Kali Nicholotti

DATES: The class began on 2024-11-11 and ended 2024-11-19 LIST: sb118-Academy2 COMMANDING OFFICER: Commander @Genkos Adea FIRST OFFICER: Lieutenant Commander @Kirsty L. Carpenter GRADUATES: Elliot Rian Pinelopy Athanasiou Welcome to the fleet – we're so glad you're here!

((Federation Refugee Services, Ring 2, DS9)) Zenno double checked that he was in the right place and then entered the office. It was quite spacious with a large waiting room, a row of desks, and a large computer display hanging from a bracket in the corner that looked like it was about to fail spectacularly. A Zakdorn functionary sat behind the reception desk. Zenno made his approach. Zenno: Greetings. The Zakdorn seemed engrossed in his PADD and said nothing. Zenno: ::clears throat:: Greetings. I wish to inquire about a refugee child named Sabira and her companion Mister Quirkle-Birkle. They were displaced from Deep Space 33 after the recent invasion. The Bolian waited and the Zakdorn made no move, but continued to read his PADD. Zenno: Hello? With a snuff, the man at the desk reached out at patted a sign: “Take a Number.” All the while he was still reading his PADD. Zenno looked around and the office was completely empty besides him and the Zakdorn. Zenno looked at the number dispenser and took a slip. He held it up. Zenno: I have a number. May you help with my inquiry? The Zakdorn grunted, put down his PADD with deliberate and exaggerated slowness. Clerk: Now serving… Number 3 at Desk 4. Zenno looked at his slip. It had a large 38 on it. He looked up at the Zakdorn, then back at the slip. So be it. He took a seat in the waiting area. Clerk: Last call for Number 3. ::Beat:: Now serving Number 4 at Desk 4… ((Timeskip)) Zenno sat with his head in his hands. He would have come back later, but he was sure that this person would have used it against him in some way. Clerk:: Now serving… Number 37 at Desk 4. Number 37? No number 37? Very well. Zenno stood up since he was next. But it was not to be. The functionary closed a little glass slider on his desk and put up a sign: “Out to lunch” Zenno slouched back into the chair and rolled his eyes. ((Timeskip)) In the interregnum, no one else had come into the office. But the clerk sat at his desk and had eaten a lunch of some raw fish, avocados, and what looked like unsalted Karugu nuts. Clerk: Now serving.. let’s see here. Where did I stop? ::hums:: 37? Now serving 37? No no, that wasn’t it. Now serving Number 38 at Desk 4. Glad to be getting somewhere, Zenno went to the desk. Zenno: Greetings. I wish to inquire about a refugee child named Sabira and her companion Mister Quirkle-Birkle. They were displaced from Deep Space 33 after the recent invasion. The clerk sighed and looked at his computer console. Clerk: Are you the next of kin? Zenno: No, she doesn’t have next of kin as far as I know. At least, none that were on the station. There might be others elsewhere. The Zakdorn hit the power button on his screen and picked up his PADD. Clerk: Information can only be given to next of kin. Privacy issues. Please take our survey ::points to survey PADD:: to help us improve. Thanks for visiting Federation Refugee Services. Have a nice starday. Zenno wondered if there were any words he could use to convince this clerk to help him. Deciding that there were none he briefly considered some other options, but they were all just a mental exercise to relieve the tension that this clerk had created in Zenno’s head. Deciding he had to use some other avenues, he left and headed back to his quarters. END/NT LT Zenno Security Chief USS Khitomer A240006Z13

