Sal Taybrim

Congratulations everyone! You have all done fabulous work over a very difficult year! You should all be very proud!

Well done everyone! Thank you all for making this fleet such a special place to play!

clean cut this year, huzzah

Very smart.

Clearly this is the heist of the century! 😂

I think the Klingons would approve, Mr, Dann

>.>

Suitors dig scars?

When shoreleave turns into a summer action movie... ((Vrixis VI)) Maybe it was due to the fact that he'd just come back from an incredibly dangerous impromptu rescue mission on Qo'nos of all places, but Isaiah was feeling particularly...adventurous. Compared to dodging security beams and fighting angry cultists, whatever happened here on Vrixis VI was going to be trivial. Besides, they *were* supposed to be having fun, weren't they? Andrews: Well, whaddya think, doc? You in or out? Better decide before one of the resort staff sees us and chases us off of the equipment. Ayala: I’m not sure if I should reprimand you or compliment you. Taisa crossed her arms, shaking her head. Iz was already climbing into the driver's seat and looking over the console to get a feel for what was what. He glanced up and over at Dr. Ayala. Andrews: You can do both on the way. C'mon Doc, the fun train is boarding at the station. Choo-choo. Ayala: All right, all right, I’m coming. Isaiah grinned as she hurried over and swung up into the passenger seat, stowing her bag. The we're-gonna-get-in-trouble look that he read on her face and body language only amused him all the more. He reached down for the ignition, then paused and looked her way, wearing his smirkiest of smirks. Andrews: Hey Doc, you wanna take the reins on this horse? Not every day you get to drive a stole-, excuse me, *borrowed* vehicle. Ayala: Oh no, your idea, you drive. And you take all the blame. If we get caught and in trouble, you kidnapped me and that’s the truth. Andrews: Wow, just gonna throw me under the autotransport like that. I see how it is. ::Shaking his head.:: Some of us just trying to make life interesting for everyone else, and this is the thanks we get. So be it. As Dr. Ayala buckled her seatbelt (chicken!), Iz turned the ignition and the electric dynos of the rover hummed to life. He pressed the accelerator and the vehicle lurched forward jerkily, sending Iz almost out of his seat, and the straw hat flying off of his head and onto the hood of the rover. Andrews: Oof! What in the..? Oh… ::He pulled a lever release:: Parking brake. Of course. After leaning over the dashboard and stretching out to retrieve his hat, Iz decided maybe he'd put his seatbelt on and buckled it once he was seated again. Then shooting his passenger a grin, he hit the accelerator again and they were off trundling down the sandy path, throwing up a wonderful roostertail of silt behind as the three sets of spinning wheels took their purchase on the terrain. The drive to the dining facility was actually rather nice...ocean breeze, swaying palms, shimmering ocean as a backdrop. A few times, Iz had to put his hand down over the top of his hat to keep it from being stolen by the wind. He looked over to Dr. Ayala, his expression like that of a kid rolling down the hill in a wagon with no helmet. The dining hall was not far, and it was directly adjacent to another building, which they took to be the storehouse for all of the foods that got prepared for resort guests. Given the size of the facility, it seemed like a good bet that this was actual meat and produce, as opposed to replicated renditions thereof. Iz leaned on the steering wheel and glanced over at the Doctor. Andrews: So, if I give you a shopping list, how about you just saunter on in and load up a cart, bring it back out here. I'll keep the motor running. Ayala: Oh no, this is your idea. You do all the talking. I’m here against my will, remember? At her response, he snapped his fingers in an "Aww shucks" motion. Andrews: Can't blame a man for trying. All right, let's try a different approach than the most direct one. Isaiah started the rover again, and they started driving around the perimeter of the facility. Ayala: ? Andrews: What, don't you trust me? Ayala: ? Andrews: Fair enough! I just wanna do a little reconnaissance here, see if we can see a path of least resistance to slip in and out with the goods. Iz parked the rover behind a dune and killed the power. Undoing his seatbelt, he slipped out of the seat and jumped down to the ground, removing his hat and placing it on the seat. He gestured for Ayala to follow him and started moving closer to the storage facility. There was a convenient palm grove near the side entrance, and he pointed to it as a good cover point. Once at the palms, he crouched down and peered out. Ayala: ? Andrews: ::Whispering and pointing:: Look there. I just saw an employee go in that door, and they were wearing regular clothes. But I saw one come *out* wearing the resort uniform. Ayala: ? Andrews: Yep! We're gonna get disguises! Isn't this fun? I think you ought to hum some spy music. Do you know any spy music? Ayala: ? Andrews: You know, something like *dunt-duh-dunt-duh-dunt-dunt..* Ayala: ? Andrews: Of course I'm serious. ::Grinning:: Okay, don't worry about the music. Just follow my lead! Iz waited until there was a break in any in or out traffic, and there were no individuals in sight. Then he stepped out from behind the palm grove and walked, casually, towards the door. He was banking on the fact that this was an isolated resort with very little need for security. If he was picked up on cameras, so be it. But why would they need to worry about guests wandering into the employee dressing rooms? He got to the door to the storehouse and tried it. It slid right open and he grinned broadly, gesturing for Ayala to follow as he slipped inside. Ayala: ? -- Ensign Isaiah Andrews Security Officer StarBase 118 Ops M239010MC0

StarBase 118 Lower Decks material right there...

