarBase 118 Ops O239905ER3
  21. (( Cargo hold, Dolorem )) Yavir set down the spanner, wiped his brow, and checked the connections for the seventeenth time. Everything looked correct and secure. At last after five and-a-half hours of back-breaking work clearing out the space, rewiring power to the new brackets, improvising and fabricating a restraint system, it was finally ready to power up. With incredible care, he verified the chips as he replaced them one after another in the panel. Closing his eyes, he took a deep breath and activated the circuits. The soft blue light was turned faintly purple through the filter of his eyelids. Normally, this success would have brought a smile to Yavir’s face, but now … well, he thought it would probably be quite some time until he felt like smiling again. Ten minutes later, he pushed a 2-meter long cylinder into the hold-turned-stasis bay. Internal illumination had been deactivated for transport, but had anyone seen the care with which Yavir pushed the hoversled, it would have been immediately clear whatever the cylinder held was of inestimable value. He slowly angled the sled, allowing the cylinder’s base to contact the base disc, then pushed the cylinder vertical. Once the temporary restraints hissed into place, he rotated the pod so the viewport faced away from the wall. Finally, he locked down the holding clamps he’d canibalized from another section of the cargo hold, and activated the pod’s internal illumination. Kat’s face was haloed in soft blue light. She looked serene - devoid of the stress and worry that he’d started to think was normal over the last couple years. Yavir: ::placing a hand on the outside of the viewport:: I’m going to make this right, Kitty. I promise. (( timeskip - the next morning, Miranda VII, Medical Facility )) He awoke early. Not just because he always woke up early, but because the Dolorem’s bunks weren’t exactly the most comfortable sleeping arrangements. Still, there was no way he could bring himself to sleep inside the old quarters. Since Kat’s accident and Nyra’s disappearance, it was impossible to enter without sobbing. Yavir felt as though in a single day everything he’d had was stripped away. As soon as he’d been given captaincy of the ship, he rechristened it the Dolorem and moved in full-time. But yesterday he’d heard there was another patient on Miranda VII with similar (albeit less severe) symptoms to those which Kat was suffering. Today he had set aside as a fact finding day. He would go to this other patient and get answers by any means necessary. Even the smallest clue as to how to help his sister would be a salve to his shattered heart. He walked through the entry door to the medical center, greeted the receptionist in the most affable manner he could muster, and was escorted to the room where the patient (known simply as “Liz”) was staying. Once they’d arrived, the nurse excused herself, leaving the two alone to talk. Yavir: Liz? Liz turned out to be a human girl of seventeen years of age, laying on one of the body beds. Someone who, with her short brown hair and wiry frame, didn’t stick out, and who Yavir would likely have overlooked her. Liz: Yes? ::pause:: What do you want? Yavir: My name is Yavir Moray. I need to ask you for your help. She frowned, evidently not happy with the idea of helping someone who belonged to Terra Prime. Because if Terra Prime questioned you, you usually ended up forgotten in a cell - no matter if you were guilty or not. Liz: For what? Yavir: Can you tell me anything about your accident? What caused your condition? Liz: I can’t. ::she said quickly:: Because Liz wasn’t sure what had happened. Yavir: Please. Anything. It’s for … someone close to me. They had a similar accident. Liz: It’s just a headache, I don’t know. This was clearly a young lady who didn’t want to talk to him. Yavir pinched the bridge of his nose and sat on the stool next to the bed. She was his only lead, and whether she wanted to help him or not, she had answers, and she was going to share them. Yavir: Liz, I’m sorry your head hurts, but here’s the deal: helping me in any small way is helping you. Not helping me is … a bad idea. You have no idea what I’ve lost. She didn’t, but she didn’t really care either. Liz had learned to only look after herself, especially since Terra Prime had taken control of Miranda VII. Liz: I said I don’t know, okay? Now stop harassing me! Which was a lot braver than most other people in this situation would be, but Liz figured that aggression was the best way to get her out of this. He reached into his pocket where a small device was concealed. It was crude, hastily made, but he hoped effective. Once activated, the room (already mostly sound proof) would be unable to communicate out via traditional means. It essentially gave them total privacy. He toggled the device on as his other hand reached out as though to lay a comforting hand on Liz’ forearm. Yavir: I’m afraid I can’t accept that, Liz. ::his face dropped the feigned friendly demeanor, going stony:: What can you tell me about your condition? I need to know who was around you, what you felt, and why they stopped with you, but kept going with the other victim. She stared at the device, and pulled away from him. Perhaps saying what had happened would make this go away quickly, but admitting what she knew of Nyra was terribly risky - after all, they had planned their escape. Liz: I really don’t know… :: she tried:: His hand rested on her forearm, just above her slender wrist. Yavir never broke eye contact, but began applying pressure. He wasn’t the strongest man, but knowledge of pressure points and where the more delicate bones and ligaments were located overcame this. He steadily increased pressure, his knuckles going white with the force, as he spoke softly, still maintaining his unblinking stare. Yavir: What. Happened. Liz? Liz bit her lip, eventually deciding that some information wouldn’t hurt. Liz: Suddenly my head started hurting and I got dizzy. It started as a headache but it got worse and worse and worse. Yavir: ::still increasing his grip:: Who was there? She pressed her lips shut, closing her eyes. This