Alora DeVeau

My work here is done.

I'm really looking forward to seeing more!

Smoke punctuated the air. Its pungent, acrid scent infused his nostrils and filled his lungs, sent his body shuddering with explosions of hacking coughs in an attempt to clear them of the invading substance. That was what awoke him, the choking fog that tried desperately to vacuum all the air in order to dominate and establish its dominion. Garrett resisted, his eyes opening to a world of chaos, his brain finally cognizant enough to register the blare of alarms and to recognise the blaze of orange that had ignited and began to consume the remnants of the capsule in which he had at one point found refuge. Now it would be his tomb if he could not spur himself to action. As he set his arms and legs into motion, they rebelled, complaining against the pain that flared as he tried to move. Forcing them into submission, Garrett pounded against the clear dome that rose over him, supposedly a protector, it had now become his captor. His fists raged at the barrier between him and freedom, the heat of the flames seeping through. Sweat trickled over his brow, down his neck and salt stung his tongue. Finally, it popped up, but the heat only seemed to slap him in the face as he struggled from the bowels of the capsule only to tumble down off the side and into a mound of sand. Behind him, he could hear the groan of metal and the crackle of the fire as it continued to rage. The small capsule that had rescued him from the fiery hell in space was now consumed with its own raging fire. Almost as soon as he had vacated, tongues of flames licked over the seat he had just abandoned, greedily devouring everything it could, the metal shrieking and twisting under its assault. Stumbling back, the world blurred, then cleared, only to blur again, going in and out of focus as he ordered his legs to move, putting distance between him and the vehicle that had given its life to save his. When the explosion finally came, it was still close enough to feel the blast of hair and heat, the sudden clash of noise in his ears drowning everything else out, then fading away only to be replaced by a high pitched ringing. Debris flew everywhere, flung at him as the dying module raged in anger at his desertion. Falling face first into the sand, he curled up, hands over his heads in desperate hope that none of the makeshift missiles would strike true. A moment later, he cautiously unfurled and attempted to bring into focus the world around him. His breath came in gasps, his chest painfully heaving, but he pushed himself up to a sitting position, hands digging easily into the shifting ground beneath him. His eyes found the same thing around him. Sand. Miles of it. Rolling hills and dunes of pale orange that stretched out as far as he could see. The only break was the burning rubble, a blackened scar on the landscape and the consequences of its dying fury. The ringing faded, and in its place, the whistle of a stark, dry wind that clutched at his throat and slapped at his cheeks taunted him. From above, the sun beat down, and even that rough breeze did little to ease its stifling heat. Eyes turned back to what had been his salvation only to bring him to his doom. Klaxon alarms sounded in his head and his hands clapped at his ears, but they did no good. Closing his eyes only brought into sight chaos. Fear. Shouts and screams as the ship rattled with explosions, bodies writhing as everyone clamored for the escape pods, arms outstretched, hands clutching, tugging, fear driving the mass forward. He had been among the last, his intent to help everyone off the ship before he himself went. The captain...her dark eyes had set upon him. He had insisted she go. Instead, she had used her superior strength to physically place him in a pod and launch it before he had the chance to breathe a protest. Then it had exploded, just like his pod had just done, the force of it sending the few capsules still nearby spinning out of control. Another violent tremor, another scream of alarms, and then...darkness. Darkness and into light, but it was an unwelcome sight, and now that pod was gone. All of them should have landed in the same place. He should be with the others, those who had managed to escape, but the ship’s destruction had only set him off course, and now he was alone. Alone with the sand. His body shuddered with another deep breath, and he once more tried to clear his head. To think. To assess. Strangely enough, he was hardly injured. Bruises, a few cuts, a blow to the head, but nothing terminal. Yet. Lifting his hands, he felt himself all over, but his uniform, torn and bedraggled, had no supplies. All of those would have been in the pod, the one now lost to him. Panic gripped him and his hands began to search through the remains of his uniform, unsnapped the red and black overshirt of his uniform and jerked it open. The sight of a small, rectangular piece of thick, glossy paper remained and immediately he breathed a sigh of relief. A relic, one he’d been teased about, nonetheless he kept it and kept it close. It was there. If it was there, then all was not lost. Leaving the overshirt unbuttoned, Garrett forced himself to his knees, then once more to his feet. Turning around, he tried in vain to ascertain his position, to get a sense of where he was, of where he could go, where he might find others or, if nothing else, water. All that lay before him was the silent, endless view of the dunes. One way, then another, it didn’t matter. It was all the same. Finally, unable to make any accurate assessment of direction, Garrett simply set his eyes forward, his dying chariot at his back, and began to walk. Beneath him, the sand shifted, impeding his progress, forcing his body to exert more energy as he slipped and slid with every step, sometimes stumbling forward as the ground beneath him gave way. The sand seemed to laugh at his fumbling efforts to make progress, opening its mouth to catch hold, tugg him downward, then repeat as he pressed onward. Above him, the sun arched, rose and fell, then finally passed below the horizon, easing the painful