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Doz "Gramma" Finch / Ensign Doz Finch - But First, Tea

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We've had some amazing sims written at the end of our mission. @Doz Finch you already had me with the suspense of who the stranger was but honestly those pyjamas..., imagine the looks Doz will receive when wandering outside her quarters like that. 😁


((Niu Hotel, Borrel District, Witherington Indre III))

The three of them—Finch, Lark and Seva—had awkwardly began an escape route through the vents of the Niu Hotel, as the communications centre succumbed to fiery oblivion behind them, the guards that had entered it now undoubtedly a melting pot of flesh, metal and incomprehension. Incomprehension for a situation that they had likely believed impossible. That somehow, through some unexpected twist of fate, their deaths had been sealed by three women whose appearance did not resemble anything like that they were taught to worship; grandeur in height, in muscle. Wide shoulders, and even wider necks, painted by mother nature with solid strokes of greyish-white, clad in armour. Instead they had been masterfully hoodwinked by two women and their old grandmother, and left behind to simmer and stew, like a crucible of etiolated losers.

Tahna: Just…crawl faster. 

Finch: Don't you think I am!? ::she barked::

They moved as would a caterpillar, the differing sections of its long body undulating with each movement, connected by a common purpose, to keep on going until the head had reached its target location. In this case, Lark was their head, blocking the view in front, as if she could see much at all anyway through the thickening smoke that threatened to fill and turn their lungs to bags of ash. Then, as they turned a corner, a familiar cold wetness greeted them. It was the end of the vents;

Seva: Kick the vent open, Tahna! Now!

The woman tried with all her might to do it, but like a mole in foreign tunnels, their “hill” simply would not budge. The idea of this being the way she died sat inside her throat, like a clump of hair, difficult to swallow, teasing at the inner lining of her esophagus. Of all the ways to go out, it had to be through suffocation inside a vent, didn't it? after everything they had gone through. 

Finch: Use your hands, Lark, ::she choked:: unscrew the— ::coughing::

Moments later, it was opened, and the three of them climbed out of there, the icy breath of the storm reaching down into her throat like an angel sent from heaven, and with a heave, dislodging that which had caused her to nearly suffocate. She tumbled forwards, her eyes bloodshot, everything blurry, her muscles squeezing themselves desperate to inhale the oxygen that her mouth now syphoned with vigour.

She could feel Lark beside her also spinning in her own typhoon of pain, the sounds of her feet splashing tempestuously against the floor of the rooftop. Or was it Seva's footsteps? She couldn't make it out in the frenzy. In that moment they had no organised movement, no clarity, just sharp inhales and exhales, as the hammering rain that they had grown to detest fed them with everything that the hotel had tried to steal. Forgiving them for their bitterness towards its plight, bearing no resentment, no judgement, just simply doing what it had been artificially forced to do. And what an irony it was that in her emergence onto that rooftop, away from the fiery pits of the Niu Hotel, she would come to finally appreciate the rain for what good it could do.

Tahna: Clear. Let’s get out of here. 

Finch: Get in the shuttle—

As her senses regained themselves, she pointed with a croak to the shuttle that had marvellously gone untouched, ready for them to climb into and soar off, just as she had pictured she would. Only now the picture had two more people in it, who despite her best intentions, she now felt a great deal of care for.

But then a figure appeared on her periphery, clad in black, face cold but eyes malefic… his appearance marked by the shooting of his phaser, that soared past Seva’s body and missed her own by a few inches.

Seva: Time to go! ::Shouted as she ducks under a phaser blast::

Finch: Get inside!

As the other two disappeared behind her, she stopped, her stature small, and her posture weakened by her knees, but her spirit fighting with defiance to be just the opposite. Her beady eyes, the shape of almonds, and the colour of cedar, squinted hard together to get a clearer look at him. He wasn’t firing at her, despite her stillness, yet watched her from his position, the rain crashing hard against the lapels of his coat, and a breeze flicking at its tails.

Finch: Who… who is that?

Her heart banged violently at the inner walls of her ribs, as if wishing to leave and never come back, made uncomfortable by the space taken up by her heaving lungs, that pulled more air inside of them than they could really hold. Her legs started to tremble first, and then her arms down through to her hands, followed so very quickly by her jaw, clattering the tombstones within them. Everything inside of her screamed, from the tiniest cells to the goosebumps that lifted the pinprick hairs of her skin, along which droplets of rain swerved like miniature racers. Everything except her mouth—whether stubbornness, or shock, or exhaustion, or all of it mixed into one, no scream left her body. And yet everything in her told her she should.

Finch: Touch that shuttle and condemn those women and I will kill you—

The figure: Oh, Doz. Is that how you greet an old friend?

She stumbled. As if she had been putting all of her weight in her tiptoes. A breath fell out of her mouth, its release accompanied by a short sound, like a punctured tire. All of the colour drained from her face, its bumpy surface now a cordillera of distempered white. The voice from the figure in front of her pierced her soul like a rose, its tone tender like its petals, but its arrival sharp like its thorny stem. The only voice in the universe that could turn her own upside down in an instant. But it couldn’t have been… not there. Not now... when she had just started to find purpose again.

Finch: No… no it can’t be…

She whipped her head around to the shuttle, and through the misty, swirling air, the image of it began to stutter, with harsh thumps. Her breath catching on something, her body now difficult to move, and her clarity tapering away. Like being punched in the face, each head movement felt like a jolt, the vision in front of her snapping between moments like a video tape out of sync, three seconds forwards, three seconds backwards, repeating the man's words back to her. Doz...Old friend... His face flashing before her, zipping forwards and backwards with each blink, revealing more and more of it with each static welt, until she was sure of it. The eyes a shade of stone blue, the hair a wispy cotton. It was him.

Finch: M…Mu…

Her eyes filled with water, the vision before her zipping in and out of sequence, and then…


((Personal Quarters, USS Gorkon))

…Ensign Doz Finch woke up with a sharp gasp, body flung upwards with a start.

Finch: Murphy.

She swallowed, her mouth as dry as sandpaper, her lips chapped and split in places. Her hand instinctively reached for her throat, feeling its tough exterior, hard as if it was full of sediments of rock. A bit of sweat dripped down off of her chin and landed on her slightly leathery hand, slowly returning to her that sense of reality, while still stirring within her a bit of disorientation about whether or not she was still on that rooftop, fresh from the sweltering vents that nearly took her life.

Finch: Computer ::she said through a gravelly voice:: What time is it, love?

The computer’s familiar and factual voice gave her the time, as the lights in her quarters began to slowly increase the visibility of everything around her. Her pyjamas, thick and soft and with the pattern of hundreds of ducks on them, were saturated through to the skin, which explained the dryness of her mouth. She heaved herself to the side, legs dangling below her, and waited just a moment before stepping down and into her slippers.

With small and awkward movements, she found her way into her bathroom, eyes squinting, and leaned in to get a look at herself, instantly recoiling at the sight. Her hair wasn’t long, but short and strewn, as if she had been mercilessly beat up through the night. Her eyes were also wet, as if tears had filled them, or sweat. Smacking her dry lips together for a moment, the realisation began to dawn on her that she had been dreaming… and that it wasn’t just any old dream, but a bloody nightmare of epic proportions.

Faces and names drifted in her mind like swirls of dust. The girl, Lark… no, Tahna…And Seva… and Mister…Imul?

Doz stared at herself in the mirror… in disbelief.

Finch: Computer…what date is it?

When the computer returned the information, all Doz could do was stand there in shock, looking around at the objects in the bathroom, glancing up at her face in the mirror again, her hands now clasped over half of it.

Finch: Computer, love…is this real? Am I alive?

Computer: Please restate question.

A relieved smile lifted the corners of her mouth, bringing with it a small chortle, and a shake of her head.

Finch: Oh, I’m definitely alive. Suppose I should get ready and find out what’s gone on here… but first things first…I need a bloody good cup of tea.



Doz "Gramma" Finch
Associate Skarbek Fixer
The Maquis

Ensign Doz Finch

Engineering Officer

USS Gorkon


Edited by Samira Neathler
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