Just a bit of wonderful character development... ((USS Narendra, Crew Quarters, Deck 9) It had been a long day, and a stressful one. Talas had slumped into his temporary quarters aboard the Narendra. One of the benefits of being a support vessel is less people onboard, which meant he did not have to double up with anyone, he had some small quarters to himself which was always a welcome relief. The recent mission had once again, like the Borg did, shown Talas how close they come to losing their lives in Starfleet. One mistake, one surprise by the enemy, one system failure could doom a lot of people. It was this thought that kept bringing Talas back to his family, his mother was king and caring and genuinely wanted what was best for Talas even if she didn’t agree with his choices. His Father was different, his Father despised him and his choices and wasn’t afraid of making that clear. Talas knew he did not want to leave this life without having at least attempted to reconnect with his Father. Their last conversation had ended quickly, he knew his Father was angry and had never really got a chance to vent at Talas, in truth Talas could not put up with it. Grabbing his pad, he opened a blank letter and started to write. Father, Before you disregard this letter, I implore you to read it through and take time to consider my request. I know you’re angry and I have never truly given you the time or space to tell me about your frustrations, and for you to hear mine. I want us to have that time. I’ve recently had some quite frightening experiences, I expect most the details are classified but they’ve involved the Borg and as you may have seen on the Federation News Service, the Klingons. The ship that was involved in a battle over Qo’nos was the ship I am currently on, I was at the helm for the battle, it was a truly scary experience. It has made be re-evaluate a lot of things, including my relationship with you and Mother. Putting my thoughts down in writing, I hope, will serve as a platform for us to reconnect. We would just get angry at each other speaking in person, whereas writing gives both of us time to think about over points of view, and understand the others point of view, they key to a good debate is both sides understanding the view of the other, why they hold those views. I want to assure you that I understand your viewpoint, the Cardassians committed horrific atrocities to you, our people and our planet and I don’t doubt that many Bajoran’s would happily see the Cardassian population wiped out. However we have to understand that the occupation is over, to continue to punish and not attempt to build connections to create a stronger bond that will stop things like the occupation happening again is key. Hoarding resentment at something that has a viable solution is illogical. I understand why that’s difficult and why you find it hard to move on from what the Cardassian’s did to you I know you did not approve of my relationship with Gilana, but she was right for me, and that’s all that should matter. Neither Gilana and I were born when the occupation finished, she, nor I can be punished for the actions of her people. I think Cardassia received enough punishment at the hands of the Dominion. Gilana died several months ago, in an shuttle accident, it’s a shame you never got to meet and understand that she was a good person, she wasn’t a Cardassian officer in the occupation, she was a normal citizen. There is a planetary controller’s conference at Starbase 118 in a few months, where I posted, in a few months. I’d like to invite you and Mother to come and visit, it could be part of your work. I’d be proud to show my parents around the base. Please consider the request, I know it’s a long flight from Bajor to this side of Federation space, but I hope it’s worth it. Beck -- Ensign Talas Beck Helm Starbase 118 O239707TB0