heat that stung at his skin, turning it crimson within even only an hour under its purview. What time of day was it? He had hoped it would be toward evening, that the great orb which hovered low in the sky was on its descent into slumber, giving up its heat and allowing the wind to be cool rather than cruel . He was disappointed. Rather than lose sky, it gained, driving its way upward. Had there been a place to seek shade, to take rest, whether under the long armed, stoic sentinel of the giant cacti that could be found in certain areas of his home or in the sheltering shadows of cliffs that jutted up from the earth. With either of them, water might have been found. Those spiked arms Held life-giving water within, salvation to a man dying of thirst. Cliffs often had vegetation, and while it was no substitute for water itself, it could help stave off the worst of dehydration, even if only for a little while. Neither were present, however, just the endless sweep of sand, of dunes rising to bask in the unrelenting hammer of heat from the sun. His mouth was almost as dry as that which stretched before him, the constant rise and fall of hills, dune after dune, wave after wave, never changing, constant and stark, devoid of life save for his own as he struggled onward. The heat burned at his body and he had already removed his overshirt, removing the treasure from within, sweat staining the paper and stretching across one of the faces it contained. That shirt became something of a shield, for all the good it did. The fiery laugh of the sun was no match for his puny attempts at finding some sort of shade. Little was gained, the barest hint of shelter in a shelterless world. Over the crest of one and down the slope he turned his eyes back to the horizon, seeking, searching, hoping. A shimmer of golden silver glimmered across his sight and he paused, startled by its appearance. A flatness and sparkle indicated something more than just the miles of mindless grains that formed in heaps and piles of a wasteland. His tongue ran over his lips, but after the hours beneath that burning sphere, there was no moisture left. His mouth and throat constricted, desperate to retain moisture, finding none. A gasp of breath escaped and energy surged through him, spurring him forward. Sweat had ceased by that point. How long had it been? He’d forgotten? The fathomless distance he’d crossed, the stretch of hours where the circle of light seemed to barely crawl across the sky held no true sense of time, no indication of how long he’d truly been - only that hours had passed, though he could not gain any more concrete of an answer. Hours beneath the burning hands, under the torment of that laughing, parched wind that only seemed to make things worse rather than provide any sort of relief. It pushed back against him, pressing him away from that shimmer, from the gloriousness of that oasis that surely lay ahead, that surely waited for him if he could just press onward, persevere through, force himself to pass the last distance between himself and its edge. Still it laughs, that shifting breeze. It whipped his face and cackled in his ears, tormenting, slapping grains of sand that stung his skin and drew streaks across them, welts rising in their wake. Still, he pushed on, ducking his head in an effort to cut through the worst of that assault, glancing up to ascertain his direction, striving onward, striving forward. Yet it never drew closer, that distance never grew smaller. The sheen of distant moisture remained just that - distant. Time passed, the heat of the day sweltered and the man dwelt beneath, his steps slowing, his pace unsteady. The wind had changed course, shifting to press from behind, whispering promises into his ears, promises that remained far ahead, enticing, calling, but unreachable. The whistling laughter echoed as he sank to his knees, hovering a moment before another push from that incessant companion set him toppling. He didn't know when, but at some point, he had taken his treasure in hand. His grasp had remained constant, clutching it without any hint of easing, desperate to hold on to that which had spurred him forward, helping him dare to try to cross the vast space that lay ahead. It was a thing of times passed, an item rarely used, but one he had been determined to acquire. Stiff lines and sharp corners of the digital variety were ill suited for carrying upon his person, and he longed to keep it with him, pinned over his heart, until he’d set out on that terrible journey that inspired him to keep it there, clasped in his hand, its presence the only reminder that he was not alone, that he was loved, that he had a reason to live, a reason to hope. That hoped dwindled, and where it once dwelt, sorrow replaced it. Pain had long ago ceased to plague him. Now he was merely numb, the lashing of the sand by that ineradicable gale. All that remained were the dying embers of a man, cooked beneath an uncaring sun. Slowly, he drew his hands upward, trembling fingers attempting to smooth out the glossy paper. The sweat had dried, leaving only the stains behind, crossing over the face of a woman, her dark hair tumbling over her shoulders in a cascade of undulating waves. Darker eyes sparkled with the smile that lit her face, and in her arms she cradled a child, the bundle of cloth only parting enough to reveal the round, wide-eyed gaze with similar dark eyes, and a soft, downy head covered in wispy curls. One sand crusted finger traces the lines of that smile, then of the sweet innocence of the other. The pain that ravaged him then was not of the tormented body that had suffered under the abuse of the elements, but that of a heart, clenching and writhing within, twisting and finally bursting in grief as he could bear no more. The hand that held the picture dropped as his body went slack. The desert wasted no time, utilizing the rush of the gusts, closing in over him. For a few moments, the photographs remained, pinched between his fingertips, but in the end, the wind took hold and wrenched it free, the piece of paper fluttering helplessly away as the sands consumed their victim.