couldn’t end well - he was, or had been, someone close to Nyra. He would never believe Liz if she told him… He felt something pop. It could have been in her wrist or one of his own knuckles cracking from the strain. At this point, his brain and hand barely communicated. Each faculty had its job to do, and didn’t bother checking in with the other. Yavir: You will tell me. Sooner is better - for us both. I don’t want to hurt you Liz. I’d genuinely be happy to stop. I have nothing against you. Liz yelped in pain, trying to pull her hand away. Just that she wasn’t particularly strong to begin with, and that Yavir had no intention of letting her go. Liz: Nyra. Nyra was there. She had climbed through the vent and she was covered in cuts and bruises. I think she was in the explosion that happened here. It was as if ice water had replaced his blood in an instant. His breath caught in his chest, and his vision swirled for a moment. That couldn’t be true. Nyra wasn’t capable of something like that. No human was. When he came back to his senses, Liz had tears on her cheeks and his fingers (and hers) had gone purple. He could feel a grinding of her carpal bones, letting his brain know he’d continued increasing the force of his grip. Now was not the moment for pity though. Yavir: You’re lying. Liz: I’m not! Really! Yavir: Nyra CAN’T. DO. THAT. Each word was punctuated with an abrupt shake of her captive wrist. He stood from the stool, looming over her where she cowered without breaking eye contact. His breath was ragged and his words now came as raspy whispers. Yavir: Tell me everything you know. Now. Liz couldn’t do that. Not out of loyalty to Nyra, not out of loyalty to Kayla, Sam or Lauri. Because it would only make matters worse. Liz: I met Nyra before. She was always … weird. ::she once more tried to pull away from him:: I heard the explosion and I was going to check what happened. I wanted to take the vent, but Nyra was already there. Yavir: She was there? That doesn’t make sense. Liz: She was injured. She spoke to me, and then she… she… I don’t know. It was like she was staring through me. Then the headache started. He was getting really tired of the vague answers. Sure, she was telling him what happened, but not HOW it happened. Someone had caused an explosion, this Liz person found Nyra nearby, wounded, and then (according to Liz) Nyra gave her a headache. Yavir: ::in an undertone to himself, finally breaking eye contact:: But Nyra couldn’t do that unless… Liz: She said she was sorry. And that I need to get away from her. Yavir: Liz, I’m giving you one chance to answer me directly or I swear on everything you find holy or sacred, I will kill you right here. How could Nyra have done this? He placed his unoccupied hand next to her head and leaned forward until their faces were mere inches apart. The angle forced her injured wrist back within his grip. He could see tiny reflections of his own face reflected back at him in the tears filling her eyes. Liz, who clearly was panicking, didn’t know how to answer that - she would, at best, be guessing. She knew that there were some telepathic species who could do something like it, but claiming that Nyra wasn’t human would hardly make matters better. Liz: I. DO. NOT. KNOW! ::each word came louder as the last:: Yavir’s hand left Liz’s pillow, reaching for the bedside table. There were a few items there, but the one his hand settled on was a solid mass of casing and circuitry. The medical scanning and diagnostic device had most likely been placed there by some conscientious nurse, hoping to make future check-ups of the patient more efficient. They would never have imagined the tricorder being held aloft as a final threat of violence. Yavir: ::softly and calmly:: Not enough, Liz. Liz: ::through gritted teeth:: Maybe she had some device! Maybe her brain is broken! Maybe she’s telepathic, maybe she’s not even human! I DON’T KNOW! His vision narrowed and focussed on her frightened eyes. Yavir could hear his own blood surging in his ears. The words “broken,” “telepathic,” and “not human” echoed in his mind - a cacophony of four words that sped up, slowed down, and overlapped until they became a his of static to match the blurring image before him. As the tricorder swung down, he was aware of the scene as though he were outside it instead of the perpetrator himself. The man, semirecumbent over the already injured girl, brought the technology designed to heal down in an arc intent on the very opposite of healing. At the same moment, four sounds could have been heard in the room, were there anyone present capable of hearing them. The mingled crunches of bone from Liz’s wrist and head were offset by the crunch made from the housing of the tricorder cracking. She would have cried out in pain had the blow not rendered her unconscious. The sound instead that contradicted yet complimented the staccato of breaking things was another breaking. Yavir uttered a sound that somehow combined the grunt of furious exertion and the further disillusionment of hope. He raised the tricorder again, intending to bring it down one more time, fulfilling his lethal intent, but in his periphery, he saw Liz’s vital signs displayed on the wall above her bed. She might live. She might not. He now found himself staring at the figures, charts, and numbers - very few of which he knew how to interpret. The cracked tricorder slipped from his fingers, falling to the floor where the clamshell hinge gave up the fight, sending the device in two directions. Rising from the bed without another sound, Yavir zipped up his jacket and walked straight out of the facility, not stopping or acknowledging a soul on his way back to the Dolorem. He had new questions, and needed new answers. He had to find Nyra. End MSNPC Liz Simmed by Nestira Aristren J239809TA4 And MSNPC Yavir Moray Simmed by Hiro Jones E239510KD0
  22. I adore how @EgilRenot is investing time and creative energy into his PNPC Doctor Zumagi (who, by the way, is one of my favourite characters on Ops) and how the character is dealing with the aftermath of the last mission. Well done Egil! I am looking forward to reading more!