>.>

I just love a good bad guy sim ❤️ ((High Orbit. Qo'Nos.)) Hatfield: Open fire! Idiots! Buffons! Morons! The trap had been sprung upon the Narendra far too soon by overeager commanders of third-rate Cult vessels. Her opening shot smashed into the Federation vessesls shields. And then the Narendra vanished. Actually vanished like smoke into mist. Hatfield: Where did she go!? Find the Narendra! Federation vessels didn't have cloaking devices as standard, and especially not clapped out old buckets like an Ambassador-class. Suddenly, the minefield began to move, swarming after an unseen target. It had to be the Narendra and Hatfield slammed an angry fist into the arm of the command throne. An instant later she was out of her seat, a heavy blow landing upon the shoulder of her helmsman. Hatfield: Follow them, you fool! She hissed in anger as the wildly flowing stream of mines detonated in a ripple of explosions that inflicted crippling damage upon the Cult vessels shields. The Narendra flickered into view, smashing a torpedo into the exposed belly of one vessel. There were more explosions as the ship began to break apart, it's death throes ensaring and dragging down it's companion. The main viewscreen brightened then, as the Vakh'Tol powered up and heaved to. Her eye darted around the viewscreen as the rapid series of events were processed, watching still as other Klingon vessels scrambled to get clear of the disintegrating Bird of Prey and the seemingly wild torpedo volleys. Hatfield: Get the Narendra back on screen. Now! The view snapped instantly to the Narendra, and she was bearing down upon them rapidly. There was the flash of a torpedo launch and Hatfield barely had time to open her mouth to bark an order at her stunned-looking helmsman. The torpedo missing them, but only just. The shockwave from it's detonation shook the Chang-Vor'ch like a toy in the bath, shattering screens and causing consoles to explode outwards. The main viewer was reduced to scrolling static, and Hatfield was slammed sideways against her throne. Pain blossomed in her side and face, with her spitting blood onto the deck. Her bridge crew and bodyguards were scattered as leaves on the wind, being banged about just as much as her. And Malle Zistra, her Betazoid navigator was the worst off laying face down in a spreading pool of her own blood. Hatfield: Get us out of here! The green-collared helmsman looked at her dumbfounded, his face bloody mask from the slice across his cheek. Hatfield: Now damn you! In the end, it was her chief weapons officer Lieutenant Danzuc that got behind the helm controls and put them into a rapid about turn. The hefty Klingon punched the engines, getting them well clear of Qo'nos before sending the ship streaking away at warp. Spitting another gobbet of blood onto the deck, Hatfield stalked to the lift at the rear of the bridge. She clicked her fingers at her guards and they hauled the helmsman to his feet, dragging him between them as they followed her from the bridge. They dragged him along the ships main corridor, stopped beside their commader beside an airlock door. Hatfield jabbed the button and they hefted him. Suddenly realising what was happening, he began to kick and scream and plead. The guards simply tossed him in and Hatfield sealed the door. Silently through the glass he screamed and pounded at the door. Hatfield: You failed me today. And one failure is one too many times. Goodbye, Mr Fredericksen. She pressed a key, ejecting the former Marine from a ship that was travelling only a little under warp eight. -fin.- Commander Vivienne Hatfield. Former OC, USS Valeria. Former FL, House Kravzo'ch. Simmed by; Lieutenant-Commander Arturo Maxwell. Chief Tactical Officer / Second Officer. Starbase 118 Operations. O239311AM0.