OOC: This JP between @Prudence "Rue" Blackwell and @Ashley Yael gives us more of Jafarr and his craziness, not to mention some very realistic reactions on the part of those he's accosting. Just loving this! ((Starbase 118 Ops - Sickbay)) PRIORITY MESSAGE: MANDATORY LEAVE To: StarBase 118 Ops Senior Staff From: Commodore Sal Taybrim As we return to StarBase 118, I want to let you all know that we are celebrating a most successful mission. Thank you all for your tremendous work. We have not only strengthened our alliance with the Klingon Empire but done an incredible service to all our neighbors which will help ensure peaceful relations moving forward. This news has reached the Federation newslines. Starfleet Intel has confirmed that StarBase 118 will very soon be crawling with FNS reporters, all looking for a scoop. To this end Admiral Hauke and I both believe that the crew that worked so hard to bring this change about does not need the added stress of being hounded by often hostile new personalities. We will dock at StarBase 118 at 0100 base time and you will have four hours to gather everything you need for a two week vacation and report back to the Narendra. We will be quietly staying at an all-inclusive private resort reserved for situations just like this. I have messaged officers involved in this ongoing mission who stayed on StarBase 118 to join us on the Narendra when we dock. This vacation is meant to be relaxing in the utmost while Starfleet Diplomatic Corps takes the heat from the media buzz. If you have any questions, please let me know. ~Commodore Sal Taybrim Commanding Officer, StarBase 118 ~~~~~~~~ Rue had taken time to change into something far more comfortable - a pair of black slacks and a light sweater. Along the way back, she got a message regarding their orders for shore leave, and read them along the way. As she got into the room, she smiled faintly to Yael. Blackwell: Looks like we have our orders for rest and relaxation ::Noting that he was reading the same orders she’d just reviewed:: Yael: Well… that does sound *nice.* ::meaning the message as he finished reading the order that Sheila had mentioned:: We should get our things and high tail it to the Narendra. He slid his feet to the floor and then paused, glancing down at himself. His symptoms were slightly less obtrusive now, but he wasn’t going anywhere fast, especially barefoot and in sickbay patient PJ’s. Rue watched and chuckled faintly as he looked at his current clothing. Yael: I should definitely change first. Blackwell: Very likely. ::And she turned, giving him a bit of privacy. Meanwhile, she was considering what she needed to bring, making a mental list. She was looking forward to a vacation herself. A breather. Time to think through the last few weeks, and perhaps actually just consider a few side projects.:: He was still a bit unsteady, but moved to pull the privacy partition back so he could dress. He had a fresh uniform folded on the table next to him… politely provided in preparation for his departure. He pulled off the medical pajama top, noting he was almost completely free of bruising, save some lightly remaining discolorations where it must have been the worst… he *knew* he’d been thrown around quite badly… and he tried not to think too deeply about how much attention he’d required while unconscious. It was his *head* he was concerned about most as he pulled on his uniform and closed the collar, securing what dignity he had left. He was still a bit dizzy, colors seemed almost obnoxiously bright, and there was a dull, endless ache behind his eyes. He really could use that vacation. As he came back around, she turned and smiled a bit Yael: Got to get my sea legs back. ::beat:: I just need to grab my personal computer from my quarters. Did you need to stop by yours? Blackwell: No, I’m all right. I’ll just come along with you. Everything I need I’ll either buy, replicate, or have shipped.::She smiled and moved to the door to open it for them, a soft swoosh sound as she touched the panel, stepping out from sickbay with Ashley:: The walk was pleasant, if slow, as they walked. She kept her pace nice and easy, and off and on paused to tap at her PADD to have something sent to her quarters on the Nandrendra. She paused as she heard some sort of brujahjah ahead of them, lifting her eyes as she viewed the scene. The pair walked as a somewhat slow pace… the Denobulan hybrid was none too quick at the moment, though he was getting steadier on his feet as he moved a bit more… he had his computer and a couple small things in the smallest of travel satchels slung over his chest diagonally. They were making their way down the corridor when there was a bit of a commotion behind them past the intersection. Ashley turned, about to ask what the fuss was about, when a quartet of persons in a coordinated group appeared at the interchange. A Trill, a Human, a Bajoran, and a Bolian, all equipped with rather professional looking gear that included headphones and microphone headsets. Their eyes landed on Ashley and Rue, and he felt something of a pit growing in his stomach as the group *rushed* down the hallway toward them. He almost tried to move toward the wall slightly, because he thought they would rush *past* them. Nope. The quartet of slightly winded journalists stopped and hovered far too close to the pair, essentially trapping them on the wall of the corridor. The Bolian spoke first, and *fast,* clearly the ring leader to this dog and pony show. He weaseled next to Ashley, tucking in close… *too* close, making the Denobulan flinch at the proximity. The reporters reminded Rue intensely of a group of carrion eaters, swooping down on a desiccated corpse on the side of the road. She grabbed Ashley’s shoulders, steadying him and attempting to protect him, pushing herself between Jafarr and the Denobulan hybrid. Jafarr: ::looking into