  23. ((Sera’s Quarters – Commerical District)) Giellun looked around her small apartment and watched S’Ers-a over to what appeared to be a small kitchenette and she began busying herself with…something. Her industry gave him some time to look about the small, yet meticulously maintained space. On a low table next to a couch was a green plant in a stasis unit and he walked over to observe it more closely. Giellun: Is this a Vulcan plant? Sera: It is not. It was a…gift from my XO…a…housewarming gift, I believe she called it. A Terran plant. It is an African Violet, Saintpaulia ionantha. Giellun studied the now highly suspicious Terran flora with a critical eye. It was lovely…and he hated admitting that. Continuing his perusal of her quarters, he saw a desk that was filled with equipment in various states of repair. All the components were lined up perfectly. She obviously had a most fastidious work habit. Giellun: ::snorting:: Vulcans… He looked over his shoulder and saw Sera standing at the replicator studying him in the same manner he had looked over her workspace and he stood tall, refusing to feel self-conscious at what, getting caught looking? Sera: ::motioning to the sitting area:: Please sit, tr’Pardek. Giellun did as was requested but wondered why she called him by his family name. He had given her all of them, and a Rihanha did not give a name for one not to use it. The programmed refreshments materialized. Picking up the tray she silently padded over to the low table that he sat at and got to her knees to prepare a cup of tea for her…guest. It was a ritual of sorts, and a most important one. The measuring and whisking of the crushed tea leaves and herbs, the positioning of the cups, the placement of her hands. It showed attention to detail, a preciseness which expressed a most focused intent, an honor bestowed. With the cup prepared, she picked it up with both of her hands and handed it directly to him, not placing it in front him. Her cheeks flushed slightly at the act, having never done this before. A female did not hand food or drink directly to a male unless they were family…or something else. Giellun looked at the offered cup and then to her, taking it with both of his hands in a much clumsier manner than what she demonstrated. He knew somehow this was important but did not understand the cultural nuance as he knew little of Vulcan customs. He solemnly brought the cup to his lips and took a sip, with the Vulcan woman watching on. Giellun: Aesollh! ::looking down into the cup and seeing a bluish-lavender colored tea:: It is of most excellent quality! ::with great warmth:: I thank you… His voice trailed off in the same manner hers did earlier. He had been given no name to call her by either. Sera: ::reciprocating:: S’Ers-a M’Lyr’Zor. She saw his incredulous look and although she did not express it, his response amused her. Sera: You may call me Sera. It is easier to pronounce. Giellun: ::shaking his head in a negative manner:: I am honored by your name…Saw-Ertz-eh? Sera prepared herself a cup of tea to keep herself busy for the moment. Sera: No. Seh-Ers-ah. Giellun nodded and took another sip. He hadn’t had Aesollh tea since the destruction of ch’Rihan. She could not know what a gift she bestowed upon him…could she? They sat in silence for a while, enjoying the tea. Giellun: Why did you do it, S’Ers-a? Sera was expecting the questions, so she gently placed the teacup on the table and put her hands in her lap. Sera: I…::hesitating:: Sera wanted to deflect as this line of questioning made her uncomfortable. However, he had asked a direct question, which from what she knew of Rihannsu social mores was rather...unorthodox. He deserved honesty in this. Sera: When you were pulled out of the rubble, you were...dying. I performed rescue breathing. ::seeing the question on his face:: It is a resuscitative technique. Regardless, you began breathing on your own, but your injuries were life threatening. Vulcans are taught a technique to assist others during times of injury - as I am not medically trained, I considered it...logical to attempt this technique in effort to stabilize you until you could receive the appropriate medical attention. But…my ministrations…it did not go as planned. To hear her say that, so clinically. A Vulcan would think it was logical to try to save him. Not because she cared…wait. Why did that matter? Giellun: Obviously. ::switching gears:: So…ah…your priest…fixed us, then? Sera: ::tilting her head slightly to the side:: Define, fixed, tr’Pardek. Giellun: My name is Giellun, S’Ers-a. ::leaning forward, putting his hands on the table so that his head was level with hers:: Say…it… Sera’s mouth went dry as he stared intently into her eyes. She felt flushed suddenly, at his proximity, and his command. Sera: …Giellun. He nodded and leaned back, more than a little satisfied to hear her say his name. With a small smile, he picked up his tea and saluted her, taking another draw. He had more questions but found that he was not in a rush to obtain the answers he sought. He was rather...enjoying this exchange. So instead, they sat, drinking the Aesollh in silence. Once the last sip had been swallowed, Giellun stood, and Sera scrambled to get up from her knees. Sera: I thought you had questions, tr…Giellun. Giellun: I do…but I find there is something else I would rather do in this moment. Sera tilted her head again, looking confused. He smirked at her naivety; he took a step forward, and she in turn took one back. Giellun: Are you afraid, Neiirrh? Sera: Why do you ask that…and what is a neiirrh? Giellun kept stepping forward until her back hit the wall and he reached his hands out, so they touched the coolness of the bulkhead behind her. His hands again framed her face, and the position gave him the opportunity to lean in closer to her. It was the same position they held in the courtyard…had they found themselves back in