Very interesting and compelling end to one of our antagonists - bravo Mr. Davis! ((Theseus, Bridge)) Kurin: You mean surrender? Chax: What! And risk getting stuck in a penal colony again? Last time I was there I was roomed with this Starfleet brat that wouldn’t stop talking about “blue jeans,” “television,” and “gasoline powered cars.” It was insufferable. Fuse: What it comes down to, is the choice between life and death! ::he raised his voice slightly:: Do we wish to die, cowering in a pool of our own excrement? Or do we do what we can to survive? Live to fight another day. I refuse to believe this is the end of the line. ::He looked each crewmember in the face.:: The Captain may be gone, but we are still a crew. Kurin: I’m with Fuse. Chax: But we can still get away. Invert the polarity on the hull plating, make a low-level subspace field, anything! Chax became increasingly angry as Fuse negotiated. He tried to listen, but his mind flooded with all the memories. Memories he didn’t want, memories he had long suppressed. What was his name? Nicolas? No. Bobby? No, but it was a boring human name. A son of an Admiral, too. He sulked around the penal colony. It was insulting. Though it was a prison of sorts, Chax had never lived somewhere so… nice. Which made him hate the Federation even more. The audacity to place someone in a prison nicer than their own home was an insult. And this Admiral’s son, whining and complaining all the time, had no idea what life was like outside of the Federation, the penal colony, or even the Sol system. The sheer privilege of it all made his second stomach churn, and his gizzard clench. There was no way he could go back there. (( OOC: Condensing a bit since there were no open tags.)) Rajel: =/\= As you can see we are backing away. You may want to die, but my crew has a strong will and instinct to survive. Within the next 30 seconds we will be out of transporter range. This is your last chance. Contact us before it is too late. Constitution out. =/\= The channel closed and silence fell over the bridge, broken up by the occasional ping of flexing metal. Fuse: =/\= Bridge to all hands. I won’t make the decision for you, but i’m sure you can all tell that we have found ourselves in a precarious position. The hull is buckling and we only have…::He looked at the data again.:: Two minutes to make a decision. Do we go with the Federation or stay and go down with the ship? All who wish to live report to the galley and prepare for transport. =/\= Fuse: I suppose you have the bridge Chax. Chax: And I suppose you can go to hell. I hope you rot in that penal colony, rot from the inside. Kurin: ? Fuse: ::Shaking his head:: However you may feel about it, some of us want to live. No matter the cost. Chax: Funny that you call prison living. I intend to thrive. Kurin: ? Fuse turned and left the bridge, and Chax started barking orders from his console. He had no time to waste. Chax: Invert the polarity of the hull plating. Can we create a low-level subspace field around us? The bridge was a flurry of activity, every station doing what they could to try and save the ship enough to escape. Yet everything they tried couldn’t stop hull from breaking and heating. Whatever that dust was, it was deadly. Fuse: =/\= Theseus to Constitution. You win. Five souls ready for transport. =/\= Chax cursed under his breath at the cowards as he continued to work. Hull integrity continued to fall at a precipitous rate, as the temperate continued to climb. Bridge Pirate: Chax! The dust is interacting with the gravimetric distortions from the anomalous cluster of stars. If we can isolate ourselves from those distortions, we should be fine. Chax understood some of those words. Avoid the gravity, save the ship. Gravity comes from mass. Warp drive creates a bubble that makes the ship mass-less. At least, that’s what he thought he knew. Chax: =/\=Engineering, we need a warp bubble, now!=/\= Engineering: =/\=Wha- no, impossible between the nebula and the gra-=/\= Chax: Make it possible, or we’ll definitely be dead. The line simply clicked off. Hull integrity dropped below 20%, with atmosphere venting alarms starting to show across the ship. Nothing they couldn’t fix, if they could get away. A message popped up on his display: Engineering requests all possible power, including structural integrity fields. So this is how it had to be, huh? One shot. He was no stranger to life-or-death situations. He approved, and immediately the power levels dropped drastically across ship system as engineering overcharged the warp core, trying to brute-force a warp bubble. Alarms and klaxons wailed, declaring imminent failure. A situational button appeared on his panel: engage warp bubble. It appears Engineering wanted to give him the honors. Chax: To our freedom. Chax pressed the button with cool determination, and he heard the coils charge; faster and to a far greater capacity that he’d ever seen before. More alarms and klaxons, this time because the nacelles were under incredible stress. His held his breath, and clenched all his fists. He began to wonder if he should have transported over. And at the last moment, the charge was released, creating a single, large pulse to establish a warp bubble. In the picoseconds that the bubble formed and propagating outward from the nacelles, the hull atomized into a cloud of plasma. With appropriate temporal resolution, it would be possible to trace the propagation of the warp bubble across the hull, as the sudden and drastic change in the local effects of gravity ripped the hull apart at the molecular level. As it raced across the hull, ejecting superheated plasma in every direction, it ignited the atmosphere in the ship. The plasma conduits routed through the hull were ripped open, too, sending electrified plasma arcing everywhere. Had this occurred over a timespan that Chax could appreciate, it would have been quite a show. But sadly; as the hull surrounding the bridge atomized and the atmosphere ignited, it also blew out into open space, along with Chax. Behind him, the ship exploded outwards as the damaged warp core’s antimatter pods were compromised and began to annihilate into pure energy. But not only was he on fire in the burning atmosphere, he was pushed into the field of superheated plasma. As his body intersected with it, it too atomized. The molecular makeup of his body was far less able to withstand heat than the hull material. But fortunately it did not occur over a time period he, or anyone else on the ship, could experience. The nerves in their bodies didn’t even have enough time to signal “pain.” All Chax or anyone else still on the Theseus knew was existence, followed by non-existence. And the Theseus herself, similarly paradoxically lost. All that she was still existed, but the atoms were all messed about and scattered. Some turned into pure energy. She had lost her identity entirely. (( Elsewhere )) An old man, sick from both radiation and an overdose of anti-radiation medicine, kicked open the cockpit of a warp-capable escape sled with his last bit on energy. Rich Orion air. Soon, hands were all over him, lifting him up and out. - fin - —— MSNPC Chax Captain of the Theseus (Very briefly) as simmed by Lieutenant Lazarus Davis Chief Science Officer USS Constitution-B Podcast Team Facilitator IDIC team member ASDB team member C239510LD0 (he/him, character) (he/they, writer) “Do not go gentle into that good night, Old age should burn and rave at close of day; Rage, rage against the dying of the light.” – Dylan Thomas