(( Jeffries Tubes Junction, Deck 3, Main Compartment, Deep Space 33 )) The distant sounds of weapons fire echoed through the maintenance passage even two decks down. A testament to just how severe and intense the fighting was and had been for nearly an entire day at this point. They had few options left, but it was not in the Worene’s nature to back down from a battle, especially one they had no chance of retreating from. He’d climbed down two decks to hunt as many of the Lattice forces as he could before the end. One extra phaser would not make a difference up on Deck One, but here, behind their lines. It could do great damage. And he had many cubs to avenge this day. If this was his last, then he would ensure that it would be the most impactful of his life. Woman: Would you hurry up already, Jonas. There’s someone else in here with us! Jonas: I’m going as fast as I can, Genai! The Tholian or Sheliak that sealed this hatch didn’t exactly make it easy, you know. His ears perked up and shifted forward as he crawled through the tube and paused. His rifle was slung over his back for easier movement here. He had his sidearm as well, but based on the voices he doubted he’d need either. Osiris: You are not alone, but you are also not in danger from me. The Worene announced carefully as he approached the junction and saw a sandy blond, short haired head pop up to look right at him in initial terror. A cub, male. From the scent, Human. Barely two decades by his estimation and beside him with a shakily held hand phaser pointed at him peered a more calm faced older female. Fiery red mane to the shoulders. Bajoran. Three, maybe for decades. Slightly less of a cub, but still younger than he. Palen noted the male wore a tattered gold uniform and the other was in teal. The nearby engineering kit suggested the former’s occupation. Genai: Thank the prophets. We thought everyone else was dead or still stuck fighting on the upper decks. Jonas: Never thought I’d be glad to see a cat…Uh…I mean, it’s good to see a friendly face, sir. ::murmuring:: Please don’t eat me. A gentle smack to his shoulder from the woman forced the awkward cub to clear his throat and Palen bared his fangs in a smile that did little to prove whether he would or wouldn’t eat the cub. Osiris: I have bigger prey to hunt, Crewman. The cub nodded briskly at him and resumed their attempts to open the hatch that would let them enter deck 3. The Bajoran held the phaser in both hands as if it were a rope clung to to keep from falling off a cliff. Genai: Good. Here’s hoping you can take a few of them with you before we die. It was a bit morose a comment coming from a physician, but given the amount of death they’d seen this day it wasn’t unreasonable even for lifesaving practitioners to feel bleak. Jonas: Nonsense, Genai. The Lieutenant’s here now and everyone on the Ops deck is still fighting. ::He grunted mid effort to loosen something:: And we have two Starfleet ships outside right now defending us. We'll be alright. Palen noticed the woman’s smile directed at the back of the cub’s head and a slight flush of color to her cheeks when she noticed the large felinoid was looking at her. Osiris: The day is not yet done and many still draw breath. The statement was simple but effective. A triumphant huzzah escaped the cub a moment later and the hatch door retracted to reveal the ladder down. A shushing sound followed from, both Palen and the Bajoran. Jonas: Oh, sorry…I got excited. Uh, I guess after you sir? Osiris: Yes, I am hunting. I suggest you both find an escape pod and wait there. If we fail to hold the station it will be scuttled and you will want to be somewhere else. The human cub shook his head vehemently at the Worene who’s tail flicked slightly in curiosity. Jonas: We can’t do that sir, not if there’s something we can still do to help! We were going to try and see if we can get a transporter working to maybe beam some of them into the pattern buffer and thin their numbers. Genai: We didn’t get far since we got stuck here. Palen’s ears twitched slightly and he considered for a moment before another nod was given to the pair. Osiris: Very well, I understand the need to do something. I will clear the way. Without further comment he descended quietly down the ladder and then manually opened the door at the bottom to permit them onto the deck proper. It opened with a soft hiss and he pushed it aside with one hand, the other held his hand phaser. With this being two decks below where anyone on their side was fighting it should have been relatively empty and yet his ears twitched and turned, the sound caught of movement and voices. A quick glimpse let him see a Sheliak and the Worene immediately holstered his sidearm and pulled the long rifle slung over his back in hand. One ear shifted as he heard the cubs come up behind him. Osiris: Quiet. Enemies. ::He whispered:: Genai: Here? But we don’t have anyone on this deck. Jonas: Can you scan for how many there are? The Bajoran opened her tricorder and leaned out just enough to point it in the direction of the hostiles. Genai: Eight Sheliak and five Tholians. Jonas: Ohhh, well I’m sure that’s nowhere near enough for the Lieutenant here. The tone of the cub’s comment suggested he didn’t believe his own words, but was trying to. Osiris: I have faced more. Though even these will pose challenging. Palen knew if he opened fire it would draw all of them. This hunt would have to be a careful one, as all hunts should be. Osiris: We will go the other way and avoid them. I will come back and hunt these when you are locked in the transporter room. The doctor’s tricorder chirped angrily for a moment and it nearly drew the attention of their enemy. Genai: Prophet’s, please tell me I’m reading this wrong. Jonas: What’s wrong? Genai: I’ve never scanned one before but I think there’s a torpedo with them, or some kind of explosive. That got his attention and Palen glanced at her device. His tail flicked curtly from one side to the other. He was quite familiar with torpedoes and the brief reading taken he did not like what he saw. Jonas: That’s near the starboard hull, I think one of the airlocks maybe? Genai: If they set it off inside the station!! Both cubs looked pale but Palen had to focus. Osiris: Be calm. I will find a way to get through them and disarm the torpedo. Jonas: There’s no time sir, that looks like it’s going to overload. Osiris: More reason to not dawdle. Palen leaned around the curved corridor and fired his weapon. The beam struck a Sheliak in the head and they dropped like a rock fall. Then the corridor erupted in a maelstrom of disruptor fire in his direction. When he turned to fall back to better cover neither cub was in sight. He moved to the opposite side of the corridor and spotted the pair emerge from a maintenance hatch behind the enemy. Where he could not help them. He tapped his comm badge, Commander Raga and Ops needed to know of the threat. ((ooc: What follows is from the perspective of Genai and Jonas)) The two of them rushed up to the Tholian torpedo that rested on a stand of some sort near the outer bulkhead. Jonas immediately opened his kit and started to scan it. Genai: Jonas….this is insane, can you disarm this?! Jonas: I have no idea, torpedoes aren’t really my thing. That’s a tactical department purview but we don't have much choice. This thing has maybe two minutes before it blows and the Lieutenant might not beat them all before it does. Genai: What can I do? He pulled a hyperspanner from the kit and then started trying to remove the casing cover. Jonas: Well, seeing if your prophets could bless us with some luck couldn’t hurt. ::He smiled:: Genai looked at him and couldn't help but stare as he feverishly removed the cover and inspected the innards of the weapon. She never could understand how he could be so bright and hopeful all the time. She nodded and muttered any prayer she could think of. It wasn’t when she noticed he’d stopped working that drew her focus, it was the shaking in his hands. Jonas: I….I’m not going to be able to disarm this. It’s already in a cascade. Genai: Maybe we can beam it off the station? He shook his head. Jonas: That would just set it off and might make it worse. We have to move it, Genai…away from the hull. Genai: What?! Jonas: There’s no time…we have maybe a minute. We need to move it as far inside the deck as we can. Please!! Her breath caught in her throat at his pleading and despite the liquid in her eyes she moved with him. The whole thing was heavy and didn’t have wheels, but they somehow managed to pick it up and barely managed to carry/drag it down the passage. As soon as they could they turned down an interior corridor while the Worene seemed to be still fighting not far away. Panting heavily the torpedo began to thrum more and more. With the cover off she could even see the warhead glowing brighter. Genai: Jonas…how long? Jonas: Doesn’t matter, Genai…keep pulling we have…to get this..as far as we can to save the others!! She felt her arms giving out on her and stumbled a few times. Even Jonas, the sweet font of eternal hope could barely keep going and the nex time they both dropped to the ground he looked at her with tears in his eyes. Jonas: Genai…I’m sorry I couldn’t disarm it… Genai: …call me Raeya His eyes widened at her use of her given name and a brisk nod was given. Jonas: Raeya…::He said almost breathlessly:: Always thought you had such a beautiful na.. Ethan’s comment was cut short when her lips met his and ten seconds later the brilliant flash of the Tholian torpedo detonating ended everything for the two of them. But in that moment, those ten seconds felt like eons filled with regrets, fond memories, and realization of a kiss that should have happened years ago. Then, noise, violent destruction and devastation, but contained nonetheless. A gaping hole left as a shocking reminder of what could have been. And the mangled husk of a hyperspanner seemingly fused to what was left of a Bajoran earring by the blast. Picked up by a wounded and silent Worene. Held tightly in paw in honor of those who didn't stop until the last moment to save the station they called home. End of Act 3 for Osiris ========================================= Lieutenant JG Palen Osiris Starfleet Ranger - Scout Specialist As simmed by Commander Toryn Raga First Officer USS Ronin - NCC-34523 Writer ID: A239410TR0 https://wiki.starbase118.net/wiki/index.php?title=Toryn_Raga