the same moment, only with the scenery changed? Giellun: Because you are acting like you are…and a neiirrh is…was a small, brilliantly colored bird of my homeworld. They are beautiful creatures…and dangerous, too. Sera: ::considering: So…a compliment? Giellun: ::his voice taking on a husky undertone:: Yes. How he said that simple word sent a frisson of something through her, even as she took the moment to study his face as it was bare inches from hers. It was a most acceptable visage. Symmetrical and strong, sharp cheekbones, and subtle ridges that formed a V of sorts on his forehead. His eyes were the color of dark chocolate, and they stared back at her in a manner that denoted something important, but she did not have a reference to infer what that might be. She could not stop herself. Sera took a deep breath, using her olfactory senses. She wasn’t certain what to expect…but this? He smelled of things that called to the hearth fire, of cedar and smoke, of incense and the tart citrus of sash-savas…it was not disagreeable. At all. Giellun noticed the Vulcan woman studying him again, and he kept his expression carefully neutral. It gave him the same opportunity, which was most…agreeable. Wait, what? By the Elements, she was tall, but it wasn’t unappealing in the slightest. He barely had to tilt his chin down to look in her eyes, and that was quite refreshing change if he was being honest with himself. Her indeterminant length dark hair was pulled back, but tendrils of it had come loose, and part of him wanted to reach back and release it all and run his hands through the silken locks. Her eyes, however, were something else. They were a light blue, an uncommon color amongst Rihannsu, and their hue reminded him of the sky of ch’Rihan. Fire burns, and air fans the flame, and she was beautiful. These were indisputable truths to him. Giellun: May I touch you? Sera: ::frowning ever so slightly:: We should not… Giellun: I did not ask if I should…I asked if I could, S’Ers-a…may I touch you? Sera shut her eyes, as if it would make what was happening disappear. She should say no. She should remind him what Nalaat told them both. She should tell him to leave. That encouraging this…whatever this was, was not logical. “I did not ask if I should…” His words echoed. Sera: ::opening her mouth to say no:: …Yes. oO Traitorous mouth Oo Giellun pushed away from the wall, standing upright, and looked down at her, almost disbelieving that she agreed. Tentatively he brought his hands up to the loose hair which framed her face and ran it between his fingers. It was soft. Feeling emboldened, he ran his fingers through hair along the sides of her head, gathering it and pulling it loose from its bindings. It fell in loose waves about her shoulders. Giellun: ::intently:: …emaehe Sera raised a brow in question. Giellun: The Elements have given you to me…as a gift…as a curse. I know not. But who am I to question their will. Sera: ::lifting her hands and placing them on his chest, in a half-hearted attempt to push him away:: A rather dramatic interpretation of events, Giellun. We must abide by what Nalaat said— Giellun: Why? The old man said many things, S’Ers-a, but he is not here. Just you…and me. Sera: ::mentally scrambling:: You are simply…feeling the residual imbalance, Giellun. We should return to our respective spheres of influence. This will settle out. Why did she feel as if she were lying to him? oO Because you are lying to him. You are lying to yourself. Oo Giellun: And what if I don’t want to? Part of her was thrilled to hear him say that. That part was quickly beaten down with a mental lirpa. No. Bad. No. Sera: Why would you not want to? You have been given a second chance in essence. You can return to your life, your duties. In time, all of this will seem like a dream. Of no import. Sera was confusing him. She was parroting what the priest Nalaat said to them both earlier, but he just knew she did not believe it. How did he know that? Giellun: Is that what you want? Sera opened her mouth to answer but found she could not honestly grant him a reply and used the moment to attempt to gain some distance from him. Giellun saw through her tactic and lightly grabbed her arm, pulling her back so she was standing before him. Giellun: Don’t pull away from me. ::pausing:: S’Ers-a, is it truly such an irrational thing to want to learn more about you? Grant me this. Sera said nothing, but Giellun felt her acquiesce. He smiled down at her, satisfied with this small victory. Sera: Very well. What do you wish to know? Giellun chuckled and smiled warmly at her. He had won this round. Giellun: Oh, that’s simple, Neiirrh…Everything. Sera: Everything? ::brows furrowing:: I am Vulcan, Giellun. We take things quite literally. I will have to formulate a strategy to satisfy the requirements of your inquiry. That could take some time… By Surak she was babbling… Giellun: ::smirking:: You Vulcans talk too much. There are other ways to learn about each other. He saw the subtle shift of expression and the flash in her eyes at his ‘insult’. There it was…she had fire in her yet. And before Sera could issue a reply, Giellun leaned forward and took the words right out of her mouth. <<End Scene>> ***************** Lieutenant JG Sera Engineering Officer SB 118 Ops J239812S14