(This is a really compelling sim that blends personal demons with the cruelty of the storyline bad guy. Beautifully written!) ((The Waiting Room)) Tatash followed behind the group as they entered the small waiting area offset from the court room. He could tell instantly that it was soundproof as the door fell behind them, isolating them instantly from the hubbub of the arena outside to the point where a pin dropping would have echoed around the room. He turned his attention towards the other person in the room, the same striking handsome faced that had looked up at them from the PADD, the same one that was a harbinger of the cult they were seeking to destroy. He flashed them a smile, but it wasn’t a friendly one, it was the smile of a hungry cat toying with it’s prey before consuming them. Predatory, cruel. Kelemkor: Ah, Vro’che. You have done such a good job in guarding these… Starfleet … guests. There was a tone behind that message, the emphasis placed on guests was levied with something that implied they were anything but. Vroche: ? Tatash kept himself quiet, he was still appearing meek, humble. It was not his place to talk. DeVeau: ? Kelemkor stood up and swept towards the trio of Starfleet officers. Kelemkor: Ah, Commodore Taybrim and entourage. ::He smiled in a lovely but cold way.:: Allow me to introduce myself. I am Kelemkor, your aide for this trial. Taybrim: ::Calmly, diplomatically:: I was not aware we merited an aide. Vroche: ? Tatash: We are not the ones on trial, we do not require an aide. This is extremely unusual. DeVeau: ? Tatash hated this… sleaze, this fake-speak that permeated the group. It was clear now that there intentions of this man were not friendly, but he was laying the verbal equivalent of a flower wreath on a shallow grave he’d started to dig for them all. Kelemkor: Come now, Commodore. Surely Attorney Li’otha has explained to you that the likely outcome of this trial is the execution of your officers. Taybrim: That is a possibility we hope to avoid. ::Sal stated firmly.:: Vroche: ? Tatash: The political fallout for such a terrible, wasteful punishment would be immense. Is Qo’nos really going to risk hefty sanctions and a souring of relations with the Federation over an internal matter? DeVeau: ? He moved towards them again, and Tatash felt something creeping in the back of his mind. A strange sensation like someone was peering through a window at him, a shadow creeping in his thoughts like some sort of muffled spectre. Kelemkor: There are ways you could save them, if you are careful. Those dark eyes connected with his, they lingered for a moment. Taybrim: I am already careful. ::he said with a low conviction.:: Vroche: ? DeVeau: ? Tatash: Could you please step back… The figure didn’t, and Tatash found his thoughts wandering. He didn’t know how to counter the invasion, he’d never experienced something so deeply violating before as he felt his memories dragged up to the surface. ((Flashback – The Battle of the Albion)) ::Diago was thankfully quick on his trigger, the Albion letting out orange bursts of energy towards the attacking ships that did their best to adapt to the sudden new parameter being thrown at them, several exploding into blossoms of yellow before subduing into frozen shards of gas and metal. One by one their number went down, a few elated cheers coming over the comms as the electronic smokescreen surrounding the fighters started to dissapate along with their numbers. Even Tatash couldn't help but feel himself slightly untense, until that split second of relief bore a heavy price. His Valkyrie spun violently as something tore hard against the port side, what had once been a pristeen wing now a twisted peice of metal. He'd been rammed, the drones apparently programmed to take every last risk when it came to ensuring victory against their designated enemy:: Computer: Warning, Port engines destroyed. Compensating. ::Slowly the ship came about, steading herself out as she limped towards the Albions perimeter, but the moment had been enough for one of the drones to deliver a firm volley against her damaged hull. Tatash flailed in his chair, thrown against the side of his cockpit as alarms wailed on each console:: Computer: Catastrophic damage. Eject. Eject. ::His training took over, clawed hands grasping for the lever under his seat that would throw the entire cockpit out as a makeshift lifeboat, one tug. Nothing, two tugs. Still nothing:: Computer: Ejection failure. ::His heart was pounding, the blue glow of the Albions shuttlebay painfully close as he fired up the emergency thrusters, throwing him forwards towards it as he tapped on the comms system hoping to the pale goddess it still worked:: Tatash: =/\= Tatash to Albion. Mayday, Mayday. ::Nothing, whatever response had come through was distorted static blasting through his earpeice. His cockpit was cracking, a thin spiderweb slowly erupting over what was once an impossibly strong material:: Tatash: =/\= Mayday... Computer: Warning, landing gear failure. All systems failing. ::All he could do now was hope as he continued to push towards the docking bay at speed, his scaled knuckles amost white as he did his best to assert what limited control he had on the ruined vehicle. The Albions damaged hull rushed past him as he saw the massive catching net erupting from the shuttlebay floor, he could even make out technicians running for cover as time seemed to slow down as the adrenaline pushing through him hit his peak. The nose hit the net with tremendous force, the entire fuselage crumpling down as he was thrown forward, what was a moment of reality pushed into a murky darkness:: ((The Waiting Room)) Tatash snarled, a guttural, violent sound erupting from him as he found himself