((The Many-Doored Room)) The space was quiet, wide, and open. Squarish. Like an interior common area of a large administrative building. The floors were wood-planked, and the walls were painted green a third of the way up, and white the rest. The ceiling was lined with tiles, ventilation grates, and incandescent lights, but despite this there was no sense of claustrophobia. It wasn’t overly warm or stuffy, even though there were no windows. At each corner, there was a hallway that extended out and away. And every four or five feet along every wall that was, there was a door, brown, weathered, and heavy, upon which a small brass plaque announced its purpose. Except one door, which was unlike all the others, and sat on a stretch of wall without any neighbors. It was a different door, one of the plain ones, that opened. With a creak, Nolen Hobart poked his head out. Or, it looked like Nolen Hobart. It was, in fact, his mind’s Accountant, with neatly combed hair, slick with gel, and kept firmly tucked behind a translucent green visor atop his forehead. Accountant: Hello? Anyone else here? Muffled shuffling and scraping of chair legs against floors behind other closed doors could be heard, and footsteps. One door, and then another, creaked open, and a pair of other “Nolen Hobarts” appeared. The first to join him wore a grease-covered apron, and his hair was violently unkempt. Atop his forehead rested a set of welder’s goggles, held in place by the strap wrapped around his head. The second (or, at total count: third) wore a casual smile and flowing collared shirt, seemingly unbothered by purpose. These facts were all that the Accountant needed to know them each: the Inventor and Archivist, respectively. They had the same face, but then, everybody seemed to, so context clues were key to him. Inventor: Pencil broke? Accountant: You didn’t notice? The inventor looked down in thought, before looking back to the Accountant. Inventor: …my pencil broke? The third just stood and smiled. He folded his arms and watched the other two Nolens converse. This, eventually, drew the Accountant’s attention away from the Inventor, who then pointed at the third Nolen. Accountant: ::disbelief:: He noticed! How did you not notice? This took the third by surprise. He wasn’t expecting to be part of the conversation. Archivist: Oh! I wasn’t paying attention, I didn’t notice anything. I’m just jazzed to see you guys. The Accountant pinched the bridge of his nose and took a deep breath. Accountant: The doors unlocked. That’s how come we’re here. That's why you're seeing us. They never unlock but from the outside. Inventor: Oh, you’re right. Archivist: Number-Guy is always right. This is nice. Should we play a game? The, um, red and black square thing. I like that one. It's relaxing. The Accountant shook his head. “Number-Guy” was not his title, and “red and black square thing” was a pretty poor way of describing the game of Checkers, but the Archivist didn’t need to know the names. That wasn’t his job. And so he didn’t. Also, them being there wasn’t nice. It was a sign of trouble. Inventor: You want me to lock them? Accountant: Yes, but not yet. The Accountant pointed at the Other Door. It was the Bad Door, and it looked the part. It was an ugly gray, marked by pink-purple splotches. It was weathered and old, and the latch and doorknob were gone from it. It shifted and clunked from a wind that couldn’t be felt. It had some other formal name, but that was long-forgotten. Or, if not forgotten, the name was never uttered. The three Nolens gathered around, and examined the planks of wood and nails that had fallen off the molding around it. Archivist: ::whispering:: Do you think they got out? He looked around, nervously, and suddenly desired very much to be back in his room, with the doors locked. That they could be unlocked from the outside meant that it wasn’t terribly safe, but it felt safe. Hiding in one’s work often had that effect. Accountant: ::softly:: If we’re lucky, they were only as observant as the two of you. ::looking to the Inventor:: I’ll hold it shut, you get your tools. The Inventor nodded, and darted off towards his room. He was careful not to let the door slam behind, lest to draw more attention to the lobby. The Accountant held his hands to the door, and leaned into it, holding it firmly in place. The Archivist watched on, fearfully. Archivist: I’m not so jazzed anymore. Accountant: ::sternly:: By right you shouldn’t be. Once they’re out, they’re almost impossible to put back in. Archivist: Yeah, I know. The Archivist looked around, this time sheepishly. The Accountant eyed him with suspicion. Accountant: What did you do? Archivist: Nothing! Maybe a week ago, I was just looking at my picture-books— Accountant: ::annoyed:: “Albums.” Picture-books are for children. Archivist: ::nodding:: And there was one. Not in the picture-book, but in the room. I didn’t go out, I swear. I threw a picture-book at it, I think I startled it. It seemed angry, and tore Tammy’s photo, and then left. The Archivist’s eyes narrowed. The monsters didn’t startle. Not that he knew, anyway. And he could recall no balance with any “Tammy.” But then again, it wasn’t the Archivist’s job to know names. It was his. Accountant: Tammy? Archivist: ::straining:: Ehh. Tonya? Taloola? Anyway, I taped it back together, but it’s not the same. The Accountant looked back at the door he was holding shut. Perhaps the boards had come off all the way back then. Or perhaps the monsters had found another way to get around. They were deviously clever. That was a terrifying thought, and he was glad that the Inventor returned just then to interrupt it, carrying an antique power tool and a transparent zipper bag full of assorted screws. The Accountant knew better than to question his methods. Strange as they were, they invariably worked. Inventor: Okay! This should do it. A voice from somewhere else echoed faintly through the ventilation ducts, and the Accountant strained to hear it over the whir of the tool as the Inventor set to work boarding up the Bad Door again. Matthews: …sensors show that the last ship with evacuees just launched. We’ll be getting you out on one of the ones still in the hanger. Inventor: Done! Archivist: I think we need to go back. The Accountant nodded. Noise from outside meant that the doors would soon lock again, and if one wasn’t back in one’s room when that happened, then one’s work wouldn’t be done. And that could throw the whole system off. He had to hurry; his ledger was waiting. ((Transporter Room, Deck 8, Main Module, Deep Space 33)) Nolen’s eyes didn’t want to open. He was laying on a hard surface, in a room that must have been small because it felt stuffy. He could sense the emotions of the minds around him swirl into a pungent stew. A lot of the fear was gone, or at least less prominent than it once had been. There was a hard, stony determination in the mix, familiar to him from all of the times he’d had to problem-solve with a team. El’Heem: Response Nibar: Last I saw there’s a medical team set up on Deck 2. Weyler and I will take the Caitian up there. We’ll get onto a transport from there once she’s stable. We’ll take all the wounded with us. Matthews: ::Without looking up from the controls:: Weyler, how’s the Commander looking? Any sign of waking up? Nolen tried to turn his head towards the voice of Ensign Matthews, and felt a pair of cold hands attempt to keep him from moving. Weyler: Think so! Hobart: ::eyes fluttering:: I’m back, I think. He attempted to sit up and felt a sharp stabbing pain in his side. He hissed out a curse and coughed, just as he saw Ensign Matthews glance his way. Matthews: Depending on the doctor’s orders, I do have a shuttle ready for us to use – personal ship, not a Starfleet—issued one. Sorry. We’re going to be roughing it with our escape. The ship’s specs shows she can handle up to ten passengers plus pilot and co-pilot. I hope the owner at least has their first aid stocked. Hobart: Oy gevalt. ::gripping his side, painful sigh:: Did Stergis give the “abandon ship” order? Nibar: Not yet, sir. Hobart: ::sharp breath:: Then we don’t go. Take the wounded to Medical. It felt like a broken rib or three. He’d suffered them before, on the away mission to Naz, after the planet had swallowed them up. He engaged in a series of slight and painful twists and stretches to determine the extent of his mobility, and eventually (and awkwardly) rose to his feet, with no shortage of help from DS33's paralegal. El’Heem: Response Nibar and Weyler helped load the stretcher-bound Caitian and the limping Bobbart to the transporter pad. Matthews: Standing by to transport, Doc, what’s the word? Are our patients safe to transfer together? Or should I send you all first to be ready for them? El’Heem: Response Hobart: Hang on a second, Ensign. Let me get my bearings. You, me, Doc, and Jones will hang back here while I figure out where we’re needed. Check the Caitian one more time, El’Heem, make sure she’s OK for transport, then send them all up. Matthews / El’Heem: Response Hobart looked around the small room, leaning against the transporter control console to take the burden off of his abdominal muscles. He shifted until he found a relatively comfortable position. It was still exceedingly uncomfortable, and the pain threatened to consume all of his attention if he didn’t focus hard on other things. Like finding a medkit. He spied one across the room, meant for emergency care if someone didn’t (or couldn’t) get beamed directly to sickbay, and pointed. Hobart: Should be a regenerator in there, Doc. Think you can do something about my ribs? Matthews / El’Heem: Response Nibar: Good luck. Energize. As El’Heem left the pad and Matthews initiated transport, leaving the compartment with only four occupants, Nolen gently tapped his combadge. Hobart: =/\= Hobart to Ops. How are we doing? =/\= MacKenna / Stergis / Matthews / El’Heem: =/\= Response =/\= He winced and resisted the urge to smack El’Heem as the doctor began to tend to him. Hobart: =/\= That bad, huh? We’ve secured the transporter room on Deck 8, and it’s operational. Where do you need us? =/\= MacKenna / Stergis / Matthews / El’Heem: =/\= Response =/\= Tags/TBC ——— Lt. Commander Nolen Hobart Executive Officer USS Khitomer (NCC-62400) A240001NH3