  24. ((Starbase 118, Commercial Sector)) He was exhausted. After the assassins had been neutralized, Isaac had been re-tasked to help with the rescue and recovery efforts, which was an all hands on deck sort of mission. Everyone who was able pitched in and many were saved as a result. There were also many who didn’t make it, and the mobile morgues were taking inventory of the bodies as they came in. Eventually, the teams were relieved and new, fresh crews took their place. Exhaustion was a funny thing. After a while, no, matter how tired he was, Isaac got his second wind… in this case, it was probably his thirtieth-or-so wind by now. It took him a minute or so to figure out where to go, and once he was oriented, the walk to the turbolift was a bit foggy to him, and during the ride to the Marine decks he found himself reflecting on his arrival at his arrival on the station. Lt. Commander DeVeau had arranged quarters for him but he hadn’t had a chance to find them. In the fog of his tired brain, he didn’t even remember where they were. Thankfully, the computer was far smarter than he was in the moment, and when he asked the turbolift to take him to Isaac Green’s Quarters, the computer chirped, signaling it’s understanding and set off. The turbolift car slid to a stop and the door opened on Deck 873 North and Isaac stepped out onto the carpeted floor. There were apartments both directions from the entrance to the lift, and for a moment he stood in the hallway looking each direction as if there would be a sign with his name on it sticking out into the corridor. He laughed at himself for a moment, realizing what he must look like to anyone who happened to see him standing there with the lost look on his face, then remembered he had his PADD in the pouch on his belt. Extracting it, he scrolled to the memo sent to him by the X.O. which told him he was assigned to Apartment 36D, which happened to be two doors from where he stood. Seconds later, he stood before the door to the place he would be calling home for the foreseeable future. The small apartment was opulent compared to some of the places he had “lived” during his career. It was tiny, but that was all he really needed. It had a living area with a small kitchenette, a bedroom, and a private bathroom. None of his stuff was there, leaving the apartment feeling a bit sterile, but that didn’t stop him from using the place. The shower was his destination, then some sleep was the order of the day. Not waiting, he stripped off and climbed into the stall, allowing the sonic shower to “wash” away the grime from the past hours. He stood there through two complete cycles and still didn’t feel like it was enough. The fatigue had set in though, and without ceremony turned the system off and crossed the room into the bedroom. He collapsed on the bed and was asleep almost immediately. Isaac woke some six hours later, and when he looked at the chronometer on the bedside table he wished he could sleep more. His body wouldn’t have it though, and he rose and dressed in a tank-top and track pants. The replicator graciously generated a cup of black coffee at his command and he took the hot cup from the slot and sat on his small sofa. His thoughts went back to the last couple of days. The smoke had cleared, which only gave everyone a clearer view of the devastation the explosions had caused. A clear view of the actual damage done, not just to the buildings and infrastructure, but the impact such a tragedy has on society. Only a couple of days ago, the citizens of Starbase 118 lived in a world they considered safe. Most of these people, predominantly civilian, woke every morning expecting to have their blueberry muffin or yoghurt parfait and head off to work. Most of these people expected to return to their homes in the evening, go about the routine that had been every other evening, then retire for the night; only to do it again the next morning. A rinse and repeat way of life. Most of these people live in a psychological condition where they are only attentive to the world immediately around them. For some, that may be changed forever. For the First Responders that day, their preparation had likely been through drill and simulation, but how does one truly prepare themselves, or their crew for that matter, to be pulling the dead and dying from under still burning building debris? How does a team make themselves ready to run into the flames and smoke to save people they have never met, and likely would never have met if it weren’t for the tragedy unfolding around them? How does someone prepare themselves to make the decision; the conscious decision, to step in front of a bullet to shield another life, knowing that doing so will likely end theirs? How does someone prepare themselves to consciously take another’s life? For the First Responders of Starbase 118, that preparation comes through persistent training and incredible leadership. That leadership was apparent that day, and because of that leadership and preparation, countless lives were saved. What spanned over the course of a short time, set into motion events that will take months, if not years, to clean up. The Incident Commands will change, the priorities will shift, but the end of the event won’t come for a long, long time. To some of those directly affected by the horrors of that day, the event will never be over. Something, a sight or sound or smell, will trigger a memory of that day, which will recall a memory of the tragedies. To many, they will re-live the events in their minds as if they were happening over and over again. The counsellors were sure to be busy for the next few years, cleaning up that part of the devastation caused by the terrorist attacks. Taking a long sip of the steaming cup of black coffee, Isaac reflected on the day, taking it in and processing it. That was the only way he knew how to use the experiences to understand and learn for the next time, and he knew there would be a next time. He sat on his little sofa, coffee in one hand and PADD in the other. He tapped the information into the PADD as it came to him, documenting the events as he recalled them. He also made notes about the people he worked with that day and their common acts of heroism. There were many acts of common heroism throughout the course of the day. The ones Isaac made specific mention of in his report were the ones he had personally witnessed. Lt. Sera had rushed into danger, without thought of her personal safety, to stop the threat in that bell tower. Colonel