transfixed on Kelemkor. Taybrim/DeVeau/Vroche: ? Kelemkor: ? Tatash: Get out of my damned he… ((Flashback – Tilanna V - 3,500 feet above ground level)) ::Lights shimmered around him as suddenly his body was forced to spread outwards, Raisillius floating along behind him in freefall. His HUD finally sprang to life, altimeters and artificial horizons along with a target zone flashed up by Falcon's careful navigation.:: Computer: 3,000 Feet. Caution: Exceeding recommended speed. Tatash: =/\= Pushing through the pollution layer now, watch out for civilian traffic. ::The greenish haze under them approached rapidly, breaking apart into a murky soup of unknown gasses as vehicles passed them by on each side. Some swerved desperately to avoid the two black figures falling, others skimmed by so close that Tatash could make out the faces of their pilots, all mouth agape for that brief split second:: Computer: 1,500 Feet. Danger: Extreme risk to life. Terminal velocity achieved. Deploy parachute. ::He override the suit with a tap on his wrist as the target zone became larger, clearer. As they dropped closer and closer the outlines of the sprawling factory became clearer, each building becoming more then just a mass of grey and brown:: Tatash: =/\= We pull at a 200 feet. You heard right. We open fire from 200 feet above, bring the damned roof down to cushion our fall. Computer: 500 feet. ::He watched the meter ticking from the corner of his eye, four hundred.... three hundred... every part of him was thumping with adrenaline, every nerve firing off as he pulled the cord. He could feel himself being yanked upwards, threatening to rip the suit right off him as it struggled to cope with the extreme stress placed under it, especially as the micro-boosters attached to the sides also fired. It took all his willpower to bring his carbine up, the Communicators of his stricken team finally appearing, clustered together in what looked like the dead end of a corridor. Raisillius had already started hosing down the roof and Tatash joined that heavenly choir, leaving the thin steel punctured and shattered before finally his thick boots finished off the rest of it. The both tumbled in with a tremendous crack, something twinging in his shins as they impacted the corridor with more force then he'd have liked, but the adrenaline took care of that momentary pain as he continued to fire down the corridor. Figures slumped and fell, toppling down in complete surprise as the two heaven sent warriors pushed back up against them. A few shots landed nearby, one clipping him in his armored pauldron, tearing it off with a sizzle causing his helmet to go dead for a moment as it automatically rerouted control around. The perpetrator meeting a viscous and swift hand from Raisillius's precise bursts of fire.:: Tatash: ::Yelling over the din:: Grenade out! ::He tossed one of those little ovoids down the corridor towards the attacking force, pressing himself back against the wall before the large bang made his ears ring, the shockwave moving down the corridor enough to make him wobble slightly. A second explosion occurred as the Captain took a chance to throw his own. Tatash didn't need to venture down the corridor to see the results of their effort, the remains of what had a moment ago been aggressive forces now strewn across the floor made gloomy by a pall of smoke. It was grisly, but there was no sympathy. War was never a pleasant thing to look at.:: ((The Waiting Room)) The invasion stopped, something was dripping. A steady drop-drop-drop onto the floor. Pain, searing pain. Something was in his grip. Something heavy. Rage, incalculable rage was pushing through his veins like fire numbing even the ripping sensation in his flank. Every battle he'd fought in, every person he'd lost, killed, maimed pushing his actions like the fury of a thousand ghosts. He heard shouting, muffled, like hearing things through water. A dull cacophony that wasn't making sense, it was just.. noise. Noise around him, hands trying to grab at him, pulling him, he would not move. He could -not- move. He was war, he was fury. Taybrim: ? He heard that, that familiar voice like a lighthouse beckoning him back to his senses like suddenly being thrown in front of a moving train. His conscious snapped back to reality, but still lost in a mire of confusion. Kelemkor was hovering a foot above the ground, a gasping sound coming from him as a scaled hand was wrapped around his neck, but still he had that smile on his face. Whose hand was that? Tatash blinked, finally releasing those fingers as Kelemkor dropped back down rubbing his neck with that same face, but now mixed with amusement, like someone had just won an astounding and surprising victory. Taybrim/DeVeau/Vroche: ? Kelemkor: ? Tatash didn’t respond, the mystery of the dripping sound suddenly starting to snap together in his head as he looked at the D’k tahg in Vroche’s hand, it was red. Wet. It was like his nerves were moving in slow motion, the hand that had dropped Kelemkor pressing against his flank where his uniform was tore and that same warm wetness was running down the inside of it. Tatash: Sal, I… I’m sorry, I don’t… I don't understand. Confusion was met with logic. He’d tried to kill Kelemkor, the guard, understandably had tried to stop him. A firearm would have drawn attention, a knife was quiet. But why? Why had he tried to kill him? Confusion, endless confusion. He felt the medkit tossed at him by Kelemkor who seemed endlessly amused, thumbing over the catch relying now on pure training drill, fingertips searching for something to staunch the wound. Taybrim/DeVeau/Vroche: ? Kelemkor: ? --- Major Tatash Marine Intelligence (Charlie Company) Starbase 118 Ops C239108T10