Starfleet medical at your service...

Gotta add that character bit...

Too many quotes to pick out and put in the quote thread, so the whole sim comes here instead... ((Deck 6, Sickbay, USS Khitomer)) El’Heem: So uhhh…ready to get back to… ::looking at the captain.:: the couch maintenance? Shayne would be lying if he said he’d been able to follow the conversation particularly well. He’d gleaned- mostly from expressions on people’s faces- that there was a general consensus of not talking about what was really going on, which Shayne could, in an uncharacteristic fashion, wholeheartedly endorse. The fact that someone was still trying to include him, however, was cause for whatever passed for alarm in his stupid state. Shayne: Yes. Couch. Good. Beck: Careful with those couches, they aren't all standard. Some of them recline unexpectedly. Shayne’s stomach did a sudden and unwelcome twist that told him that couches weren’t the only things that might recline unexpectedly. Ohnari: ::tilting her head:: Ensign El'Heem? I trust you will return any unused medical equipment to its proper place when all is...maintained? In the back of his mind, Shayne was pleased that Ohnari was taking her duties so seriously. El’Heem: Yes of course Doctor! I’ll make sure the medkit is returned to the supply closet when it is ultimately not used! It’s just a precaution after all. Beck: I definitely always bring along equipment I might not need because there should be emergency kits available in every quarters. Might as well have two. For a moment- a brief, instantaneous moment- Shayne’s cogent mind returned, rousted from its stupor to take note of a very good idea. Rodan: We'll only be a jiffy… Shayne: What he said. He hadn’t yet processed what Rodan had said, but he trusted him enough to go along with it. Ohnari: Try and hydrate between rounds of furniture repair, aye Space daddy? Don't go breaking my new Ensign now. It took several seconds for Shayne’s slowed brain to process what she had said. When he looked down at her, and caught her grinning, sly features, his own lids descended into a scowl. Shayne: That’s never gonna go away, is it. Beck: You boys stay out of trouble. Don't do anything I wouldn't do. Shayne began to exit, and tossed a dismissive “yeah, yeah…” hand at Buck. Or Back. Or whatever the ruddy bloody hell his name was. Shayne: oO Quentin. Oo That thought stung. El'Heem: Oh of course not! ::pausing to think about what he may have just insinuated. :: I mean we’re just doing some repairs. What trouble could we even get into? Shayne glanced at El’Heem warily. He liked the young fidgety ensign; but that was perhaps the most naive question anyone had ever asked in four centuries of Starfleet. Shayne: Something something… than a question is an answer… Rodan/Ohnari: Response Shayne had never been so ready for a hypospray in all his life. Beck: Loathe as I am to depart, it seems like you may need time to prep for furniture maintenance related injuries. I'll take a rain check on the conversation - maybe over coffee and breakfast sometime soon? El'Heem: Leaving so soon?! ::Ras overexaggerated his feigned surprise.:: Oh look at the time, we should probably get to back to your quarters Captain! Shayne glanced at the ensign, who was breathing harder. The captain knew anxiety when he observed it, and though he was soused beyond most reckoning, he was not beyond empathizing. Shayne: I think we can take it from here. Ohnari: Response El’Heem was starting to crack; they had to leave, all for different reasons, but with a similar urgency. El'Heem: OH NO! Not at all doctor! Ｉ’ＭＪＵＳＴＲＥＡＬＬＹＥＸＣＩＴＥＤＴＯＷＯＲＫＯＮＴＨＥＣＯＵＣＨＩＡＬＭＯＳＴＢＥＣＡＭＥＡＮＥＮＧＩＮＥＥＲＹＯＵＫＮＯＷ．　 Shayne: Fellas. Sickbay’s getting a little crowded. He wanted to move, but he momentarily forgot what to do to activate his legs. Ohnari: Response Suddenly he felt a yanking on his sleeve, and instinct offered him opportunity to change his footing before he crashed into the floor like a mannequin in a department store. Rodan: Nice leg. ::To Ohnari.:: Nice job! El'Heem: Captain! Maz! The captain staggered along, eager for what had been a pleasant buzzing to be long over. Shayne: Space Daddy, away! Ohnari: Response ((Transporter Room, Deck 4, USS Khitomer)) The puff of a hypospray was like a blessing and a pronouncement of guilt. Shayne could feel himself almost being dematerialized, and built from the ground up to smell and taste the fresh air again. His head roiled for a moment, and he shut his eyes forcefully to wait for the spinning to stop, thanking his lucky stars when it did. Rodan: Ah! That was fun. El'Heem: I could hear the blood rushing through my ears! What a rush! His scowl of resigned grump returned. Shayne: Glad you two had such a blast. And I thought the damn moonshine still was bad… Rodan: I'll find an appropriate place on the Khitomer to set up another Living History Annex. We'll definitely have more things to add to it on this ship. When Rodan said things like that, it was difficult to tell what was an aspiration, and what was a threat. Shayne: The next person who stashes booze on this ship gets a court martial. He pawed at his head; just because the accelerant had removed the worst of the symptoms did not mean that the effects in their place were gone. El’Heem: You mean that inebriant was from the Arrow? The essence of memory is encapsulated within the spirit. Right now, the spirit it had encapsulated was kicking Shayne hard in the meninges. Alvarez and her stupid booze and stupid smile and stupid joyful self… Shayne: I need a pot of black coffee. Rodan: ::Brightening.:: So, what now? ::Beat.:: Space Daddy? The pair of them finally fell apart, nearly hitting the floor in their mirth. Shayne’s scowl would have lowered his brow past his nose if he’d been physically able to permit it. Even when he’d been drunk off his ass he’d known that it was going to linger, perhaps permanently, in the echo chamber of the Alpha Isles, and aboard the Khitomer specifically. Shayne: I trust that will be staying between us, on pain of court martial. And possible death. Rodan: ::Between chuckles.:: I'm so sorry! I'm 178 years old and that is literally the funniest thing I've ever heard! Oh boy, I love this crew! The captain turned away- the last thing he wanted to show the world right now was a smile that refused to heed his will. Shayne: We’re a special bunch, I’ll give you that. And he thought Starbase 80 had a reputation to keep. El’Heem: Well Captain? Where to? What Shayne really wanted to do was head to his quarters, beat the bottle against the bulkhead, and find the aforementioned pot of black coffee. But it felt wrong to simply abandon the two others here to explore on their own, especially after everything El’Heem had done on their behalf. Besides, an impressionable newcomer being led solely by Maz Rodan? Shayne shuddered at the thought of what the Kressari might become. Cheerful? Spontaneous? Sociable? Shayne: The station. Preferably somewhere quieter and close to hangover cures. Rodan: Response. In a few moments, the Kressari had found something suitable, and seemed excited to usher them onto the platform. Shayne was in no condition to protest. El’Heem: Can I say it? Shayne: Say what? The captain was baffled until he looked at Rodan, who, as per normal, cleared everything up. Rodan: Response. Ah. They stood on the platform, facing forward, and waited to be turned into information. El’Heem: ::In the deepest voice he could muster.:: Energize. ((Somewhere on Deep Space 33)) Shayne: Well, this is new. They’d materialized into a darker, niched section of the station- that much was evident. Talking, laughing, clinking of glasses could all be heard easily through the bulkhead, but they were subtly muffled, as if there was something purposefully obscuring the sound. Light was dim in what appeared to be a storage closet, large enough to fit some fairly large equipment. Rodan/El’Heem: Response Shayne didn’t pretend to be an expert on the structure of the station- he was still coming to grips with the internal layout of the Khitomer. God, there was a lot to learn. Shayne: I know I asked for somewhere quiet, Mr. El’Heem, but this going above and beyond really must stop. El’Heem/Rodan: Response Suddenly, a hissing, squawking sound heralded the opening of a pair of double doors. It was not a sound typically made by Starfleet double-locks, and something gave the captain a very uneasy feeling. Quickly, he crouched behind a row of crates, and encouraged his companions to do the same. Voice 1: I didn’t have a choice! You think I liked putting it in there!? It was gruff and yet whiny, as if it had never learned that sometimes, life just didn’t go the way you wanted it to. Voice 2: They’re going to be here in two hours; we don’t even have access to the damned ship! Shayne’s heart plummeted. Was something bigger going on here? And- good lord- were they trying to get aboard the Khitomer? The bastards! It wasn’t even paid off yet! El’Heem/Rodan: Response Tag/TBC… Captain Randal Shayne Commanding Officer USS Khitomer NCC 62400 G239202RS0

Uhyup.