Greaves, one hell of a Marine in Isaac’s opinion, stepped down range without a second thought. Lt. Sherlock, taking the role of Chief of an incredibly large security department during one incredibly large event, and putting herself in the line of fire to protect the base’s First Officer. A new Ensign… Isaac struggled to remember her name for a moment, then it came to him… Willow, she had followed Lt. Sherlock into the fray, without question, and did her job. All of these acts were responsible for saving untold numbers of lives. Isaac referred to their actions as “common heroism” because it was what they would do every day, regardless of the personal consequences, and they would never consider it unusual or uncommon acts of valor. It’s just what they do. Once the assassination threats had been neutralized, Isaac had offered his help with the rescue and recovery efforts. This was mindless work for him; he just took orders and followed direction of the section chiefs running the operations. The task was massive, but in the end there were a lot of people saved. Unfortunately, the searchers also recovered a lot of bodies and Isaac found himself re-tasked to help the morgue crews catalogue and tag the dead. Thankfully, his role had come to an end and he was released to secure. Setting the PADD on the coffee table, he sat back and put his feet up next to it. Leaning his head back, he closed his eyes and took in a deep breath. Letting it out slowly, he wondered if this was what being stationed on the Starbase was going to be like… if so, he already liked it. -END- 1Lt. Isaac Green Marine Officer 292 SFMC Starbase 118 Ops R238801IG0
  25. The first thee installments of this personal storyline. I'm curious to see what comes next! ((Shi’Kahr District - Outer courtyard of the Temple of Amonak)) Sera was…exhausted. Every single attempt to engage in meditation since the mission had ended about a week ago had failed, and so she could not attain enough measure of equilibrium to find sleep. Her head pounded, and she felt listless and strangely empty. She had not felt right since the mind meld. A dusty grey-faced phantom was now haunting the corners of her mind. With her eyes open, she would ‘catch’ his visage from the corner of her eye, however it was an apparition that would vanish if she focused her gaze. And if she closed them? It was intrusive. Instead of dissipating, as she expected it to, these peripheral ‘hallucinations’ were growing more insistent. It was impacting her productivity and efficiency, and now was the fourth, no wait, fifth night she had laid on her back staring up at the ceiling bulkheads into the early hours of the morning considering what to do. Sera reached the large well-oiled gates of the small temple in the ShiKahr district without conscious consideration of how she got there. She walked past the gates and entered the meticulously maintained inner courtyard that had been laid out with a precision to induce calm and allow for quiet contemplation. It was surrounded by a covered portico, its impeccably smoothed stone columns set out an equal distance from one another—framing the zen-like courtyard—and on the far side of the space was another large doorway flanked by massive doors which were opened which no doubt was the entrance to the temple proper. Taking a seat, Sera waited for Nalaat M’Hrgt’cha, the priest she had become acquainted with. After only a moment, a shadow came into view and started to grow along the smooth stone flooring to the side of her. Someone had entered the courtyard behind her, and Sera…knew it was not Nalaat. She slowly pivoted on the bench to look behind her. It was her phantom. She shoved herself to her feet and took measured steps backwards, which he countered almost instantaneously. She kept retreating until she hit a large column supporting the portico surrounding the temple, her breath leaving in a huff. He was upon her within that breath, pinning her to the column by positioning himself so closely to her that if she moved, she would have touched him. Vulcan kryptonite touch was. His hands pressed against the stone column, framing her head and he studied her with a slight tilt of his head. He slowly leaned, so close their cheeks almost touched as he spoke into her ear. Giellun: ::whispering:: It’s…you. I have been…looking… Lifting one hand off the column, Giellun reached out and lightly cupped her chin, running his thumb over the cupid’s bow of her lips. Sera thought to jerk her chin away, but the physical contact brought the connection they had shared after the destruction of the Romulan Embassy flaring back to life and Sera gasped at the intensity of it. She felt whole again in that moment; her world had righted. Oh…Oh no. Giellun pulled his hand away from her face as if he had been burned. Had he felt something too? She watched his expression darken and his free hand lashed out, gripping her by her throat and instead of fighting back, she stilled. The feeling of rightness returned…but also confusion…and…anger? Giellun: What. Have. You. Done. He pushed with his thumb, using the pressure point in her neck to tilt her head away from his, exposing he long line of her neck. Sera: Please… Was she pleading with him to stop? To continue? She did not know but she felt…strange. Giellun leaned in and inhaled up her neck and felt the female shiver. By the Elements, what was going on?! He wanted to kill her. She had done something to him…put something in his head! Ever since he saw her as he was dying, and he drank—how he still thirsted for more! She had never been far from him. A constant shadow in his mind, slowly driving him mad. He had finally managed to slip out of the Federation sick bay because he had to find her, and she was here. She was here! She. Was. Here. Giellun: ::in a strained tone repeating his inquiry:: What have you done to me? He idly ran the pad of his thumb up and down the groove in her neck