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Episode 02: Cosmic Imperative / Re: EPI S: [Day 03 | 0415] Bubble-suit Bitchassness

Last post by ob2lander961 - February 23, 2026, 03:04:30 AM

[

"Oh yeah. Why don't you come in here and suffocate on these-" Via's response was cut short by Shadow's interjection. While she wasn't suprised she was happy her savior was actually trying to save her and Charles. The young pilot smirked as Shadow brought up a great point but them looking healthy but then glared at her RIO when he was about to speak up about having been sick for the last couple days.

Via nearly jumped up with glee when Shadow went ahead and called the doctor a 'bitchass' too. "HA! See, you can't keep our asses in here forever! I got badass friends everywhere!" She spoke up to the dismbodied voice.

"Ma'am". Charles spoke up and attemped to shuffle to the right revealing a sealed crate labeled 'spare tricorders' behind him. "There is a crate behind me. Alas I cannot open it." He demonsitrated the problem to Shadow by trying to move his fingers. No matter how much he tried to manupliate them they remained fastly in place. "Look? No dexterity. And it looks like the crate is looked with a passcode-"

"Hey, Nurse bitchass, give our asses the passcode for these tricorders!"

"I would've asked nicely ma'am". Charles sighed

"Why do our asses gotta be nice? He's been a bitchass this entire time". Via chimed back

"Because he holds the keys to our freedom possibly"

"Ugh, well now HE knows that! Great job Beachhead. Now our asses are goin to be stuck here." Via rolled her eyes.

"You will be the death of me..." Charles shook his head and sighed

"Wait a sec'- Shadow you can just hack it! Its easy, I do it all the time."

"Your hologames don't count ma'am."

"Shut your dumbass up. You are just jealous you ain't a master hacker like me." Via said proudly

Episode 02: Cosmic Imperative / Re: Epilogue: They That Shed Their Blood [Day 03 | 1800 ]

Last post by TWilkins - February 22, 2026, 10:28:32 PM

[ Sylvain Llewellyn-Kth | Arboretum Terrace - Memorial Wall | Deck 21 | Vector 3| USS Theurgy ] Attn: @Brutus @Nolan @ob2lander961 @Dumedion @chXinya @Griff @rae @Stegro88 @RyeTanker @Eirual @tongieboi @Pierce @Tae @Nesota Kynnovan @Hans Applegate @Ellen Fitz @Krajin @P.C. Haring @Eden @joshs1000

Sylvain’s gaze felt hollow as he stared up towards Commander Stark, his tired eyes burning against the harsh lighting of the arboreum, a beautiful room, though the occasion could scarcely afford him a chance to appreciate it. The trees on the floor below him grew surprisingly tall for a Starship, weeping with vines, with verdant canopies that brushed against the glass railing that separated the terrace from the arboretum below. In between the Commander’s words, filling the silences that rippled out from each pause she took, was the sound of trickling water, a gentle noise, peaceful in the face of so much death.

It reminded him of Betazed. The El’nar Institute, more specifically; the way their halls had been so adorned with foliage and plant life, flowers from hundreds of different planets, all regrown on a new world for the purpose of giving comfort to those who were lost… It also reminded him of Starfleet Academy, their flowerbeds and landscaping that stretched out around the campus, undisturbed, or even Captain Yume’s favourite holodeck program, a place on Earth called Kielder Forest. He’d asked her about it once, and she’d said that nature was where life met tranquility.

It was a line that had stayed with him since…

Aside from Betazed and Starfleet Academy, nature had always been far removed from his life; Starships weren’t often so well gardened as the Theurgy’s arboretum, nor was Deep Space Sixteen, and Vulcan was possessed of a very different kind of nature.. He’d considered in his bleaker moments, that perhaps a lack of nature was why he’d always found tranquility to be somewhat lacking in his life… He resolved himself to come here again, if he got the chance, when it was neither so busy nor so bleak, to take the time to fully appreciate the taste of nature held within the room. Sylvain wasn't sure if he found it morose or comforting, that something as simple as moss and bracken had endured the hardship that had claimed so many lives, but either way, he could agree with his old Captain’s words to some extent; there was something calming about the presence of nature.

But for now, the calm was something that he could not take the time to fully absorb. Instead, Sylvain could only swallow drily around his brittle throat, his breathing soft and his mind cloudy, as he continued to listen to Commander Stark’s speech. Or at least, try to listen.

He was tired.