Might as well, right?

((Deck 11, Main Engineering, USS Ronin)) Thump. One hooded, lidded, spiky eye slowly opened. The precise and predatory iris swiveled lazily on its axis, scouring the area before it with scrutinizing but unjudging attention. It saw nothing of interest, and so thought little of shutting. That’s precisely what it did. The soft, easy hum of breath lilted in the air. Thump. The eye opened again, more assertively this time. Still nothing before it was worthy of attention, and yet it dared not close again, for it was when eyes were closed that the greatest of harms were done. Or so he’d heard. Thump. A low, long-suffering growl exited his scaly lips. It was not a growl of rage, fury or anything else that might be unfairly associated with his fearsome appearance. No, this was a sigh of disappointment, of resignation, of accepting the inevitable mild discomforts of life, old age, and existence aboard a starship. Ensign Ferentis’ ears were well tuned for a creature of his professions; that is to say, the sounds of heavy industry was of no bother to him. He’d napped in enough Jeffries tubes during refits to simply tune out the raucous clatter of duty. But subtle, difficult-to-localize noises… those were entirely different stories. He didn’t know what he’d expected; leaning up on his stubby dino-digits, he resolved to find either the answer, and fix it, or locate another Jeffries tube nook that would serve as the perfect warming plate for him to curl up and snooze. Let it never be said he was not a man of action. Ronin’s wounds were significant, and as there was little of interest for Ferentis during shore leave aside from sleeping, he’d been happy to offer his temporary services to the bigger vessel. It was more than that, too; if he knew the department chief on the Khitomer, there was no point in getting familiar with the interior structure of the New Orleans II class vessel, because so much would be changed by his return that he’d have to start from scratch. The prospect of working through shore leaves was slightly improved by the realization that there were bound to be hundreds of meters of Jeffries tubes, each running EPS grids nearby, and each soaking in some of that delightful warmth. Thump. So far, that noise was the only drawback to his strategy. And it was stemming from above him. Careful, languid motions carried him forward like some skulking alligator in a sepulcher. He hummed gently to avoid scaring anyone he ran into. Thump. His mind carried him back to his engineering lectures; what, precisely, could so consistently create that rhythmic noise? It probably wasn’t anything related to the computer; it sounded distinctly mechanical, which was only to be expected in these metal catacombs. He kept crawling forward, humming a tune he did not know was about Frere Jacque. Thump-Thump. Ferentis paused. Scowled. Grunted with mild annoyance. Continued his journey. Thump-Thump-Thump-Thump-Thump… The dinosaur paused, and glanced to his right towards a non-existent camera. Either there was something deeply wrong with the ship’s internal structure or… He passed through a deck translation, foregoing the ladder entirely, and saw the cause of his nap’s interruption. He stared. Staring was rude. He stopped staring. For a brief instant, the most sensible thing he could think to do was inspect his claws. This did not last long. Here, now, was a problem, a challenge that Ferentis had never been so unfortunate or so careless to find himself faced with before. There would be, of course, nothing wrong with simply exiting the situation. He was, after all, an innocent napper turned voyeur. This was not something he’d wanted, and now that he was stuck with this, he was determined to do more than simply accept his role as an unfortunate passerby. But discovery would destroy the three people present; and Ferentis was all too familiar with the stinging embarrassment that would haunt him for long after the rest of those involved had died natural deaths. That seemed to be his lot in life. It would either be a cringe-inducing accident… …or a story. All that was required to get from one to the other was a willing author. He ducked his head low, and gently, silently, scarily sneakily, trundled directly below the spotted pairing. The thumping continued unabated. Ferentis nodded, impressed, before catching himself and continuing his work. Sharp talons dug into the micro-meter gap between the access panel and the protection cover. His eyes skimmed over the array of EPS control interfaces and life sup- aha! Life support. He began by turning up the temperature by just a few degrees. To the best of his understanding, most humanoid species dealt with heat by sweating, and given what he’d just seen, there was plenty of that underway. But though he was not a traditional Pahkwa’thanh by any stretch, he still held on to certain customs; one of these was the practice of… performing the deed in a room that was slightly warmer than the surrounding locale. It was seen as an inviting welcome to the soon-to-be-arriving clutch of eggs, and it mattered not one inch to Ferentis that neither of the people above him were Pahkwa-thanh. Affection cared not for species delineations. His attention then fell upon the lighting. Ten seconds later, the slow blossom of a warm red glow suffused the intersection directly above him. He could see its gradual presence announce itself behind him, in the reflection of the path he’d just climbed through. One last thing to do. He scrambled through the corridor of confining metal as quietly and gracefully as he could, through several decks, until he accidentally struck upon precisely what he was looking for. A head, wedged into the small compartments afforded by the mess of Jeffries tubes. Ferentis spared a thought for the poor officer who had inspired the need for such a desperate accommodation. But of far more importance was the pair of thick fluffy white towels. He hummed to himself again as he snatched them, placed them on his back, and returned to the source of the disruption. With careful, tender, practiced motions, he extended one folded towel and then the other, leaving them in much the same position as their intended beneficiaries; one atop the other. Finally, nodding with satisfaction, he quietly exited the tangle of maintenance tubes, and opened the access hatch in Main Engineering- -to find a young Andorian crewman, arm extended towards the hatch, and toolkit in hand. They stared at each other, the crewman hesitantly, Ferentis pleasantly. Crewman: Uh… I was just going to see what the noi- Ferentis closed his eyes, and slowly shook his dozy head one way, and then the other. The crewman was confused. Crewman: But… if there’s a problem I have- Ferentis shook his head again, politely. The Andorian’s antennae sloped forward, twitching. Crewman: So you want me… Ferentis raised his head, as if to indicate the crewman was halfway to the answer. Crewman: …to walk away? Ferentis smiled slightly, and nodded with slow, heavy movements. The crewman stared. Blinked. Puckered zher lips. Crewman: Ooookay… Zhe pivoted on her heel, and walked away stiffly. Ferentis watched her go with relaxed eyes. He climbed out of the tube, shut the hatch, and stood in front of it, hands cradled before him, for a long time. END Ensign Ferentis Engineering Officer As simmed by Captain Randal Shayne Commanding Officer USS Khitomer NCC 62400 G239202RS0