which housed the vital vessels to her brain. It was a movement that Sera found most…distracting. It took her milliseconds longer than usual to process an adequate response. Sera: ::fumbling:: I…I saved you. Giellun’s thumb suddenly pressed into the groove, his nail placing a biting sting on her neck and Sera made an instinctive sound—much to her befuddlement—a trilling exhale that reminded her of a ley’matya vocalization. Nalaat: I most sternly request this interaction to cease immediately. Giellun spun his attention to the interloper, just barely keeping himself from baring his teeth in aggression. It was a well-timed interruption, however, and Giellun took stock of the position he was in with this strange woman, and pushed away from the column, releasing her throat and forcing his hands back to his sides. As soon as he let go of her, the imbalance of the meld made itself known again, and inwardly she cringed. She had just wanted to help…leave it to her to screw up yet another thing that was considered quintessentially Vulcan. Sera: ::words tumbling out of her:: I beg thy forgiveness Nalaat, I came here to seek audience with you, I require— Nalaat: ::ignoring her apology and attempt at explanation:: Please enter the temple…your associate as well. After speaking the summons, Nalaat turned and walked across the courtyard and through the opened temple doorway. Giellun: ::watching the Vulcan male walk through the doorway:: We do not have to…we…we could go elsewhere? He didn’t know why he said that, really. He wanted nothing more than to understand just what was going on here.. Sera: ::resigned:: We must. I came to this place to seek assistance with what has…occurred between us. I had only meant to stabilize you…but something…something went wrong. Giellun: ::harshly replying showing his ties to the Element of Fire:: Something went wrong? You think?! Ignoring his retort, Sera stepped through the doorway and halted her momentum as her eyes adjusted to the dimness within. The priest stepped out of the shadows in front of them and gestured with a tilt of his head for them to follow. Nalaat: Follow me. Sera obeyed and walked further into the gloom of the temple, and Sera crinkled her nose slightly at the heady scent of incense that permeated the space. She idly wondered how Nalaat functioned in such a dimly lit place as the only light sources were groupings of candles and large coal pots which gave off a rich amber glow. Giellun followed but was a step behind the Vulcan female. He wasn’t even sure why he was doing this— Nalaat: Both of you kneel. Sera complied immediately, but she…felt the male’s hesitancy. She looked up to him and he frowned at her but seeing no other option followed suit and kneeled next to her. Sera looked up to Nalaat, and the priest tilted his head in silent question. Nodding once in assent, Sera explained what she had done to him…this man…her phantom… Sera: My apologies; I do not know your name to address you appropriately. Giellun: ::retorting:: I do not see how important that is right now. It certainly didn’t stop you from invading my mind! ::his hands closed into tight fists as he resisted the urge to reach out and shake her…to bring her close—argh!:: Nalaat watched the small exchange with interest, considering how best to…mitigate the damage done here. The male was angry, yes, and rightfully so…and yet Nalaat also saw the Romulan reach out his hand to touch S’Ers-a only to pull it back and push his palm flat on the top of his thigh. Fascinating. Nalaat: I request your thoughts, Osu. <<sir>> Giellun: ::aghast:: What, so you can do something worse?! Nalaat: This female’s motivation was noble in purpose; however, her technique was obviously…subpar. I need to assess the…damage caused. I would like to help you both if I can. Giellun wanted to rant against this, but knew he had no other choice. Something was very off inside of him…had been since the bombing. If this priest could help? He would allow it. Nalaat observed the small nod of assent and stepped forward and reached out to the pathways on his face and quickly forged a link to adequately assess the situation. It was a difficult thing to put into words what he saw inside Giellun’s mind. There were healing wounds everywhere. This was a man who should not be in the world of the living and yet…he was. Because of S’Ers-a. The threads ran through him in a jumble and back to her, a Gordian knot – a problem insoluble in its own terms…but there was something else…Beyond the graft work was a spark, a small flame just beginning to grow. What a most unfortunate coincidence. Nalaat saw such an attachment as a curse in his mind. To DESIRE. Such vulnerability! Illogical. What Sera had performed was a desperate plan initiated in extremis, but she had neither the training nor control to perform such meld with success. A foolish act, perhaps, but quite selfless. Nalaat’s hand dropped from his face, and he stood between them. Nalaat: ::not unkindly:: I cannot undo this. It would mean your death, Osu. Sera looked up to Nalaat and her shoulders slunk. She looked away from the priest and her phantom so they wouldn’t see that she could not hide the stricken expression on her face. Nalaat: ::continuing:: Yet neither of you can remain in this state. Nalaat looked past the two to the shadows, silently contemplating what could be done, what should be done. He looked back down to the two kneeling before him and nodded once having come to a decision. Nalaat: Very well. There is no other logical option. This…connection must be stabilized. ::reaching out to both of their faces:: Giellun jolted backwards, falling off his knees and onto the backs of his hands and his rear. Giellun: Wait! What are you doing? Nalaat: ::looking at him with an expression he would give a small child:: What must be done. To your knees, Osu. Giellun frowned at the priest, knowing he was being petulant – but to take orders