Welcome back Tracey! Glad to have you back!

Omega Gloriously Hammy Acting, FTW

A brilliant little passage into the IDIC variety of species in the galaxy:

Courtesy of Prudence Blackwell... words to live by:

When a random idea on Discord becomes an adventure... ((Starbase 118 - IKS Yan – Unlisted Shuttebay 14)) Yael: ::trying to lighten the moment:: Give me a few minutes before you send in the Marines. He took his non-standard phaser, slipped it into his decorated vest, and headed into the vent in search of whatever it was. It was a bit more snug than even a Jeffreys Tube, but he was trim enough that he could manage, and it was wide enough to possibly turn around… maybe. The smell was terrible on the bridge, but was concentrated in the vent. Ashley tried not to think about it too much and just breathed through his nose… he didn’t want the *taste* of whatever it was in his mouth. Crawling, he could barely fit in the vent… there was more space side to side than there was up to down, so he made his way somewhat slowly. It was darker now, and getting darker… he tried not to breathe too deeply, but it was hard not to be a bit claustrophobic in this sort of place… reaching into his pocket on his vest, he produced a small multi-tool and activated the small flashlight. He held it in his mouth as he moved. The smell was worsening, and he shuddered as he turned a slight left corner in the vent. It was *RANCID*... and smelled of death, or disease. His instinct was to stay away, but he needed to clear it. Finally he came upon… something. Another slight left turn in the vent, and there it was. The rotting husk of a targ. He nearly vomited at the sight of it, but kept the contents of his stomach *inside* his stomach, by some matter of willpower. It was probably one of the most *gross* things he’d ever seen. Live targ were gross enough, furry, and dirty animals, with hardly a friendly feature. This one was a starved husk that had partially melted into the grating in the “floor” of the vent. Yael: ::his nose wrinkling in disgust:: Ugh… Pulling the phase pistol from his vest, he checked his settings, made sure it was on a high yield, took aim with both hands while braced on his elbows, and fired a single long shot at the mass. It lit up with the power of the pistol, and over the course of two seconds completely disintegrated. All that was left was the stain on the grate beneath where it had laid down to die. Sighing lightly, Ashley lowered the phaser and his gaze, glad to be rid of one small problem in the line of problems… And then yelped in shock when something grabbed his ankle. Instantly his body jerked in response as he kicked at whatever had hold of him, and his head smacked into the vent above. Grunting, looking quickly down past his body in the vent, he swung the phaser to aim down the length of his legs ready to shoot whatever it was, and found… with his heart in his throat… Nothing. Absolutely nothing. He breathed hard for a solid moment, eyes darting in the low light from the multi-tool that had fallen to the grated floor of the vent, searching for movement or hostile shapes and finding none. Nothing. There was nothing. He had to get out of here. The smell was obviously melting his brain. Tucking the phaser back in his vest, he reached a hand up to rub the back of his head while cringing at the throbbing pain. Yael: Oww… freaking Klingon ship, trying to murder me… Carefully… gauging just how capable he was of doing it first… he turned round in the vent. It took a bit more stretch than he was comfortable with, but he was able to do it. Then he made his way back down the vent. He’d made two slight lefts to get here, so he needed two slight rights to return. Though, in the darkness, he *knew* where he was, his stress level was rising. He didn’t want to end up a desiccated body stuck in an endless array of vents like that poor targ had. The light began to reflect down the shaft as he got closer to his entry point, and then he saw the point of light that would lead him back to the command center of the vessel. As soon as he broke through the vents open hatch he took a deep breath, the air on the bridge far less repulsive than that trapped in the vents. Pushing his upper body free first, then pulling his legs free behind him, he stood and brushed himself off. Yael: ::in a muted tone:: Well, *that* was exciting… ::to the others:: Some poor targ decided to get lost in the vent. Probably a foodstuff left behind when the vessel was taken out of active service. McLaren: ? Yael: Incinerated what was left of it. Hopefully the air begins to clear. ::giving their team leader a smile:: It’ll improve morale, if nothing else. Blackwell/Parvana/Zel: ? ~*~ Ash Rogue Merchant & Opportunist Lieutenant JG Ashley Yael Counselor Starbase 118 Ops C238211TZ0