((Stardate 239101.30, The Root, Verdant Belt, Sylvana Prime)) The classroom had been increasingly empty over the past month. Ras still attended as his parents insisted that his primary school education must continue despite everything that was going on. However, his mind had been fuzzy as of late. The rations his family were entitled to were hardly able to sustain all four of them. Most of the creche he had grown up with were migrating with their families away from the blight. Although, not all of them had left because they were moving, some of them had left Ras’s life because they did not get enough rations to survive. One loss in particular weighed on Ras these last few days. Ras looked over at a desk that sat a few rows ahead of him and to the left. It sat empty, as it had for less than a week. Every time he saw that seat, melancholy washed over him. Maybe he should’ve forgone a day or two of rations to sustain his crechemate. It would’ve been hard on Ras no doubt, but he should’ve done something. He felt immense guilt over the loss even though in reality he could not have prevented it, his parents had told him this very fact many times since Kael Jena’s composting. Why did they even need to compost her? The Verdant Belt had grown withered since those botanists unearthed the mutant mushrooms in the Great Barren North. There was nothing for Kael to return to. He supposed they did because it was tradition. A way to honor those lost, even if it was in vain. Ras’s faith in tradition had waned since the only things on his mind were his empty stomach. The growling kept him up at night too, the lack of sleep surely contributed to the fuzz in Ras’s head. He floated in that cotton, his thoughts adrift. Thoughts of leaving all this pain behind, thoughts of his now frail baby sister, thoughts of the dead stares his parents have as they reconcile with how to provide for their children. Thoughts of food. Basted Variegated Palm stalks, grilled tufted mushrooms, fresh Star Blooms that the Bloomgrazers hadn’t gotten to yet. His stomach growled now, and it snapped him back to the present just in time to hear his instructor calling his name. E’Na: Ras. Ras did you hear me? Ras: ::Looking up.:: No I’m sorry Shila E’Na. What did you say. Ras sat up at attention. He wanted to show respect to one of the few Shila’s that still came to teach the children in their classes. E’Na: I said that they’re closing this Root at the end of this cycle. In two days time, we will no longer have the facilities to run anymore. There’s only three of you in this class anyways. ::She cleared her throat as her voice broke.:: Go home, spend time with your family. I know your minds are elsewhere children. Ras looked around at the two others that still came to class. They looked back. Sadness in their eyes, all of their worlds had crumbled around them this last month and here further were more changes that kept a semblance of routine in their lives. ((Later that day, Ras’s Sha, Verdant Belt, Sylvana Prime)) Ras stood outside his Sha, a multiple family dwelling. The home used to be buried in lush greenery with many crops to sustain the families within. Now it was a former shell of itself, most of the plants yellow and dead, all edible foliage stripped of their former life-providing fruits weeks ago. The Sha was an efficient way to live, in fact it was the way most Kressari lived, not just on Sylvana Prime. The small communal pods emphasized a division of labor that sustained the massive cities and towns without encroaching on the many protected wilds on the planet. It also fostered a particular respect among the Kressari people’s that was largely responsible for their pacifist lifestyle. He used to love coming home to see the other children in his Sha. Usually running into the home with Kael Jena laughing and joking like they were blood siblings. The two were inseparable. And now it was just Ras walking into his quiet home. The once lively structure now housed only one and a half families, the El’Heems and what was left of the Ka'ari’s although he didn’t see much of them since their patriarch succumbed to starvation. The silence in the Sha permeated every inch of it. Most of Ras’s free time was spent taking care of Lira, his younger sister who rarely left her bed now. Ras: Lira I’m home. The Root here is shutting down, I don’t have to go- Ras stopped as he walked into the El’Heem’s portion of the Sha. His parents were sitting at the table completely overcome with exhaustion. Ras: What’s going on? ::Fear in his voice.:: Is Lira okay? Mom? Dad? Tal, Ras’s father looked up at the boy, his hands crossed in front of him. His eyes flashed colors of dejection and defeat. Mira, his mother, stood and walked to the counter but didn’t look his way. Tal: Lira’s not doing well. ::His voice cracked.:: As you already know. But we’ve been able to secure her transport with the Starfleet evacuation ships off world. Ras: How did you manage that? Hope for salvation had been a far cry for awhile, and now he was absolutely flooded with it. Ras practically ran to the table and sat down, looking at his father. Ras: Isn’t this something to be celebrate? We won’t have to split rations four ways and Lira will get the help she needs! Tal: Yes this is all true but ::Tal paused and looked at Mira who was now turned around looking right at them.:: the government has announced that the rations are down to 10% and Starfleet can’t provide enough food to sustain all of us. Confusion and anxiety swirled in Ras’s head. The hope he had just acquired, dashed on the rocks. Ras stood up in anger. The chair fell back and toppled over. Both Tal and Mira looked at him but didn’t protest, they knew how much this was to take in. How much all of it had been to take in. Ras: ::Tears welled in his eyes and his voice was weak and broken.:: Why can’t you find a solution? In a world full of botanists, why can’t you find a cure of this plague! You two are supposed to be some of the best. ::Ras was yelling at this point.:: I can’t sit by and do nothing. I’m coming to work with you at the lab after Lira leaves. I either do everything I can to help fix this, or I starve doing nothing and I can’t sit by and do that. Not after Mr. Ka’ari! Not after- ::Ras burst into angry tears.:: Not after Kael! Tal and Mira looked at each other. A glimmer of pride in their eyes at his determination. Mira: Ras. Ras: Don’t even try to stop m- Mira: ::Cutting Ras off.:: Ras. You’ll come with us to the lab tomorrow, then. We’re not going to stop working towards saving Sylvana Prime either. He stood in shock. All the emotions of the day. The lack of calories to sustain all this energy. He felt woozy. Ras: O- Ok. I’m sorry for yelling. I- I need to say goodbye to- to Lira. Tal: ::Getting up and taking Ras’s arm.:: Lira’s not leaving until next cycle. You need to lie down Ras. We’ll start preparing tonight’s rations and get you ready for tomorrow. Ras almost collapsed into his father’s arms. He leaned on him, not only physically but emotionally too. They walked together to Ras’s bed, next to Lira’s. Tal sat him down and swung Ras’s legs up for him. Ras looked up at his father through blurry eyes. He wanted to be just like him and help people too. Then Ras looked over at Lira, who laid asleep to his right. He wanted to help people like Starfleet was helping Lira. His vision waned. He tried so hard to keep his eyes open. To look at Lira for as long as could before she was gone. Gone like Kael. It became too much. He shut his eyes and fell asleep. NT/END Ensign Ras El’Heem Junior Medical Officer USS Khitomer (NCC-62400) K240106RE3