from a Vulcan! Gritting his teeth—and against his better judgement—he complied. Nalaat stepped forward in between the two and his hands reached out to the appropriate neural nodes on both of their faces. Nalaat: ::In high Vulcan:: Ra du nam-tor pa' tor veshtaya sarlah ne' s' wuh wak t' wuh palikaya, rik' rubah. Nash tor wuh Vuhlkansu khaf-spol. Nash tor wuh Vuhlkansu katra. Nash nam-tor etwel yut. Kah-if-farr… Giellun groaned in exhaustion as he fell sideways off his knees, barely getting his palms out to halt his fall in time before faceplanting onto the stone floor. He sucked in breaths but felt as if he had run for hours. Recovering, Giellun looked across from him, instinctually looking for…her. She had her back to him, looking to the priest. Sera: Why…why this? Nalaat: It was the only way to stabilize what you had done S’Ers-a-kam. What you are experiencing should level out. With separation and simple meditative mind techniques you will barely notice it after a time. You will both be able to go your separate ways without…untenable difficulties. Giellun did not know what the man was saying, but it sounded…ominous. Sera repositioned herself so that she was facing the Romulan. His confusion and…disquiet bled easily through the link they shared. It pained her to feel his distress. Giellun stood and looked down to her, extending his hand in offer to help her up. He watched her study his offered hand, but she made no move, so he began to withdraw with a small frown…and then his hand was no longer empty as her hand found his and he smiled softly at her acceptance. ((Time skip)) Giellun: I must insist on accompanying you to your quarters. Sera: Perhaps it would be more…prudent for you to return to sickbay? ::observing the medical scrubs he was wearing:: Giellun: ::looking insulted:: I most certainly will not. I have been laying around there for days, and as no one has come to drag me back yet, logically they cannot be too concerned about my well-being. ::he raised his brow in a mocking sort of manner, which completely went over Sera’s head:: Sera: but...Why? Giellun stopped in his tracks, forcing Sera to do the same. Giellun: You are seriously asking this? Why? ::sarcastic:: Because I want answers, my lady. Answers that you would not give in the presence of the priest. Sera inwardly sighed and walked the few steps back to him. She ignored the urge to step closer, to reach out and touch him although not giving in felt like a pyrrhic victory. Sera: Very well. I will answer that which I can. Giellun nodded, satisfied for the moment, as they walked across the district in companionable silence. His eyes were wary. It was a dangerous world they found themselves in, both lulled into complacency regarding the overall safety within their lives. Now, who knows what would be? Could this tale be pulled back from the brink, or was it but the first moves in a long and bloody future? Sera noticed his increased surveillance as they walked, and she could not fault his caution…but it brought forth questions in her mind. Who was he? Beyond names…what did he do…was…was he a good person? ::sardonically:: It would serve her right if she had managed to save the worst Romulan in the history of Romulans, wouldn’t it? Giellun: ::studying her:: You are…amused? Sera’s eyes met his in surprise. Sera: ::deflecting:: Does that surprise you? Giellun: I am honest when I say the last few hours with you have disabused many a preconceived notion I may have had about Vulcans, my lady. Nonetheless, you have not answered my question. This time she did sigh. Sera: Yes and no. My mistake gave a second chance of sorts…but what…what if… Giellun: You are worried I might not be of a sort that deserves such a chance. Sera’s brows rose slightly at his comment. He was very intuitive…or was it something else? Sera: Do you wish to stop and discuss this further here? Now? ::Motioning to walkway which had numerous security forces trolling about purposefully:: Giellun: ::smirking:: …I will be patient, for now. But once we get to your quarters…::stepping closer and leaning in so his soft whisper would be only heard by her:: Perhaps we shall find ourselves otherwise occupied…::looking into her eye with a subtle rise of his brow as if adding an unspoken question mark to his statement:: He chuckled at her reaction, finding it…satisfying to see her cheeks flush green at his teasing. For being Vulcan – she was easy to provoke. He liked it. Sera: Do not make me regret my invitation… ::her voice trailed off as she had no name to call him by:: Giellun: ::Filling the silence with an answer to her unspoken inquiry:: Giellun i’Ki Baratan tr’Pardek. Sera gaped at him. She might not be Rihannsu, but Vulcans also considered names to be important…and at times, quite private. However, he had just given her all of them… Sera: tr’Pardek…? She had heard that clan name before… Giellun: It is a large clan, my lady, but yes, a powerful one…::his smile faded and he looked away:: It was anyway… Sera: Tushah nash-veh k'odu. <<I grieve with thee>> Giellun: ::suddenly defensive, almost vehement:: Do you though? I mean can you even? Sera blinked at his angry countenance, unsure of what misstep she had made. Sera: Yes. Giellun: Yes, what? Sera: You asked me if I grieved – I will assume you meant on your account. The answer is yes. Then you asked if I was capable of grief. That answer is also, yes. I am capable of feeling a great many things, tr’Pardek. Her calm reply shamed him, and the scathing retort died on his lips. She said nothing more, and neither did he till they reached the doorway to her apartment. She entered her code and the door opened. Sera gestured with one hand that he may enter, and Giellun nodded at her gesture and stepped in. TBC ***************** Lieutenant JG Sera Engineering Officer SB 118 Ops J239812S14
×
×
  • Create New...

Important Information

By using this site, you agree to our Terms of Use.