Not the sort of tiredness that made him long for his bed at the end of a long shift, but a harrowing yearning for the peaceful bliss of unconsciousness, and a willingness to let it take him for as long as it saw fit. The Ensign’s eyes felt sunken in their sockets, throbbing against his skull, whilst his stomach was aflood with nausea and uncertainty, a toxic cocktail brewed out of his overwhelming anxiety, unbearable guilt, and the fact that the only ‘rest’ he’d gotten since arriving on the Theurgy, had been when he’d been knocked unconscious and intubated aboard the Euridite. It was an odd counterpoint, exhausted to the very fragment of his sanity, yet also wired to the point of euphoria, his body still aflood with adrenaline and firing nerves, his limbs unable to contain their trembling even as he stood amongst the crowd in the arboretum, feeling like the odd one out in the sea of bodies listening to Commander Stark make her address.

Sylvain had opted for a space as close to the back of the room as possible, far removed from where the Commander and the entourage from the Federation were standing… It felt more respectful, to keep himself out of the way. He’d been aboard the Theurgy long enough to understand that it was different to most of the other ships in Starfleet; they’d been together through the worst of it, and they’d bonded together in a way that many crews never did… He supposed that being the only carrier of a secret that could destroy the entire galaxy, it was natural that the Theurgy had become more than a ship and a crew, but something of a home and a family.

And Sylvain was still a stranger to that family.

Of the hundred-odd names inscribed into the walls around him, there was perhaps only two he would recognise; he’d only spoken with a handful of people since he’d come aboard, and he understood most of them to still be alive. Commander Stark, Lieutenant Commander Cross, Lieutenant Sh’lann, Officer Lok… And they were all confirmed by the casualty reports to be alive and well; Sylvain had been through the list thoroughly, after all.

In fact, the only names on the list he had any recollection of, were Crewman Core Davison and Lieutenant Katherine MacFarlane.

The former had been a thorn in his side, roping him unwillingly into her subterfuge aboard the Erudite, that had likely spoiled the alliance between the Theurgy and the Savi, but also come to save lives aboard the Hobus Station. In reality, he hadn’t been all too fond of the woman, she was reckless, arrogant, and manipulative, not to mention that she’d broken about seven hundred Starfleet regulations with her shenanigans… Yet, she’d tried, in her own way, to help him see the grittier realities of their situation, to peel back the gilded velvet curtain of Starfleet ideals, that Sylvain preferred to keep tightly drawn, and show him what life looked like when it was the total opposite of everything that Starfleet could be…

Had she been alive, he might have found some smug comfort in the knowledge that she’d know that Starfleet had come through for them, in the end… Now that she was dead, he could only feel a coldness in his chest, an unreasonable anger that she didn’t believe in Starfleet, tempered only by a devouring sadness at the thought that she died with that same disbelief… He could still feel the memory core she’d extracted from the Erudite burning a hole in his pocket; he’d not had the time to hand it off to a superior Officer as of yet. Truth be told, he wasn’t even sure that he wanted to, now that the only person who could explain it away was dead…

And then there was MacFarlane, someone he’d scarcely spoken to, nothing beyond operation critical callouts during the battle with the Romulans. The woman who’d been bisected so close to him that he could smell the blood in the air… Sylavin took another sharp breath in through his nose, pushing that memory of blood from his mind. The Chief Conn Officer vomiting during a memorial service, was not befitting his station as a senior officer.

Instead, he focussed on the words of their Commander, though his mind quickly drifted back to the people around him, and the cloying guilt that haunted his soul.

It was impossible for him to share a space with so many mourning officers, and not bitterly wonder how many of their tears were his own fault…

He was the pilot, after all.

Every move the Helmet had made during the battle, every impact he’d evaded, every hit that they’d taken, had ultimately been decided by him, and himself alone. Any one of those decisions might’ve been the reason that one of the people standing around him now, were missing a loved one, a friend, a colleague… Sylvain knew that a ship didn’t go through battle without taking some hits, but he couldn’t help but agonise over the manoeuvres he’d made as he stood amongst the repercussions. He only knew two names on that wall; how had the Theurgy managed to keep hope alive for so long, when hundreds had passed since they’d first departed Earth…?

Even in his moroseness, Sylvain was aware that he’d done everything he could, everything he could, to keep their ship safe during the conflict… But he found it futile to try and take comfort in such knowledge. He’d analysed every fragment of data available to him during the battle, plotted every manoeuvre with surgical precision, and even delivered some of the most unorthodox flying he’d ever been responsible for… And yet, still, things had happened that he hadn’t anticipated, things that sensors and mathematics couldn’t account for… Perhaps if he were smarter, or more experienced, or less crippled by the gilded phantom of foresight that whispered within his head, things might have turned out differently. Perhaps there would have been fewer names etched into the arboretum walls.