((The Starboard Bow, Deck 6, USS Arrow)) Lieutenant Hobart let go of Lieutenant Ohnari's hand and gestured towards the window of the Starboard Bow, sloping up and out along the Arrow’s belly. Without any significant atmosphere between their eyes and the stars, there was no twinkle. They simply burned mercilessly bright pinholes of light, steady and unyielding, through a pitch black canvas. Hobart: There’s a war coming. Could be here any day. We’re not on the frontline, we are the frontline. The Sheliak are coming with their new friends, and they view us all as vermin. You’re our Chief Medical Officer—"Acting" or otherwise—and you’re about to be elbow-deep in blood. ::beat:: You’re going to need to remember those puppies on that beach, but for me that doesn’t work. You didn’t offend me. ::placing both hands on her shoulders:: I’m working on a project with Connor, and whether it ever actually helps win the war or not, it helps me. That’s why I left the holodeck. I was getting ready. ::beat:: For what's coming. So... I'm sorry for makin' you worry. When he finished speaking, Nolen sensed the bouquet of emotions competing for the spotlight in Ohnari's mind. He couldn't be sure which of them won out, but an instant later she had wrapped her arms around him and buried her head in his shoulder. He felt, through the shoulder of his dress uniform, the gentle tug of air pulled past his neck as she inhaled, and the warm gust as her lungs let go again. He couldn't imagine what it looked like to the rest of the Starboard Bow, but, then again, he didn't care to try. Whether it be relief that she was wrong about him, or anticipatory grief for the days, weeks, months, or even years to come, Talia needed the hug, and as much a trickster as he could be, Hobart couldn't deny it to her. He wrapped one arm around her waist, and the other up across her shoulders, his fingers weaving between her raven locks, his palm cradling the back of her head. Ohnari: ::muffled:: I think we're both a little weird sometimes... Hobart: ::chuckling:: We're weird a lot of the time… ::sigh:: but only weirdos join Starfleet. He'd said it before. In a post-scarcity society, where you could do and be anything you want and never have to worry about the necessities of life, it took a special kind of misfit to volunteer for service in Starfleet. Even on a barren backwater like Relva VIII, Nolen could have gone anywhere else. But he'd never have fit in anywhere else. At least here, they were all not fitting in together. Ohnari: ::turning her face so she wasn't muffled:: And whatever is coming… ::unconsciously squeezing tighter for a moment:: We'll face it. Hobart: ::softly, looking around at the celebration:: Call me the fly in the ointment, I guess. Didn't mean to ruin your big night. Ohnari: No… it makes sense. In a twisted, "Of course this is happening" sort of way. ::taking a deep breath:: Sickbay will be ready. And if you and Connor have anything to do with it, the Arrow will be running like she's brand new. Without realizing it, they'd started rocking. If they were clever, they could probably play it off as dancing. Of course, given the set list for the night, they'd have to each pretend to be rhythm-impaired. And if Nolen wasn't transferred, that would be a charade they'd have to carry on for a conceivably long time. But apparently neither one of them was feeling especially clever, because rather than lean into it, they simultaneously froze, in realization. The comforting hug had started to transform into something different and regardless of whether they were prepared to acknowledge it to themselves and each other, they were certainly unprepared to acknowledge it to the crowded room they edged. Hobart: Uh… Wubber? Ohnari: ::smallishly:: We're still hugging, aren't we? Hobart: Technically. Ohnari: It's getting weird, isn't it? He twisted his head to the side in consideration. "Weird" was a relative thing, and given that it was the two of them tangled in each other's arms… Hobart: In fairness, it started weird. Ohnari: Count of three, we break and never speak of it again. Before he could get in another quip, she pushed off him, winding up nearly a pandemic’s spacing apart. He instinctively straightened out his white jacket as he watched her fall away. Ohnari: ::stern parting nod:: Lieutenant Hobart. And with that, she turned and headed straight for the bar. Heaven help anyone in her way, thought the Betazoid hybrid. He watched her go, hips swaying beneath her dark gown, delicate chains across her back still twinkling. Hobart: ::slow nod, softly to self:: Talia. “Never speak of it again.” Yeah, that was probably for the best. NT/End for Hobart ——— Lieutenant Nolen Hobart Engineering Officer USS Arrow (NCC-69829) A240001NH3

DATES: The class began on 01/01/2024 and ended 01/08/2024 LIST: sb118-Academy3 COMMANDING OFFICER: Commander Genkos Adea FIRST OFFICER: Lt. Commander Robin Hopper GRADUATES: Kel Solas Maximilian Whitlock Welcome to the fleet – we're so glad you're here!

Of course.

🤪😂