the camera carried by the Trill:: This is Jafarr Symote, and I’m with Lieutenants Blackwell and Yael of Starbase One-Eighteen! ::he turned and dark blue-black eyes zeroed in on Rue:: Ladies first, am I right? So, what part did you play in this whole Klingon cult business? Nasty stuff, the Cult of Molar. Blackwell: My role was transport, communications and intervention - we simply were doing what was needed for the good of the Federation, the Klingon Empire, and the safety of all. ::It was practiced, succinct and exact:: Jafarr: ::hardly letting her finish:: Did you see any hand-to-hand combat? Get any kills? Bring home a bat’leth? Blackwell: Thank you, no more questions ::She tried to move past once more, unsuccessfully:: Jafarr: ::almost interrupting again:: That’s a new hair style, it’s very bold. It’s a Power Cut, if I do say so myself, and I *do* say so. New relationship, new look, amIright? She wanted to take a breath but she put on a well practiced smile on her face, aware of the cameras on her The Bolian gave Yael a strangely knowledgeable look and nudged the weirded out Denobulan in the ribcage with his elbow, making him flinch slightly yet again at the undesirable contact. The Bolian promptly forgot about Rue in a singular moment and his eyes zeroed in on Ashley, who likely looked like a trapped cat. It was remarkable that she kept the smile on her face, as when he elbowed Ashley, she had the distinct want to show him how good at hand to hand she really was. Jafarr: So, tell our viewers what a *counselor* and a *pacifist* is doing leading a secret Strike Team behind enemy lines? You’re kind of *small* to be leading Marines into combat, aren’t you? Ashley was too surprised at the bold and very knowledgeable question to respond properly in the short second the Bolian stopped talking. Jafarr: You were injured. Struck by Klingon pain sticks, OUCH, am I right? They didn’t stick you anywhere *sensitive* did they? ::beat:: Is it true you rode thirteen wild targ down the corridor of the Klingon High Council? As Rue attempted to carefully and gracefully separate Yael and the reporter, she caught the questions and wondered what form of chemical fumes he had inhaled before coming to entrap them. Yael: ::finally finding his shocked voice:: What? No! Jafarr: No, hmm? Shame, that. Missed opportunity you’ll regret. ::barely pausing between sentences:: Do you think it’s a good idea for Star Fleet to be sending unprepared non-combatants into combat operations? Yael: I’ve- Jafarr: ::interrupting again:: Especially someone with a history of psychological instability and substance abuse issues? How *do* you get such rave reviews from your crewmates when you can’t even control your *own* addictions? She narrowed her eyes at that. She couldn’t help it, she was getting impatient, angry and most of all, protective. If Ashley wasn’t shocked into silence he would have bristled at the incredibly hostile question. His embarrassment was written in his expression, but before he could speak the Bolian turned to Rue again at warp speed. He had seemed to note her shift in mood and intended to capitalize on her for the cameras. Jafarr: Lieutenant Blackwell, what’s the nature of your relationship with Lieutenant Yael? You’re gorgeous. ::turning to Yael shortly:: Isn’t she gorgeous? ::turning back to Rue again:: With his eyes and ridges, and your *WHISTLES* ::he motioned crudely to ALL of her::, your illegitimate, unmarried love babies will be *beautiful,* amIRIGHT? Blackwell: Yael - do not respond ::She said, her voice was impeccably calm despite the heat rising in her veins. She looked to Jafarr quietly:: Yael: ::flustered, trying to formulate something intelligent:: This is *incredibly* inappro- Jafarr: The ladies in the audience want to know, Lieutenant Yael, do the ridges go ALL the way down? The protest inside him was frozen, and Ashley stiffened visibly, flushing hard as he glanced at the camera. Good gods, this wasn’t *live*, was it?! Blackwell: :She stepped forward:: Mr….Symote was it? ::She gently pushed Yael behind her:: I understand you are all - very- eager for a story, and I know that you have a lot of questions ::And directly to the camera:: Which is reasonable as citizens do need to know what is being done to protect the galaxy, uphold the values of the Federation, and of course, keep people safe :And she smiled:: however, I happen to recall Mr. Symote that your specialty in reporting is more…..::She paused:: Jafarr: ::butting in again with a feisty smile:: You’re right! I get the meat! I tell people what they want to know. ::his smile turned slightly:: Seems you’re the *man* of the pair. So *protective*. How admirable! He was baiting her again, that smile ever on his face. Blackwell::She raised both brows to that:: Are you always so ….::she considered:: quaintly antiquated, Mr. Symote? ::She looked amused now, and looked brightly to the reporter:: Jafarr: Oh, I married my yoga instructor. Then divorced her three months later, HA! ::he didn’t seem torn up over the loss:: She wasn’t nearly as modern as you. Blackwell: Oh, I’m not modern. I’m practical, when I need to be ::She shook her head and looked to the reporter:: So if you are really curious into what is the meat of the situation, why don’t you ask about …::And then she was caught off guard:: Jafarr: So this isn’t the first individual you’ve dated with ::And he said with a mock low whisper:: Difficult emotional situation. How about your ex-fiance…. Blackwell::And then it was her turn to cut him off:: Please Mr. Symote - that’s very old news. ::She shook her head:: If that is the best you have… Jafarr::And then he gave a devious grin, and leaned into the woman, practically looming over her:: And what about the investigation into the Salters? Now it was her turn to be caught entirely off guard. Rue’s face stayed perfectly calm, but her eyes were brighter, as nerves