Or perhaps there would be more…

The Ensign twitched his fingers as he listened to the Commander’s words of hope and sacrifice, to the shouts of affirmation from the gathered crowd around him, untied in their loss…

He couldn’t bring himself to join them.

Instead, he pressed his hands softly into fists, closing his eyes in a long blink as he swallowed against the pain it brought him. The pads of his fingertips were scoured raw, the result of hours upon hours spent at his console, a burning in his digits that had had him half expecting to leave trails of blood with each fresh motion he made across the panel… It was nothing, in the grand scheme of things, but Sylvain offered the moment of pain as a silent reminder to those who they’d lost. To those he might’ve gotten killed…

His pain subsided as the words of the Federation President spoke, a woman whom Sylvain had always assumed an address from would be the highest honour in Starfleet… Instead, the boy couldn’t help but feel as though her address had been cheapened by his presence…

He hadn’t endured. He hadn’t sacrificed. And he was no victim…

He’d been on the ship for little over two days; what gave him the right to stand next to those who’d endured so much more than he had? To bathe in the same recollection of dignity and honour that was afforded to them? His dry eyes prickled with a heavy request, and Sylvain denied it, blinking away the tears that threatened to push through his lids, as he stoically straightened his back, his lips forming around a wordless whisper, a silent apology that he hadn’t been better, that he couldn’t have done more. It was an admission of guilt, an expression of appreciation, and an acceptance of fate.

“Thank you, for your sacrifice…”

He spoke silently, addressing nobody, and everybody, all at once.

Episode 02: Cosmic Imperative / Re: Epi: S [Day 03 | 0145] By these wounds...

Last post by Eden - February 22, 2026, 10:17:52 PM

Lt. JG Callax Valin | Main Sickbay | Deck 11 | Vector 02 | USS Theurgy] @Ellen Fitz @Dumedion @Krajin @RyeTanker
[Show/Hide]

Cal just blinked.

He expected a name, not a full background history. Not that he was not interested in knowing. Quite the opposite. Alien menageries were popular for a reason. People, despite possible moral objections, were often drawn to the weird and abnormal. Cal was no exception. Whether it was chisme or a barely concealed secret, he wanted to know the details.

“They forced me to shift. Repeatedly. Faster and more frequently than my biology allows. They wished to understand how the changes occur at a molecular level.” Her jaw tightened. “They were not gentle.”

Before he could respond, she continued with an assessment of his legs.

“The damage may be temporary,” she said after a moment. “Or permanent. I don’t yet know.” Her voice softened, just a fraction. “If it is permanent… then I will live with pain. With being nothing and everything all at once.” She straightened, drawing herself back into professional stillness. “If you have further needs, I will stay,” she said calmly. “Otherwise, Doctor Leux may require my assistance in the cryo section.”

Again, he was about to reply when a less friendly voice chimed in. A voice he recognized.

“Get to cryo – big black cat will need a trauma blanket to get his temp up and 5cc’s of Somnam. Keep him calm till I get back,” he said to the wolf-lady. “Vi, work fast this looks bad,” he added to the medical android.

"Oh dear," the android said.

Well that can't be good.

The organics moved off leaving him with the android.

“I must say, you have the most beautifully unique neurological chemistry,” Vi confessed. “I encourage you to relax and trust in me to perform my function now, Mr. Valin. Nice, slow breaths – you will discover the atmospheric composition altered to that of your home world – a curtesy I hope you find... pleasurable.”

Was the android flirting with him?

He knew there were androids with programming to do... that. Certainly in the red light districts of some seedier planets, but he did not expect it on a Starfleet vessel. Of course, his cognitive abilities were still impacted by the cocktail of sedatives in his system so maybe he was misreading the situation. If not... well, some robot 'parts' were better than their organic counterparts. Or so he's heard.

"Thank you?"

His hesitation was partially due to the sudden movement of the bio-bed forcing himself into a spread-eagle position. Yep, this is how those holovids usually began...

“Oh, there’s no reason to fret,” her lens blinked slowly, as his wounds were encased in a bio-synthetic mix of restorative jelly, cool to the touch. Vi-Nine initiated contact with his chest wound via a port interface. The fingers of her free hand stroked the pilot’s cheek tenderly. “This won’t take long at all, I promise.”

"If you say so..."

He was not yet convinced.

“Such a rarity, having a patient to talk to,” Vi-Nine giggled shyly. “Over 92 percent are unconscious or rendered so by necessity. I hope you agree with this vocal exchange of information? Perhaps…would you tell me a story? Something of your home world, or…yourself,” she whispered dreamily, curiosity at odds with the throaty huskiness of pleasure. “Data recollection of historically emotional significance is among the highest proven cognitive method of temporal disassociation among organics, after all,” the android added through a breathy exhalation, while her free hand lifted from the patient’s head with a hum of assurance.

