Alora DeVeau

Fresh!

Oh sure, put the Rahuba right in the middle of the shockwave. 😄

This made me giggle.

Welcome and welcome back!

(( 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

Because that's what friends do.

Congrats! And welcome!

((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

She's got him pegged.

My dear, it ALWAYS comes to step four...

That thing, that thing, that thiiiing...

((Personal Quarters, Deck 5, USS Intrepid)) The quarters Avander had been assigned were private (a positive), but windowless (a negative). Looking out at the vastness of space never got old, and he liked to record his personal and duty logs while staring out a window. Instead, he found himself staring at a painting of geometric shapes, a circle and a triangle. He thought it might be something meaningful to Vulcans—what was it called—ID-eye-see? That sounded about right. He would have preferred a window. The crew had already received a briefing on how to file their official duty logs. There would be a copy for the ship’s records of their specific actions, but another, more detailed copy (with notes about the temporal shenanigans) forwarded to the Department of Temporal Investigations. Their protocols would keep certain details under wraps for at least the next 135 years. Still in discussions with the counseling staff, Avander realized that many of the staff were concerned about the stress their loved ones would have in the future when they suddenly blinked out of time in the year 2400. While they hoped to get back to the very time they left (or thereabouts), some of the crew were (justifiably) concerned that that was easier said than done. So the solution they had come up with was, in Avander’s humble opinion, quite clever. They would encode personal messages with a codex that would be indecipherable until 2400 and send personal messages to friends and family along nonrelativistic, old-fashioned radio transmissions. To most observers, they would look like background radiation, but if they had made accurate calculations, Starfleet would be able to intercept their signals, decode them, and pass along messages to those left behind in 2400. Avander pressed the record button on the old-timey data pad, stared at the painting, and began to dictate. Personal message Saturn Delphi Codex I don’t know when, or if, I will return to my own time. I want my family to know that I am well enough. I’ve taken a detour to the past and the crew and I have helped to save a planet’s population in the 2260’s. More alarmingly, there are transhumanistic beings aboard, including a Q. I’ve made contact with Auntie Elmond and have been reassured that things will all work out. Avander paused the recorder. He didn’t feel that this would end up being his “last message” home and it felt off to try and force any finality to the message. Still, in case something unexpected did happen to them, it might be better to add a few more words. The past isn’t as fun as I was led to believe—at least it’s a lot more inconvenient than Grandpa Endic always made it out to be. Our Starfleet delta’s aren’t even combages! He could go on about the technology limitations of this age, but didn’t want to come off whiny. Avander struggled to think of an appropriate topic for this awkward cross-time communication. Without technology and endless access to information libraries, I’m gaining a better appreciation of analog listening. I think I’m getting better at it, but there are always so many different ways to interpret the same data… Shoot—what had started as a good personal observation had turned into a philosophical reflection within two sentences. His mother would chide him for being too abstract in his messages. Perhaps it would be best to wrap this up and get ready for his shift. One way or another, I’m sure I’ll see you all again “soon.” I am grateful for the opportunity for a truly novel adventure—after all, that’s what I signed up for! I just didn’t expect my assignments to take me quite so far from home. All my love, Avander. That would have to do. Time to get back to work. -- Lt JG Avander Promontory Intelligence Officer USS Oumuamua O239910AP4

Well done. I find Denali a fascinating atmosphere and it's interesting to see her hopes for it. Plus the Danish. Must remember that for future interactions. 😉

Haha, it's still happening because Lukin is the best thing since sliced bread. 😉 Great exposition here.

Wes learns what it feels like to be a parent.

Welcome aboard!

Welcome! Glad to have you!

@Etan Iljor's hairdo through the eyes of an alien.

And just when I was starting to feel sorry for her...

Romulans. XD

Welcome! Glad to have you join us!

😈

((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