and anger started to make her heart beat far too rapidly. Jafarr:: It’s all so -intriguing and interesting- ::The Reporter pressed, smelling blood now:: Scientists who developed cutting edge technology, known for their brilliance, innovative focus, tragically killed in a seemingly mindless accident. What would have prompted you to get curious about that? ::He pressed the microphone closer to her mouth, and she felt herself lean back against Ashley:: The Denobulan hybrid had cringed at every touch, but now felt something sterner growing inside him as Rue leaned back into him. They needed to *end* this encounter. His shock at the verbal assault had worn off, even if just slightly, and he boldly reached to grasp her wrist tightly… and with as hard a shove as he dared, he shoved his way past the Bolian and the team members with Rue at a brisk jog. Jafarr: Hey! Lieutenants! *Lieutenants!!* Ashley kept up the speedy pace until they hit a turbolift and the doors slid shut behind them, at which point he finally released Rue’s wrist and pressed himself against the turbolifts wall, looking somewhat panicked, and a bit shocked at his own behavior. Amethyst eyes looked downward at nothing for a moment, then flicked up at her. He also gripped his hand where he’d held her, holding his own hand as if it had offended him somehow. The feeling of crawling beneath his skin was starting, but it was a short contact… he could manage it. But the sudden activity had sent his head spinning a bit, and he wasn’t very steady for a moment. Rue was almost numb to sensation as she was pulled, trying to work out precisely where those questions had come from, how he could have known to ask, and mostly, what it meant. When she was tugged, it was easy - Yael went and so did she, lead like a cut right into the turbolift. As Yael released her, she moved against the wall and breathed hard, and slapped her hand against the panel to close the door. Yael: Sorry for grabbing you. That wasn’t an interview… it was an *assault.* Blackwell: ::her voice wavering a bit:: He was rather….rabid wasn’t he? ::She cleared her throat and straightened, and furrowed her brow:: ...Are you all right? He didn’t hurt you did he? Yael: ::laughing lightly, but it was forced:: Just my pride. You? Blackwell: No, it’s...nothing ::She shook her head and folded her arms:: We should get you looked at though - just to make sure ::Quickly focusing the conversation on him:: When we get on the ship, lets call Wyn. Yael: I’m okay. Really. He released his hand, grasping the fingers into a fist a couple times before forcing himself to let it hang normally, despite the creeping feeling sliding into his wrist. He *could* control it. He *would.* Blackwell:...Okay, I just want to make sure you are okay - that ….::her fist clenched:: that reporter ….I wish I could have slugged him. Yael: You know, the same thought crossed my mind. But that would have made *great* material for his viewers… I can see the headline now… “popular shock jock punched by pacifist.” Blackwell:An exhale:: No, that would not have helped anything - made things worse really. Yael: Ah… reorienting, and realizing they hadn’t given the turbolift a command:: Take us to the deck where the Narendra is docked. The computer calculated the command and the lights began to slide past as they were taken to the proper deck. The turbolift doors opened, and thankfully there were no journalists waiting to maul them in the corridor. Yael: ::moving into the corridor:: How did he even *know* all that… There were numerous things the Bolian had said that he shouldn’t have known about. Not just information about the mission to Qo’nos, but *private* information… *medical* information. Blackwell: I really don’t know either …..:::she frowned:: But I will find out. Yael: Maybe we should report the encounter to security. There’s no way he could legitimately have known all that… The Denobulan hybrid fell somewhat silent as they walked. He was *not* going to ask what the “Salters” investigation was about… Rue had had a palpable reaction to that statement. But he also felt a bit awkward, and embarrassed… he’d had several things exposed in rapid fire that he’d have preferred *hadn’t* been. Blackwell:::While he was awkward, she was angry...but she was focused on keeping that anger controlled, and held from the sensitive denobulan:: So...lets think through this. How could he have logically gotten information like that. Yael: That would require his source to have access to the information. Someone with a high security clearance. ::pausing, then more quietly:: Who would *do* that? Anyone in Starfleet should know better… unless he offered them a bribe they couldn’t refuse? Blackwell: Bribe….or something else ::She glanced to him:: Yael: Or he could have something on them, and in order to keep their own secrets on the down low, they feed him private information about others… not much better that way though. Blackwell: Then there’s a mole. ::She exhaled slowly, and put her hand up, pressing the heel of her hand against her temple to ease the ache:: Well, we are not going to fix it right now. We escape on shore leave, report the incident...and hope to relax somehow. Yael: True… ::not liking the lack of certainty:: What do we do now, then? Blackwell: Only thing I can think of...right now….::She then exhaled and quipped:: Besides you know, taking a ship and disappearing to the farthest reaches of the galaxy. Yael: Right. ::smiling lightly:: We probably shouldn’t hunt him down and steal all his equipment. Blackwell::A slight smile:: I suppose not. The pair made their way the rest of the way to the Narendra, boarding with plenty of time for take-off. ~*~ Jafarr Symote Propaganda Artist & Journalist Written by Ashley Yael C238211TZ0 Lieutenant JG Ashley Yael Counselor Starbase 118 Ops C238211TZ0 Lt. Prudence Blackwell Comms/Ops Starbase 118 G239308PB0