A wonderful little character study, well done @Ashley Yael! ((Starbase 118 Operations - Counselor Yael’s Quarters)) Ashley set about a few things at a rapid pace after leaving his meeting at the Black Tower. First, he canceled his appointments for the foreseeable future, making certain the other counselors knew to take on his cases. He hated leaving them to take on the brunt of the work, but it was for a mission after all, so it was necessary. Next up, he gave a call to the base petting zoo and arranged for them to take Feazel. He wasn’t sure if that would be permanent, but he certainly couldn’t leave him without care in his quarters for an extended period of time. The Denobulan lemur glanced at him as he said his name… the petting zoo staff agreed to take him in for the time being. He did warn them he wasn’t *quite* domesticated yet… though he wasn’t quite as face-clutchingly clawtastic as he was the day he’d arrived. Next he requisitioned several items from medical… first, a dozen emergency med kits, and a complement of portable medical equipment, including a full bio-bed with a surgical dome and body scanner. One bio-bed was better than nothing, and since it was all portable and not directly integrated into the ship systems, they could excuse the Fleet technology as a black market purchase. He also made a point of having sub-dermal communicators prepared in injectors. They wouldn’t be able to use their normal communicators, but they may need a way to discreetly communicate. Injecting the team could be his first medical duty. He arranged to have all the gear transported directly to the Yan. After that, he set about packing a few things for himself, and replicating some clothing. Off came the uniform, everything that could identify him as an officer or Starfleet was dismissed. He needed to look the part of a semi-successful merchant… but still be functional. After putting some thought into it he finally got the combination he was going for. The only item he didn’t discard was his electro-stabilizing wrist braces. Couldn’t do without those… but they weren’t Fleet-specific technology. Dressing, he pulled on a pair of snug black pants. The material was leather-like but still quite comfortable, with a laced-down pattern running down each side from hip to ankle. Next he pulled on a pair of black boots that appeared simple, but they were made of a luxurious Terellian leather. They gave him an extra inch of height, having a thick, ridged sole. He made sure to add just a little scuff to the boots, to make them look not-quite brand-new. Next he pulled on a black button up collared shirt, which had a bit of formal flair down the chest, and slipped on a decorative red and black vest atop it, buttoning it down. It was embroidered with a classic Denobulan pattern. Finally he buttoned the wrists of his shirt, a double cuff decorated with amethysts that were almost as pale as glass. Ruffling his hair and sweeping it forward somewhat haphazardly, he made certain it was a bit more care-free than his typical well-kept look… he was glad he’d been growing it out. It looked much less “Fleet” this way. Overall, as he took a look… he looked *expensive* and somewhat formal, but not stuffy. The look of a relatively successful merchant with an eye for the finer things, without looking extravagant or overly wealthy. For good measure, he raided his stash of latinum, sliding several strips into the hidden pockets on the inside of his vest. He lifted the last item he’d requisitioned and had replicated. A set of rather pricey looking wire, frameless eyeglasses… which were actually a wireless smart computer. He could interlink with it using pre-set eye movements, or verbal commands, and he could link it with any unprotected computer system. Definitely not standard issue gear… he set them atop his head in his hair, and the slightly iridescent sheen of the screens reflected the color of his hair. It had limited processing power, but it was just the sort of toy a tricky merchant might use for his benefit. Finally, he used an ankle brace to hold a small medical hypo-spray close to his skin and hidden beneath his pant leg… the daily medication he had to take. Not something he could do without, but something he didn’t want to advertise... or lose. Standing, he smoothed down the vest. Overall… he was definitely liking what he saw in the mirror. If he went to work at counseling like this, no one would take him seriously. But for a rogue merchant on a commandeered Bird of Prey? It was random, individualistic, functional… and as far from Fleet as it got. He had one more stop to make… for cosmetic alterations. Making his way from his quarters to the Promenade, he found the tattoo shop and stepped inside, quickly getting the attention of the artist who was unburdened by a client. Yael: I need a few piercings. He pointed to the end of his eyebrow just at the upper arch before his facial ridge began. Yael: One here. Then he lifted a hand to his opposite ear, gently gripping the curve of his inner helix. Yael: And three smaller ones here. All amethyst. The artist eyed him curiously but didn’t ask questions. Thankfully the Human woman was fast at what she did. Four quick stabs of pain later, and tolerating the small touches required to get it done, he had four new piercings. Nothing he couldn’t have healed up when they returned home. For good measure, he had a semi-permanent tattoo done… a thin line of black liner added to just the top of his eyes, adding a touch of glamour, he thought, and completing the almost-ostentatious look he was going for. He was quite pleased with the overall disguise, actually. Now he just had to *act* the part. Paying for the cosmetic service and giving the artist a smile, he walked to the nearest transporter and had himself delivered to the Yan so he could get the lay of the Bird of Prey's, and place the emergency med kits in a variety of vital points. ~*~ Lieutenant JG Ashley Yael Counselor Starbase 118 Ops C238211TZ0

>.>

((I just love the interaction and reactions here ❤️)) Taybrim: Janul alone is not enough to ensure full attendance. But… we can force that hand. ::he paused and offered gravely.:: I am going with him. There was a clatter as a PADD hit the floor, a reaction that was entirely justified as the CO of the station proudly announced they were ready to go careening into the afterlife. DeVeau: I’m sorry...come again? McLaren: The Commodore will be going with Janul. Tatash couldn’t help but chuckle, it was the sheer insanity of the situation, mixed with somehow the total lack of surprise in the Commodores course of action that was actually quite amusing. Tatash: Classic.

what an incredible yet creepy mental picture of an impending conflict: