Recent Posts

Episode 02: Cosmic Imperative / Re: Epi S: [Day 03 | 0255] The Cost of Continuity

Last post by P.C. Haring - August 17, 2026, 05:00:55 PM

[ Lt. Cmdr. Hathev | Deck 01 | Cooridor outside the Executive Officer’s Office | USS Theurgy ] @Ellen Fitz‍

Hathev hesitated before chiming the door, and not for the first time. It was a wholly un-Vulcan thing to do, but Hathev found more and more these days that she was less and less Vulcan than she cared to admit. She had concluded a few hours ago that her decision on this matter was logical. But in the back of her mind the question probed at her- Was her logic sound?

There was no way to know for sure. With the latest engagement, there were fewer and fewer Vulcan's aboard ship and even fewer she felt comfortable turning to, especially given that she outranked them all, save for Cross whose logic was questionable even on the best of days and to whom she now needed to report in an official capacity, which possibly ruled out his role as a personal adviser.

The doors to the XO’s office parted, and out stepped Cross with another individual whom Hathev did not recognize.

"You..." he took a deep breath and slowly let it out. "You're unharmed physically."

“As are you,” she replied in kind, knowing her presence had caught him off guard. “May we speak in private?”

Cross wordlessly motioned to his newly inherited office, inviting her in. She accepted and waited for the doors to close and Cross to settle himself.

“I am relieved to see that you are well, Cross. While I did not see your name on the casualty list, I was still concerned for your safety and well being. It is good to see my concerns were, in fact, unfounded.” She paused. “That being said, my reasons for being here are not entirely personal, but also professional.”

Again, she hesitated, and, again, she was unsure as to why. This was what humans would call a ‘big decision’, and she now began to understand why they often spent more time than was strictly necessary to make and execute said decision.

“I have come to request a joint duty assignment with the Intelligence department. I have spoken with Lieutenant Commander Pierce about the matter, and we both believe I could be an asset to her team.”

Interregnum 02-03 S2 / Re: Day 01 [ 0700 hrs] The Salvage Job

Last post by Stegro88 - August 17, 2026, 02:39:45 PM

[ PO3 Lorad | Rear Compartment | Shuttlecraft: Unknown | Location: Unknown ] Attn: @Krajin @Eirual @Ellen Fitz @Nesota Kynnovan @RyeTanker
[Show/Hide]

Lorad kept up the appearance of studying the schematics of the Cayuga’s Iroquois-Class even as he lay on the bunk. He had rechecked his gear an hour before and was as ready as he could be. Truthfully, he was studding the PADD again to avoid having to interact with the crew too much. He’d told himself that he would be fine. That being back in his own time was a relief and that everything that had happened in that other time didn’t matter. Then he had seen him.

Lorad didn’t actually know the man’s name. Had never thought to ask when he had found the man buried under a structural beam with a plasma fire raging nearby nor afterwards when they had freed his lifeless body from the wreckage of the ship and carried it away for burial. He hadn’t asked. He hadn’t wanted to know. And then, while moving to the bay to board one of the shuttles for this mission he had bumped into the man. He’d apologised without looking, at first, but then he had and his stomach had fallen away. It was like seeing a ghost. It had sent Lorad into a depressed state for the journey here and he had mostly avoided speaking with anyone. So much so that he hadn’t even gotten the name of the shuttle he was on.

Thinking to distract himself, Lorad went over the packed gear he had brought for this mission. Pack with Toolkit, rations, several work lights and two PADDs. Belt with Phaser, his knife, Engineering Tricorder and hand light. He had considered bringing his sword but decided against it. This was a salvage mission, after all.

Episode 02: Cosmic Imperative / Re: C3: S [Day 2 19:45] Tis Not Goodbye...

Last post by Stegro88 - August 17, 2026, 01:54:36 PM

[ Lt. T'Less | Corridor | Deck 06 | Vector 02 | USS Theurgy ] Attn: @P.C. Haring
[Show/Hide]

T’Less shivered, first at the whispered words from Reggie as the Betazoid hugged her tighter, and then from her running her finger across the tip of T’Less’s ear. They had always been sensitive, like most Vulcan’s and she had missed the tactile sensation from another stroking them. That movement momentarily distracted her from the feeling of her body being pressed up against Reggie’s own firm form. That passed and T’Less let herself enjoy the warmth of Reggie’s body against hers. Until reality intruded once again.

[Lieutenant Suder, please report to the flight deck. Lieutenant Suder, report to the flight deck for repair inspection.]

Reggie sighed and T’Less found herself experiencing a similar feeling. It was, uncomfortable. Regret? Worry? She wasn’t sure. Something to think about later. There wasn’t time now. While she had been thinking and trying to understand how she was feeling in that moment, Reggie had responded to the summons but hadn’t yet let the Vulcan go.

“Listen T’Less. Don’t you die on me today. I just got you back and I’m not willing to lose you again. So if you die on me, I’m gonna kill you.”

T’Less recognised the humour in the Betazoid’s tone. It was honest, but she suspected it was also a coping mechanism for the stress that the pilot, like most of the crew, were also feeling. Even T’Less herself was not immune. Not anymore.

“I will attempt to avoid death for you,” T’Less intoned softly. “Be sure you do the same,” she added as she lent in for a soft kiss.

~FIN~

Interregnum 02-03 S2 / Re: Day 01 [2100hrs] When All is Stretched Thin

Last post by Dumedion - August 17, 2026, 01:30:20 AM

[Ens. Talia "Shadow" Al-Ibrahim | Busted-Ass-Potato, Submerged | Barrier Reef, Uuluma Chain | Romulus] Attn: @Ellen Fitz

Anger had overridden panic. It had always come easily for Talia; a fuel waiting just below the surface, born of a wound that would never heal because she had built her entire personality around surviving it. So, when Hirek’s lips curled into the smile he wore often – not the real one she had, in all honesty, loved instantly – there was a brief, initial flood of relief…

The Romulan ruined that as soon as he opened his mouth, of course; of all the times to tease her…

He’d seen it coming – the immediate physical and verbal assault – before Talia had finished drawing breath. He moved: his hands held her strikes at bay, then pulled her close...

Talia’s fists fell open almost instantly; her body tensed once in his grip – no more. There was no fight in her against him, not really, because that was where she wanted to be. Nose to nose with him, everything fell aside: the fear, the anger, the ship, the idiots still out there trying to kill them…he was alive, and he was close, so dangerously close…

Talia’s mind blanked, while her body betrayed everything she wished to conceal in ways he certainly noted but she had no hope of controlling: the way her torso tilted just so into his, the way her eyes fell, the way her lips subtly parted at the merest touch of his…but then he pulled away, and the moment shattered…

She looked at his finger, at her blood – then tongued the split in her lip involuntarily.

It took everything she had to maintain some semblance of mental acuity; while he took the opportunity to explain things that Talia already knew in a rational sense – even if she disagreed. There was no point arguing; the pilot focused on regaining control of herself – her emotional state, her physical readiness. Now was not the time to come apart; as she listened, his voice and reasoning helped to bring her back down – whether he had intended to or not – and in response, she couldn’t help one corner of her lip from lifting.

He’d figured her out, and even though he’d teased her about it…there it was; she should have felt embarrassed, or angry at herself...but no. Then and there, beyond the concern for their immediate survival, she discovered that she enjoyed the fact that he'd finally figured it out, in a type of relief. Talia’s mind reeled with the revelation, which left her there, held by his side, frozen with hesitation. A chime broke the spell, demanding her attention even though she couldn’t tell what it meant.

Pull yourself together – there isn’t time for this right now, her mind screamed, and Talia had already begun to separate herself from Hirek when he decided to push her away, back to her seat, due to an incoming torpedo.

“Go, go,” Talia urged, sinching her straps back down quickly; trying to locate the incoming ordinance in the darkness beyond, and failing. “I can’t see it,” she reported anyway, leaning into the evasive maneuvers on instinct. She did note, however, the enormous column of rock that Hirek had decided to fly straight at; a frown of concern spread as the whine of the engines increased in pitch, noting an increase in power.

“Uh, is there a reason you’re trying to kill us again? That’s a reef, Hirek –”

He banked, hard, so much like Talia would have done in a Valkyrie, under very different conditions; the effect was so similar though: the torpedo slammed into the pillar of rock in the next second, the shockwave hit a second after that. She felt her teeth click together as the ship was thrown aside, hard enough to make her grunt.

‘That is what the reef is for.’

Talia smirked again, knowingly; he was using it like she had used the wrecked and disabled remains of both Klingon and Romulan ships during the Triangle – as cover.

“You intend to draw them in here, I assume," she guessed, still searching the darkness she could see for threats. She had nothing else to contribute, and her assumption proved incorrect anyway – par for the course. Hirek had other intentions, which he explained in his particular habit: at the exact same moment as he did it.

“Support from who,” Talia managed to ask, equally confused and concerned; but before Hirek had a chance to respond, her world descended into a tumbling roar of protesting metal, shrieking engines, and gravitational forces. There was barely time to brace when it began, and no time for anything else while it happened. In the end, as the craft slowly, inexorably settled in the death-bed it had dug, Talia flinched as the systems slowly died with a final spray of sparks, leaving them in crimson lit darkness.
Trickling water filled the silence that followed, punctuated by the slow creaking of metal stressed beyond its limit, straining to hold the shape it had been beaten into. Talia’s attention darted to Hirek, who appeared to suffer no further injury, then up, towards the surface.

She couldn’t see it.

“How bad is it,” Talia whispered.

Hirek’s answer wasn’t as bad as she’d expected; that didn’t offer much comfort, either. The question about the exosuit earned a subtle exhalation – there was only one reason why he would ask such a thing, and Talia ran the risk analysis in her head before she even considered answering: she’d run simulated recovery training at TACCON school; every pilot had – with an older suit version, at ten meters, with her helm on – under completely controlled conditions. She had no idea how it would handle thirteen, with no helm, under a hurricane, in an active combat situation. Her eyes followed Hirek’s movements as he introduced the buoys, their function and operation, while the weight of the decision settled in her mind.

The ship wasn’t going to last much longer – that was evident, even to someone who had never stepped foot in one before; Talia couldn’t guess how long they had before the hull buckled altogether – and she wasn’t about to wait around to find out.

“Move,” she asked, after popping the harness quick release, then scrambled up to kneel on the seat to pull the tote free with a strained grunt of effort. “This will go quicker if you help.”

Once he had moved, Talia lowered the tote between their seats and opened it to pull the compression suit out; the legs went on easily enough after the dress had been hiked up – the top was ripped free from the strips that still held it to the bottoms – which was tugged on only after she had quickly and unashamedly pulled the dress off over her head. While the suit no longer squeezed against her body the way it was designed to, it still offered some protection against the more abrasive inner lining of the exosuit itself; even if most of her abdomen remained bare, it was better than trying to wear the dress.

Talia spoke as she ripped the makeshift shoes off her feet: “Legs, then boots - torso, arms then gloves,” she stated. “I’m not sure how it will handle the pressure, but it doesn’t matter. We can’t stay here. The suit has a built-in recovery mechanism that activates as soon as it detects liquid; auto-inflatables deploy on the chest, arms and thighs, along with the emergency beacon and IR strobe.” A pause, as she shifted position and shimmied into the leg section. “Which, if those assholes are still out there, will cause problems,” she sighed, then grunted as the leg section auto sized itself with a series of clicks. "But I'll deal with that when the time comes."

Water was pooling around Hirek’s feet as Talia pulled on the boots and stood, turning her back to him to feed her arms into the torso section and pulled in closed around herself. “Hold the back as I twist – on three; one, two, three.” Her body rotated in a snap left-to-right motion, which aligned torso locking mechanism to the lower faster than it took the engineered rigging to do itself; the two halves crunched together, and a slow grind of servos began as each sectional armor deployed into position.

The ship shuddered again, groaning louder than before; Talia’s eyes flicked to the canopy, just in time to witness several cracks splintering across the surface. One of them sprayed water in a hiss of pressure.

“Arms, now,” she demanded; they worked in rushed, but controlled urgency, together, for the next minute and a half. Talia didn’t have the words to say what she was thinking: that this probably wouldn’t end well for her – but there was still a chance, and to her, it was worth taking. That was the reason she’d come along in the first place – and because Hirek had invited her. Once she was finally suited up, once again, the armor powered up with a tapped command and the interior of the ship lit in blue/white light and a low hum of grinding servos. Talia turned to face Hirek, and accepted the buoy he held out for her; the strap went around her chest, tightened, tested. She nodded her readiness to him, then raked a gloved hand through the tangled mess of hair.

“Listen,” a hand went to his. There really wasn’t much to say, but at the same time, there was; Talia hesitated for only a second, then let the words spill out, just in case: “The Diplomatic Corps…have a serious problem,” she told him, then smirked, despite everything. “...I think we both know that. To be continued,” was added with a shrug, then another nod as her eyes met his.

“Ready when you are, darling."

Episode 02: Cosmic Imperative / Re: EPI S [Day 03 | 2330hrs.] Lay Your Weary Head To Rest

Last post by Dumedion - August 16, 2026, 08:23:50 PM

[LT Arven Leux | ICU | Main Sickbay | Deck 11 | Vector 02 | USS Theurgy] Attn: @Ellen Fitz @Griff @RyeTanker

His brain recognized the change in pressure somehow; the hind-brain survival engine that drove it at least. When it suddenly ceased compressing the architecture and support structures of his neck with life-ending inevitability, Arven’s body rolled, as much as it could with the damage sustained, to gasp for air: the result was a gurgle, as the effort forced blood into burning lungs, followed by a spray of arterial viscera from nose and mouth — into the air, across one shoulder, into the carpet — each hacking cough broken by heaved gulps.

The engine of life almost always struggled after a hard restart.

The additional dead weight of Zark’s unconscious body wasn’t helping. Through the struggle, his vision cleared enough to note several armed security officers had finally arrived on scene; more bodies pressed through the armored figures — blurs of motion, unrecognizable. A hand waved the rifles away, weakly, barely more than a limp gesture from where it lay on the deck; his other arm was a useless, pounding source of pain and little else — nerveless in the sense that it refused any and all commands, yet riddled with agony that beat in rhythm with his pulse.

He couldn’t muster words yet; the pressure in his abused sinuses from the blunt force trauma delivered was near complete: nose broken, bloody, already inflamed to the point of total congestion. Through watering eyes, he blinked at Enyd: pale, expressionless, head cushioned in a pool of tangled hair. Voices registered in a gaggle of noise; too many, reduced to gibberish.

Get up — help.

The hand that worked found Zark’s throat and held, found a slow pulse, but strong. He rolled her off as gently as possible, then wiped the worst of his own blood away from the wreckage of his face with a grimace; moving hurt — thinking hurt.
Leux tried his best to ignore it.

“Biobed,” he half-slurred, half-mumbled, with a weak gesture to the Andorian; her body would metabolize the hyper-dose of antihistamine naturally, but not quickly enough without help. Hardly life-threatening, but Zark was still recovering.

While other hands dealt with the Andorian, Arven grunted himself to within arms reach of Madsen; Lt Leavitt, he noted, had already knelt on her opposite side — while another took up position near her head — his mind unable to comprehend why the shape, color, and fabric of clothing looked...wrong. The Doctor checked her pulse by touch, careful of the rope of already bruising and raw flesh around her throat. Her eyelids flickered at the touch.

Her pulse was weak, but steady; he knew the steps required to continue, but his body had decided not to obey him any longer.

All of this seemed to occur in slow motion — time displaced in confusion, even as he tried to perform the most basic of functions duty demanded. A hand settled on his shoulder. He didn’t look to see who it belonged to; but the shape and warmth felt off. He slurred incoherent orders, even as he felt himself lifted away; the world tilted as a wave of pain-induced nausea washed over him.

Something pressed to the skin of his neck, under one ear — and everything slowly began to fade away — his vision dimmed, focused on a pair of clawed, furred feet.

Forgot about my coffee, he thought drunkenly, then surrendered to oblivion.

Interregnum 02-03 S2 / Re: Day 03 [ 1330hrs ] Back Channel Operations

Last post by Eirual - August 15, 2026, 04:57:41 AM

[Ens Mia Dunne | Civilian Freighter Merchant's Folly \ In Transit - Triangle Region]
ATTN: @Ellen Fitz @Krajin @Hans Applegate & Pertinent Writers

Ens Dunne once again wondered what the hell she was doing on the freighter. From what she’d been told, there was nothing scientific on the shopping list that Cross apparently had received. And add that to the uncomfortable feeling she got from the freighter’s Tellarite captain every time he passed her seat, made her wish that she’d turned down this assignment. It also didn’t help that she’d been asked not to wear her uniform, but something with a bit more, shall we say viewing area. Every time that captain walked past, she had the urge to find a jacket and cover herself.

Other than Cross, she really wasn’t familiar with the others from their ship except in passing. Meaning she may have seen them, but she didn’t know them. Well Maybe she knew Knox a little better than the others. Which wasn't saying much. She just hoped that whatever they were getting themselves into, the others would keep it from going sideways. But the way life had been lately, she figured that sideways was almost guaranteed. She let out a heavy sigh. Maybe she should have kept searching for more vole. Even if only one had been in the lab. But two days of crawling through the tightest spaces on the Theurgy was more than enough for her, and they had found the repugnant rodent.

Mia looked around at her travelling companions. Lt Cmdr. Cross seemed to be absorbed in his work, barely looking up from the PADD, if at all. Knox appeared to be enjoying the outing, although Mia could not fathom why, it wasn’t like this was a glamorous ship to be on, nor was shopping high on her list of fun things to do. But, to each his own! She glanced at the Ferasan officer. She remembered seeing him once or twice on the Theurgy, even if he was dressed in more civilian clothing. He was sort of hard to forget.

She gave him a brief nod when he had introduced himself “Hello Thane,” she smiled in greeting, even those his sharp green eyes made her nervous, “I’m Mia, Mia Dunne.”

Interregnum 02-03 S2 / Re: Day 02 [ 1015 hrs ] Calcium Deficiency

Last post by TWilkins - August 15, 2026, 02:54:09 AM

[ Sylvain Llewellyn-Kth | Mainsickbay | Deck 11 | Vector Two | USS Theurgy ] @Ellen Fitz

The stand-off was intense.

Despite his absolute best attempt to skirt around the facts of the situation contained within his hands, Sylvain, even with his woefully inadequate brand of insight, could tell that the Vulcan woman remained unconvinced. Her eyebrow had risen to deck ten, maybe nine, and her lingering silence buffeted Sylvain’s composure like an ion storm; the Ensign was perfectly fine with silence, it was his preference in fact… But an uncomfortable silence was a different kettle of fish entirely… It gave him no distraction as her expressionless stare bore into him like a drill, whilst he stood stalwart, clutching the wicker sphere between his pale hands as though his life depended on it, the Vulcan’s dark eyes remaining affixed, unblinking, upon his honey coloured ones, a silent interrogation that seemed to push through his entire nervous system. It was perhaps only a few seconds of stillness, but it was enough for emotional discomfort to begin to wrack him, his body begging for surrender as it began to writhe under the torture of an unpleasant social interaction... For a few moments, Sylvain began to feel as though his composure wasn’t enough to outlast such adversity…

“That is not the typical function of sickbay. I would suggest that…” The relief of winning his apparent battle of wills arrived, but his hope that the situation would be resolved crashed down all the more violently, as the Vulcan began to decline his reasonable, albeit unusual, request. His mind cried out for mercy, as the conversation now yawned out before him like a stint at warp five; a slow and cumbersome ramble that nobody would be advantaged by. The Ensign knew what was coming. He braced himself for some rather succinct remark about how the Theurgy had a xenobiology lab, for which he had prepared the rebuttal that there was not currently a xenobiologist held within the crew manifest, for which he had no doubt the Vulcan would no doubt have another response about the personnel on the space station beign available to assist, for which he would need to remind her that the creature had been tampered with by Savi technology, and thus the Prime Directive could apply… And the conversation would go around and around until one of them accepted defeat, and despite his adamance that he would get Potato examined today, Sylvain knew that he stood little chance against the tenacity of a Vulcan receptionist... Even pulling rank as a department head would probably fall short; a Vulcan would almost certainly be familiar with some sort of obscure regulation to undermine any authority he tried to exert…

But thankfully, despite the singularity that had erupted within his head, and was rapidly dragging the hope out of his soul, the arrival of a new voice appeared to turn the tide in Sylvain’s favour.

A handsome man approached, the low tone of his voice cutting underneath the otherwise fairly busy sickbay, nodding first at the Vulcan woman who manned their reception desk like Calamity at the gates of the underworld, and then a second time to Sylvain, causing a flop of tousled hair to effortlessly bob upon his head. His facial hair was somehow neat and scruffy all at once, thick and dark against his jawline, whilst his piercing blue eyes stared all-too intensely at Sylvain, who exerted all of his composure not to bawk under their gaze. The man introduced himself with a certain firmness to his words, a timbre beneath his tone, as Ehfva Feynri.

Sylvain felt some of the dread lift up from his shoulders as the stranger began to introduce himself. Ehfva had been recused from the Erudite himself, some time prior, and if the Ensign could have hoped for anyone to be sympathetic to his, albeit, unorthodox choice to rescue a creature from the Savi vessel, someone who had seen their exploitation first hand would certainly have been a stellar choice. Next came a rather heartfelt, if not intense, affirmation that rescuing the creature from the Savi was commendable; the duration of the eye contact made Sylvain feel like someone was trying to push a phaser into his mouth, but he did his best to endure the hardship. Given the options available to him, which was either accept Ehfva's aid, or to continue arguing with the Vulcan receptionist, Sylvain decided that he could endure a little eye-contact. The lack of any sort of formal education in the matter was also neither here nor there, given that the man had allegedly been studying the subject independently for almost triple Sylvain’s lifespan, but it did raise the question of what species he could be… He resembled a human, but even the best Bolian skincare range that latinum could buy, wouldn’t keep a sixty year old looking quite so youthful... But it wasn't as though Sylvain had any room to start questioning the poor man; after all, Ehfva clearly wanted to help, and goodness grief if Sylvain didn’t need it on this particular matter…

Give him a spatial anomaly anyday, over a foot-long white blob that drank bones, and seemed to be both highly intelligent, as well as utterly without thought. At least it has stopped trying to eat him now…

Though Sylvain still closed the door to his bedroom when he slept.

“O-of course, thank you so much.” Sylvain replied earnestly, turning his full attention to the handsome man, adjusting his posture to make himself look as professional as possible. “I’m Ensign Llewellyn-Kth, Chief CONN Officer…” It was somewhat out of character for him to punctuate his position, something he tended to prefer to keep under wraps, lest he face an uncomfortable conversation about his youth vs running an entire department, but a lingering needle of spite for the unhelpful Vulcan couldn’t help but shoot out from his mouth; he doubted that she'd give it a second thought, but at least he felt like he'd achieved some small victory over her maliciousness... “I’d normally shake your hand but as you can see…” Sylvain gestured with the orb held in his grasp, whilst he lied through his teeth; Sylvain would sooner request an emergency transport to the brig than shake a stranger’s hand in public…

“Oh, and this is Potato.” The Ensign added, moving on hurriedly from his meagre feat of deception, gesturing with the orb in his hand once again. “I was admittedly coming off of some rather strong anesthetic drugs when I named him, but it’s very potato shaped… In hindsight Mochi might have been a good fit, but I’ve never been a great fan of the texture…” Sylvain caught himself in his own nervous ramble, before clearing his throat as a pang of awkwardness seemed to catch him in the gut. “But that’s hardly important… Every precaution sounds great.” As always, Sylvain changed the subject with the dignity of a camel in ice skates. “I don’t believe it’s dangerous as an individual due to the Savi’s tampering, but as a species, I do believe that they’re apex predators.”

“Moopsy!” Potato chimed in agreement, from within the wicker orb.

“Ah… Anyway…” Sylvain awkwardly glanced down at the creature contained within the orb, who had clearly gotten excited by the conversation, and was now running around in small concentric circles, drooling enough that Sylvain could feel the liquid begin to drip down through the wicker and onto his fingers. The Ensign considered that a perfect sign that they should make their move, before Potato started leaving a trail… “Thank you for all of your help, Crewman.” He quickly turned back towards the reception desk to express his appreciation before he left, and whilst Sylvain most certainly didn’t mean it, he was polite to a fault, and sass didn’t sit all too well in his stomach, so his thanks, empty as they were, left his mouth regardless. He didn’t need to lower himself to her level, after all.

“Right then…” With etiquette out of the way, Sylvain turned back towards Ehfva with a less uncomfortable expression than he’d wielded before. “Lead on, I’m sure Potato is as eager to get out of this makeshift container as I am to stop holding it; I’ll have wicker-marks burned into my hands for days at this rate…” He attempted to politely joke as he turned back to the man, and began following close-in-step, as they departed for whatever destination Ehfva had in mind.

Interregnum 02-03 S2 / Re: Day 01 [2100hrs] When All is Stretched Thin

Last post by Ellen Fitz - August 14, 2026, 06:38:57 PM

[ Hirek tr'Aimne | Private Transport, Submerged | Barrier Reef, Uuluma Chain | Romulus ] @Dumedion
He came back in pieces. Pressure first — the deep ache of it in his sinuses and behind the teeth, which told him where he was before his eyes did. Then sound: no rain, no wind, no engines. A tick of cooling metal. Something spitting. Then pain, arriving late and comprehensively, a hot line above the left brow and a bar of it across the collarbone where the harness had done its work.Then a hand on his sternum, grinding.

"—come on, darling. Please!"

Even with his eyes still closed, he could sense the darkness of the cockpit except for the emergency strip along the deck and the arterial red of the depth column and the myriad colors of the console monitors. He could also feel that Talia's face was very close to his. Three separate alarms were competing for his attention. Darling. He smiled before he did anything else.

"Darling." He tasted the word. "It took a blunt-force head injury to shake that one loose. Had I known the price, I'd have hit a console on purpose. Somewhere around the third day we met." He opened his eyes and caught sight of her face as it began doing something dangerous. "And the shouting. All that please don't do this, all that furious insistence on my continued existence—" he got his thumb under the blood coming into his eye again, cleared it, "—a less careful man might conclude you'd developed a fondness. A small one. Nothing to alarm the Diplomatic Corps."

She drew breath as if to answer, but he did not let her. He caught her elbow with one hand and her wrist with the other, drew her the short distance required, and set his mouth against hers — barely. Less than a kiss. The suggestion of one, the way spray touches skin before the wave arrives. Then he pulled back far enough to find her eyes in the red emergency light.

"I had no intention of dying tonight," he said. "I have considerably less intention of dying at the hands of the Tal Shiar."

The console chimed. Letting go of her wrist, he got his left hand onto the pitch control and found the craft answering, sluggish and heavy-nosed, still descending. The depth column read one hundred and ninety and climbing. Rated hull tolerance was three hundred and twelve. The descent slowed. Two hundred and four. Two hundred and six. Held. Then slowly tipped in the opposite direction as he angled the pitch to ascend again.

All this took seconds, during which he enjoyed holding her against his side, relishing the fact that even if it was for a brief time, she’d initiated a genuine touch of concern, and had not been doing so to garner anything from him in return. Except, of course, his consciousness.

"And no. We don't call DB." He turned his gaze back to hers, letting go of her elbow long enough to draw a finger along the seam of her lips, pulling it away to show her the remnants of her blood. "Consider what you would be transmitting. A Romulan national on personal leave, in a rented craft, with an unsanctioned Starfleet officer who has no clearance to be outside the diplomatic compound, no filed itinerary, and no explanation for how she left a diplomatic compound during the first official talks between the Federation and a government eleven days old." He glanced at her. "Whatever's happening to us tonight, that signal would be the greater weapon. Somebody would build a war out of it."

An incessant beeping caught his attention, and he sighed. Of course…

"Ah." He let go of her and turned. "Forgive me. I'd have preferred to linger in your arms basking in your attention. However,” he unceremoniously pushed her out of his lap back towards her seat, “there's a torpedo looking for us." He nodded toward her seat. "Sit — strap in—"

He returned his attention to the controls and quickly began evasive manuevers. The engines came up out of a near humming silence in,to a whine, and the black outside the canopy stopped being empty. Sensors gave him almost nothing: a smear of returns, a wall of noise where the storm was beating the water into froth sixty meters above them. Enough. Ahead, a reef tower rose out of the dark like a drowned cathedral — a column of coral and rock four hundred years old, mapped in his head before he could read.

He flew straight at it. The proximity alarm started shrieking at two hundred meters. At forty, he rolled the craft hard onto its flank and banked out, hull plating groaning, and behind them the torpedo went into the tower with its guidance still convinced. The shockwave shoved them sideways through the water like a hand.

"That," he said, correcting, "is what the reef is for."

He took them down into it. The Uuluma barrier ran ninety kilometers along the chain, and the inner labyrinth was a warren — towers, arches, collapsed galleries, channels that closed and opened with the season. He threaded it at speed on instruments that were spotty at best and on a memory of the place that was thirty years stale and still, apparently, load-bearing.

"Their targeting has to distinguish coral from hull. In this?" A channel narrowed and he put the craft through it on its side. "The storm is aerating the water column all the way down. Every return is noise. It buys us time — nothing more. This edge wears out, and then we are back in open sea, and they'll be waiting where the reef ends because that's where I'd wait." The channel opened into a gallery, and he cut across it.

He took a reading — position, drift, depth, the little the sensors would still admit to — ran the course in his head because the navigational computer had been part of the right-hand column that folded, and keyed a burst into the encrypted local band. Clan frequencies. Older than the Republic, and never once written down where the Tal Shiar could find them.

"I am also not an idiot, and I have no ambition to be a lone hero." Another gallery. He held the craft steady through it and set his jaw. With a subtle movement, he punched the SEND key. “If they aren’t jamming the immediate vicinity, we should have support here in a few minutes.” The transmission light died. "And my apologies — that told them precisely where we are."

The alarm went off again. He broke left through a coral arch as the second torpedo came through it behind him, and it detonated against the gallery wall a hundred meters back, and the reef came apart.

Not water this time. Mass. A slab of four-hundred-year-old coral the size of a shuttle came out of the dark on the concussion wave and took them across the dorsal plating, and the craft went end over end and slammed into the reef floor, and stopped. Hard. The engines cut themselves. Somewhere aft, plating shrieked and kept shrieking. Then everything went very quiet except for water finding its way in somewhere behind the bulkhead, patient as arithmetic. He got his eyes onto the readouts before the ringing stopped. Structural integrity: failing, slowly, in a way that would not stay slow. Power: minimal. Life support: yes, for now, on the reserve cell, and he did not look at the number long enough to let the figure become a sentence in his head. Depth: thirteen meters.

Thirteen. That, at least, was a gift. Because thirteen meters was nothing. Thirteen meters meant that if it came to it, he could flood the cabin deliberately, equalize, blow the canopy and take them out — and the island that this barrier hung off was a mile north-northeast, and a mile was a swim. Hard in the dark. Vicious in a storm, with the surface breaking apart and the current running the way it would be running tonight. But survivable, for someone raised in it. He had done longer at eleven, for a wager.

Then he looked at her, and the arithmetic changed. She had never freedived in her life. He knew that the way he knew the depth column: she had grown up in cockpits and corridors. Put her out there in a night sea running six-meter swell, with no rig and no training and no instinct for what the water was about to do next, and a mile stopped being a distance and became a verdict. He was not going to say that. He was, however, going to find another answer, because the one he had was not acceptable.

"Thirteen meters," he said instead. "And there's power for a while yet." He wiped his eye again. "My cousins keep the reef watch on a rotation and they have been waiting their entire lives for something interesting to happen on it." Aft, the bulkhead groaned and found a new note. He turned in his seat to face her fully, and the teasing had gone out of his voice. "Talia. Your exosuit." He nodded toward the tote wedged behind her seat. "Is it pressure-rated for water?"

He detached from his seat and opened a few compartments until he found what he was looking for: two devices shaped much like a torpedo, only they could be grasped with two hands and attached with a strap to the torso of the person operating them. Turning back to face her, body hunched over in an uncomfortable crouch thanks to the low ceiling, he held up one of the devices for her to see.

“This is a landing buoy. It takes readings when activated and automatically makes for the closest landmass to assist with rescue. If we have to flood the compartment and make a swim for it, this will make the difference between getting lost in this dark froth and being carried to shore.” He demonstrated where to activate it and how to operate it in quick succession before squatting next to her seat. “I’m not saying we flood the compartment right away; there is still the possibility that my cousins arrive in time to chase away those bastards and descend to tow us out.”

As if to argue with him, the transport groaned and shuddered as more hull buckled against the weight of the water and the failing shields. “But we may not have the luxury of deciding such things either as it may be the sea decides for us.”

Interregnum 02-03 S2 / Re: Day 01 | 2200 hrs | The hunt is on

Last post by Pierce - August 14, 2026, 05:22:31 PM

[ Lt. JG Ashley Kerina | Access Tunnel to Forward landing Strut | Vector 3 | Deck 31| USS Theurgy ] Attn: @Nesota Kynnovan @Eirual [Show/Hide]

Ashley finally made her way down the corridor as she attempted to navigate the massive starship. She'd never been on one this large before. It was truly a marvel of modern engineering that left her in awe. But one that left her consistently lost. The turbolift was ahead and she entered as she went to Deck 29.

As the turbolift opened with the hiss, a blast of hot air hit when she exited. She found an access tunnel closed with minimal light nearby. And the heat was kicked up 9 degrees Celsius which was higher than the upper decks. Thankfully, she was used to it between the Orion and Romulan blood coursing through her veins. She tied her hair back into a pony tail to prevent it from coming into her face. She was curious why she and others in the science department were tasked for vole duty when there were likely others or even the ship's AI that could have done this in record timing. Something she'd have to ask Frost about later.

Ashley opened the hatch seeing minimal light. "Hmm... the lights aren't kicking on..." She pondered. Ashley looked for the nearest ODN conduit which she then traced back to a simple computer console interface. Tapping the controls she found the source of the issue. Being it wasn't tied to the modern LCARS systems due to lack of normal traffic, the automations didn't kick in. She toggled a few systems on and back off before finding the one accidentally that turned the lights on in the pathways.

Turning around it lit up bright like a warp core breach and she quickly turned the lights down to 24% before looking back to see it was much more of the normal tones to the corridors but slightly dimmer. This was a workable option she decided. Closing the console out, she turned to the tunnel and began her descent into it. She wasn't sure who else was tasked with this hunt, but she looked forward to meeting them.

As she descended there were sounds up ahead, likely one or two additional officers? Kerina hoped that's what it was at least. Her mind began a little racing as the excitement built a little in her. Her arm thumped an arch in the tunnel and a loud thunk as she yipped. A slight tear in her jacket saved her flesh from any residual damage but she'd need to be more careful.

"Anyone in here? Is there an access hub ahead so we can sit and discuss the plan?" She yelled into the echoes ahead of her. Her voice warm and inquiring.

""

Episode 02: Cosmic Imperative / Re: Epi S: [Day 03 | 0900] Changing lanes

Last post by Pierce - August 14, 2026, 05:02:41 PM

[ Lt. Commander Alana Pierce | Central Intelligence Suite | Deck 5 | Vector 1 | USS Theurgy ] Attn: @Krajin
[Show/Hide]

Alana sat back in her chair as she awaited Lt. Va'rek's arrival in the suite. She knew it'd be a quiet day at the moment with a lot of the Intel department scattered. Some on assignment and investigation, and unfortunately others had shifted off their mortal coil. Regardless, she had someone clearly interested in the department and that curiousity and investigative research is someone she could use. Likely mold into the role in the event something ever happened to her or she needed trusted eyes somewhere she couldn't be.

Drinking her cola, she set the glass back down on her desk as she pulled up a PADD with his service record. She remembered behind her was a display of some of her favorite 23rd century tech. The communicator, the tricorder, and the phaser. All hers from a different life...a different time. It seemed like a lifetime ago since she held those devices. On the adjacent side of her was a model of the USS Eagle. Her home for years, that she'd just recently had the opportunity to serve on once again. Although she met her end in that battle, not that she would have survived it, she had given Pierce hope for the future. A rebirth. Something she hoped to pass on to those she worked with. This crew had been through a lot and together their motly cru were doing all they could to cope. So a little 23rd century optimism was just what the doctor ordered.

The door chimed finally as she'd finished her thoughts. "Come" she stated as the door swished open and the lieutenant stepped forward with his arms behind his back. She calmly observed his posture and ability to dutifully wait. But she was old fashioned and honestly formality wasn't something she needed a lot of these days. She lifted her arm and gestured to Thane to sit down in the chair across from her desk.

"Please, sit. Can I get you anything? Tea? Cola? Coffee?" She asked kindly still seated with her legs crossed beneath the oval desk with PADDs strewn about.

"It appears you've been out of commission for some time. Something unfortunately I too can relate." She paused taking a sip before continuing.

"It seems we've been interested in learning more about each other Lieutenant. I'm a little honored and curious. What interested you about my personal profile? Any questions I can answer?" She smirked a warm smile as she folded her hands on her lap getting comfortable as she continued to assess the situation further.