OOC: @Ashley Yael introduced this phenomenal sensationalist journalist and it's just priceless. ((Starbase 118 – Marine Headquarters – Corridor 7A)) Jafarr: ::perpetually interrupting:: Have you ever fantasized about *eating* your crewmates, Major? You’ve got the *chompers* for it! Do we need to be worried? Kelemkor didn't knock that instinct loose while he was in there, did he? The Bolian was trying to get a reaction, and he got one for sure. Tatash: Erect a security forcefield around this deck section immediately. The cameras kept rolling as the field came up, securing the area around them, and the Trill with the camera spun it to get it on film. Jafarr: Ooooh, big man with a forcefield. ::taunting:: What’s the matter, Major? Too big and slow to chase us? Tatash: =/\= Tatash to Andrews, I need a security team to Corridor 7A urgently in Marine HQ. I have a group here I need taken to the brig for immediate investigation. Andrews: =/\= Affirmative, Major, team is enroute immediately. =/\= Jafarr: You can’t stop the free press, Major. Journalists have rights! Tatash kept the line open as he looked at Jafarr. Tatash: =/\= You are under arrest for suspected espionage and the distribution of classified information, you are also under arrest for trespassing in a secure military facility. Your camera equipment will be confiscated, immediately. Jafarr: You don’t want to do that. Tatash: Should have checked who run the joint before wandering into a Marine base. Jafarr: You don’t seem to realize that- Tatash leant in, letting out a low rumbling growl. Tatash: Please, I beg you, resist arrest. Nothing would make me happier. Now, the Security Officers, myself and the head of Intelligence are going to have a nice long chat about just how you came by all that information. The Gorn leaning over him and growling that out actually stopped the paparazzi from speaking for a short moment, which was a miraculous feat in and of itself. Jafarr: ::stuttering slightly, searching for the right trigger:: That would be an abuse of power!! And… aren’t you supposed to be on leave? Tatash grinned as the Bolian squirmed. Tatash: My friend, this -is- my idea of shore leave. The shimmering of blue lights filled the room, as figures began to materialize. Isaiah and two other security personnel, a man and a woman, arrived and quickly stepped forward to accost Jafarr and his team. Iz directed the other two towards the camera crew while he addressed the blue-skinned Bolian. Andrews: Jafarr Symote, you and your team are subsequently under arrest for trespassing a secure facility. In addition, you are subject to questioning and investigation for possible espionage. I am going to have to ask you to come with us. Jafarr: ::finding his voice now that security was there between him and the Gorn:: Those charges are ridiculous! They’ll never stick. ::turning to his team:: Don’t worry, they’re bluffing. ::back to the security detail:: Trumped up charges meant to scare the free press out of doing our job! Tatash: ? Andrews: We have to follow procedures Mr. Symote. There's a reason that these areas are restricted. If you're innocent of espionage as you claim, we'll find out soon enough. Meanwhile Wilgun and Royden were relieving the crew of equipment. Wilgus: Please hand over any and all recording equipment, including portable and hidden units. Royden waved a scanner at the Trill, and it emitted a chirp. Royden: Portable and concealed units as well. Jafarr: I’ll have you know, there is an automatic uplink for all our footage! Even if you destroy our equipment, it won’t matter! We’ll still get to the truth! ::stammering as his team handed the items over:: But you better not break anything! This is expensive gear! I’ll *sue* you if there’s so much as a scratch! ::turning back to his team:: My lawyer’s on speed-comm, don’t worry. Tatash: ? Andrews: Your objections are noted and recorded and will be part of the report. As of right now, though, you and your team will be detained immediately, end of story. ::He looked to Major Tatash:: Sorry about the trouble, Major. ::Tapping his comm:: =/\= Requesting transport to minimum security detainment facilities =/\= Tatash: ? Isaiah gave a nod and a thumbs up to Major Tatash as he, the other security officers, and the trespassers were engulfed in the transport beam. (( Starbase 118 Ops - Detainment Area )) Isaiah gave his most professional smile to Jafarr Symote through the bars of the cell that the Bolian and his team had been confined to. Andrews: Just so you are perfectly clear, you are being detained for trespassing in restricted areas. In addition, you will be subject to questioning for suspected espionage as a matter of precaution. Jafarr: ::clearly annoyed at being imprisoned:: I don’t have to answer your questions! My sources have the right to anonymity! Where is my equipment?! Iz had to keep from smirking. Served the guy right. It wasn't like Jafarr didn't know exactly what he'd been doing, harassing a Starfleet officer for gossip rag stuff. Andrews: All of your equipment is currently secured in our holding facility, and you will be able to obtain it upon your release, provided you are cleared of more serious charges. Jafarr: I have the right to comm my lawyer. Andrews: Yes, of course you will be permitted access to your legal team. And if you have an official complaint you'd like to lodge, we will of course provide you a channel for this. Jafarr: I’ll sue you for this! This is false imprisonment! The silencing of the press is the mark of a dictatorship! Andrews: Duly noted, Mr. Symote. In the meantime, please enjoy your stay in our facilities. Iz departed, leaving Jafarr and his crew to simmer with shared concern and frustration over their arrest. The reality was, Jafarr had been through this before several times, and was almost sure he’d be released soon. The only charge that had ever stuck to him before was trespassing, and that was such a minor offense it almost never meant a consequence. He’d be free again, and he’d find a new target! He needed more material for his show, after all. The Gorn getting aggressive was intimidating, but it would make great television! Jafarr: ::musing to himself:: Maybe I should have goaded him more. Out-of-control Gorn attack! Now *that* would have been a headline. ~*~ Jafarr Symote Propaganda Artist & Journalist Written by Ashley Yael C238211TZ0

This had me rolling!

Rue needs to write the recruiting flyers!

It's so wonderful to have you both! Welcome!

I have the scene where Harry Potter, Hermione, and Ron are all under the invisibility cloak in my head. Harry Potter in space?

I thought this was a wonderfully written fight scene and I love the tidbits of Tatash we see in here. There is a warning below, however. Still, a great fight scene, even if it's quite violent. ((OOC: Putting a strong Content Warning: Violence on this. It is quite bloody. Also sorry for the confusion earlier I posted an unfinished article whoops)) ((The Waiting Room)) Crunch. That was the sensation Tatash felt as he was thrown back against the wall by the almost impossibly sized Klingon. Whatever it was that just snapped in his back would have to wait as he forced himself to stand back on his feet, looking at the lumbering giant across from him. He was monstrous even for the renowned strength of a Klingon in their prime, his muscles bulging under his leather jerkin so much that Tatash could identify just about every muscle group. Tatash: Impressive. Whatever this lumbering hulk was, he had Tatash locked with his full attention. Good, the brawl with Kelemkor at least would have two against one, even if one of them was now spinning a painstick around like the galaxy's most awful marching band leader. Athaw: You shall not pass. Tatash: Then I’ll go through you. A brief moment passed between them as they sized up the distance between them and just how hard the opening volley would need to be, the last moment of calm before the beast came charging towards him with a bloodcurdling warrior cry. Something stirred in the Gorn as he did, letting his own roaring shriek out before charging forward to meet his powerful aggressor. It was an even match, probably the first even match he’d ever really experienced. It was exhilarating, pain being pushed aside by sheer bloodlust as for once the Gorn allowed himself the luxury of indulging something that he had been keeping buried deep inside for years. The spirit of a warrior clashing with the beast that he was finally allowing after so long to push through to the surface. Athaw barely responded to the blows the Gorn was dishing out, those standard punches that were the product of years of fighting lesser opponents and they were doing nothing to stop the massive pile of flesh as the Gorn found himself pressed back against a wall and smacked hard in his rib cage. Something gave way leaving a sharpness in his chest adding the sensation that breathing was starting to get a little more difficult, more laboured with each half inflation of a damaged lung. But wounds were something that occurred when the adrenaline faded, when he was allowed and permitted to feel pain. They were something to be doted over in a sickbay or hospital bed, they were not for the here and now in life and death. He grappled back, that thin veneer that was civilised behaviour starting to crack as Tatash relearned through pain what he was at his base level. What lurked under the training like a vile shape under a churning sea, the well drilled protocols, the rules of engagement one by one were falling apart as it was made clear this was an encounter that could have one definite ending. -I- will win. Tatash thought, rage bubbling up inside him, stacking like precarious mental bricks on top of each other building a terrible wall of force. -I- am Gorn. He lunged himself forward and clenched his jaw around Athaw’s shoulder and bit down, the full force of those terrible predatory teeth bearing down and pushing through the fabric and into the flesh beyond. Warmth flooded his mouth, metallic, running out over his chin. Athaw: ? Another series of punches came at him, but he was lost to himself, each one registering as a dull thud no doubt battering him but shrouded behind the insanity of brutal gratuitous combat, only letting go of Athaw to let out another fearsome roar, a shrieking hissing sound from a wide open mouth with stained teeth dripping crimson. He circled around him, waiting for Athaw to make another dash towards him. Athaw: ? And dash he did, the sheer force of the boot shoving against his chest sent the Gorn reeling backwards against a row of cabinets, Klingon documents spilling out like confetti as he impacted them sending their carefully catalogued shelves flying out across the room. His uniform tore, revealing the scarred scales underneath as it caught on the corners that were digging hard into him. Tatash: You’ll… never… win Tatash lunged forward again, propelling himself forward with his hand open, fingers curled up as he swiped down with his claws fully exposed, those talons ready to take the Klingon’s sight as he aimed to rend those sockets clean. Athaw: ? That terrible warmth of an inflicted wound washed over the Gorns hand, Athaw’s hand coming up out of reflex to cover his face as the dark talons carried out their grisly task, the base instinct to protect vision was a powerful one in any lifeform with eyes, that rarely could be overcome. But still the Klingon stood, swinging his mighty fist blindly towards the Gorn and connecting hard with his snout, the sound of something hitting the ground as he managed to shatter a couple of the Gorns terrible teeth, the remains of them clattering onto the ground. Tatash: Why… won’t… you… stop Each of those words was delivered with another swing of his own tensed mechanical fist, the artificial limb whining, before suddenly stopping as Athaw gripped it in his hand. Tatash pushed, the Klingon pushed back causing the appendage to start whining under the duress. No matter how hard Tatash struggled against it, the fist would not budge, before finally with a dull cracking sound the servomotors failed and his limb decoupled itself with a spectacular spray of sparks, hanging limply by the Gorns side. Athaw: ? The sheer predatory feeling to finish the task bubbled up without any particular thought. It was a primal, surging need. A need to survive regardless of the cost. A need to survive and protect the data that was hidden in that smoking, ruined arm. Turning his long snout to the side Tatash heaved himself forward and wrapped his jaw firmly around the Klingon’s neck, sinking his teeth into that delicate, unprotected flesh, gripping firmly, before wrenching his head back with a sickening tearing sound. The confusion on Athaw’s stained face was obvious as Tatash discarded the contents of his mouth onto the ground, the gurgling strained sound coming from his opponent echoed as he staggered backwards blinded and dazed, before slipping on his own essence that was pooling on the floor under him in a rapidly growing circle, collapsing backwards. No more roars, no more triumphant cries or bold strikes. Clutching his throat desperately to stem the flow of blood the Klingon was down but at least alive. Whether he would remain that way would depend on how quickly the other battle in the room could be resolved, whether or not Kelemkor would see reason, or continue this reckless course. He turned his gaze towards the other group, fixing his grisly visage upon Kelemkor with his pain stick. He didn’t move towards them, just outstretched his arms with his clawed fingers spread and opened his mouth once towards the telepath, hissing loudly. He wanted Kelemkor to peer into his head, he yearned for it, he -wanted- him to experience every emotion running through him. The rage, the anger, the primordial satisfaction of his ancestors from downing such a powerful beast. The pride, the sheer and point blank savagery. Because then Kelemkor would know he would be next. Kelemkor/Taybrim/DeVeau: ? --- Major Tatash Marine Intelligence (Charlie Company) Starbase 118 Ops C239108T10

The visual in this just cracked me up.

We're Starfleet. It's what we DO.

Oh...OH...I really want this to come out somehow! LOL

You know what your mama said about poking things with sticks!!!

Insanity seems to run in the SB118 family.

Alora would completely agree with you.

A special dagger to go with your special eyes?

Welcome Scotty! So glad to have you with us!

I'm almost afraid to ask WHERE!

Go, Go, Gornzilla!

Might wanna go look in a mirror @Wes Greaves.

This made me chuckle.

Hey! Now wait a second! 😄

I should have known Jamie would work the comment about caterers into a sim.

OOC: Beautiful. And heartbreaking. ((Vulcan Forge, Xial, Vulcan)) The wind was blowing in the desert, still cool in the early morning. It brought the fragrance of morning dew, of desert succulents and fresh spring. High above, a bright silver kestrel hailed the rising sun and, far, far away, among the hills, another bird answered its call. Alieth sat on the rock and for a few minutes just admired the bird's evolutions in the air, as the desert sands swirled at her feet. Finally, she sighed and placed the ark she had been cradling in her arms on her left. Her fingers moved over the surface to the appropriate spots and, to her mind's eye and only to her, a figure became visible on the other side of the rock. Alieth: It has been a long time, my friend. Sern perched himself on the rock, crossing one leg over the other and lacing his fingers over the top knee. Sern: Has it? I seem to recall speaking with you just the other day… The features around Alieth's eyes relaxed slightly before she spoke again. Alieth: That was weeks ago, my dear friend. Sern: Then it has been a long time, indeed. Is this-? She gave a little nod. Alieth: Where we used to meet, when you were obsessed with hover car racing. She stretched out an arm towards a watercourse a little further down, half hidden from view by a dense mass of thorny, shrubby vegetation. Alieth: You used to hide your vehicle there, so the matriarch would not send it to the junkyard. I still hide mine there. The ghost of an all-too-human smirk brightened his eyes. Sern: Ah. An apt choice. Alieth: Indeed. I have fond memories of this place. Slowly, he scanned the horizon, eyes eventually settling on a cluster of rocks off in the distance. Sern: And some not so fond... She let out a small sigh. Alieth: Effectively that happened here as well… There was no need to point out "that" event. It was in his mind as well as hers. Like so many others. Like so many memories. Thereafter, a comfortable silence settled between the Vulcans, each lost in their own recollections- some clearer than others. Either seconds or hours passed before Alieth spoke: Alieth: Are you sure you want to do this? Sern: If my choice is between this and ::he opened his hand in the direction of the device, in a manner not unlike a certain human:: that - I would say the choice is obvious. A genuine smile danced in her dark Alieth: I have no objection, everything Geoffrey John gets his hands on ends up looking like a mayhem ball affixed with way too much duct tape. Two beings of any other species would likely have laughed. It would not be a laugh of mirth, but one of two old friends diffusing the growing tension of anticipated conversation. A conversation both parties were perfectly content to leave unspoken, until they were forced to form the words by both time and circumstance... In the end, it was he who spoke, his countenance more sober than it had been so far, if that was even possible. Sern: It is time. You have brought me further than I could have hoped. But it is time. She looked at him and, for a brief second, bit the inside of her lip. She had to have one last try. Alieth: I just want to persuade you to remain here. We still have so much to experience, so much to learn, so much to live... perhaps we could... Sern shook his head. Sern: No - not 'we'... you. For a moment, he wasn't entirely sure he would win the staring contest. Alieth: :with a sight: You are right, of course… Silence settled between them once more, thickening as the minutes passed, and only the wind filled it faintly, along with the cries of the birds of the sands. At last, Alieth turned to his friend's shade, took a deep breath and spoke again. Softly, barely over the whisper of the wind. Alieth: I loved you, you know... In some way I still do. No amount of emotional discipline could hide the look of surprise that shifted across his features. A greenish flush crept into his cheeks. Sern: I - uh…. I - I loved you, too. She nodded silently, opened her mouth to say a word but ultimately chose not to. At another time, in another life, perhaps the blush would have crept up her cheeks too, but not then. Sern: Yeh- ::he cleared his throat, trying to force the flush away:: uh, yes, well… Alieth: I know. ::Sigh:: Perfect timing. She looked down at the crystal encapsulated in a mechanical device that was humming on the rock beside her. She ran her fingers over it. Not a word, he would know what was in her mind. Alieth: And speaking of time, the moment has come Sern: Now or never. She nodded faintly and took the device in her hands. Sern crossed over to a scrubby-looking bush and tried to grasp a branch. His hand passed right through it. He moved back to where Alieth stood, the ark device cradled in her hands. Sern: Could you-? Alieth: I have already did so. In her hands, the device had ceased its humming. The crystal still twinkled dimly, the energy that animated it slowly fading, with an increasingly slow pulse. There was another bit of a pause before the fade started. Much like the image of the Veritas, the edges went first, limbs and core gradually shifting away to reveal the unbroken landscape behind him. Shifting into nothingness. Once the will of her friend, of the person who had most marked her early and many of her later years, had been fulfilled, Alieth remained there for a long time. Until the sun rose at its zenith and the shadowless noon of the desert forced her to seek shelter. When she did so, there was red dust staining the hem of her robe and wetness in her eyes. But there was also peace in her spirit, a peace she had not felt for a long time. Goodbye, my dear friend, and farewell… [End] ================================= Alieth daughter of Saros Mourning USS Thor NCC-82607 E239702A10 Image Collective Facilitator /Art Director & Sern of Vulcan Deceased E239602QD0 =================================