Ah yes. Temporal disassociation is just what he needed.

"Was there some sort of obscure consent form I accidentally signed?" He managed to groan through gritted teeth. The pain was reduced but still present. Though he could not 'feel' it as much, his mind was still hyper aware of its presence.

He didn't want for an answer before continuing. If they wanted a story, he would give them a story. "Well, there was that one time I misjudged a threesome with an Andorian and a Risan on Risa. It turned out they were not looking to 'jump my bones', so to speak, but were actually interested in the balcony access my room provided to the adjacent suite. They were undercover law enforcement and rather than meeting my expectations, I instead returned to Ardana with an amusing story and a citation for excessive consumption of Romulan ale."

The android was right. Recalling memories of historically emotional significance did put him in a better mood and he smiled at the recollection.

"I still have never been with an Andorian. What about yourself? How is the android dating scene these days?"

Episode 02: Cosmic Imperative / Re: Epilogue: They That Shed Their Blood [Day 03 | 1800 ]

Last post by joshs1000 - February 22, 2026, 06:32:39 AM

[CPO Avandar Lok | Flight Deck | Fighter Assault Bay | Deck 16 | Vector 03 | USS Theurgy] Attn: @Brutus @Nolan @ob2lander961 @chXinya @Dumedion @Griff @rae @Stegro88 @Eirual @RyeTanker @tongieboi @Pierce @Tae @Nesota Kynnovan @Hans Applegate @Ellen Fitz @P.C. Haring @Krajin @Eden @TWilkins
[Show/Hide]

It was deathly quiet on the deck, apart from the hum of machinery and the occasional sounds made by the ferasan Chief as he went about his duties, alone. Lok had already dismissed the deck gang, practically ordering them to attend the memorial. He stayed behind, he had been to enough of them, the Dominion War produced plenty of grief and it was not the way Lok chose to wallow in his sorrow. Diving into his work, that’s what he needed, something to occupy his mind while it worked things out in the background, all the while he told himself, guys get killed, it’s war. Perhaps cold and callous but he knew if he let himself think about those who had been lost, seeing their shattered bodies, smelling their blood, it would knock him down when he was needed most. He just needed to keep up the work and work and work until exhaustion forced him to sleep, wake up once more and repeat, day after day, until those names were just names.

So he worked.

There was plenty of it, Cross wanted more planes, he’d get more planes, Lok was scrounging everything left in the hangar, the holds, and whatever he could fabricate to add more Frankensteined spacecraft to the roster, even if there were no pilots to fly them. That wasn’t his problem too at least. The eight working fighters were arranged near the mouth of the hangar, their parking spaces cleaned up, each bird almost factory new, ready to go at a moment’s notice. Lok and his crew had worked all night to get them ready, just in case. Arranged in a row along the port side of the hangar further forward were six Valkyries in various states of assembly, each one had its own unique problems. Across from them to starboard was the accumulated piles of parts, piles of junk from the battle damage waiting to be removed, and the equipment from the engineers to repair the armory and facilities damaged by the accidental torpedo discharge when Ghost crashed.

One of the disassembled fighters was Valkyrie 1087, currently up on jack stands, its gutted nacelles lying in a heap just in front of it. Here Lok sat, silently working away on the removed warp core. The fighter had belonged to, he didn’t remember who, but it was recovered mostly intact from the battlefield. The primary space frame was in good shape apart from where the forward cockpit area had been hit by a torpedo and most of the main power systems as well as the weapons were in decent shape. What was not in good shape were the warp nacelles, shredded by either shrapnel or debris, only some of the warp coils and plasma injector equipment could be salvaged, the rest would have to be fabricated or scrounged from somewhere else.

For the moment though, all Lok concerned himself with was removing the primary dilithium crystal from the core. The articulation frame had been damaged, twisted, he wasn’t sure how, but it was causing a problem in getting the crystal free. While dilithium was generally abundant, Theurgy had plenty in stock, the raw crystals required very little refining for the larger cores, the sheer amount of matter and anti-matter run through them that heavily refined crystals did very little in terms of efficiency of the reaction. This was not so for the high performance cores used on the fighters, their crystals required additional cutting, polishing, and furnace treatments to remove most impurities. Thus, the crystals could not easily be replaced, maybe Theurgy would get a new batch now that they were supposedly back with the Federation but Lok still aired on the side of caution as he gently tried to work the clear pink gem from its prison.

With one hand he held a pair of channel locks, their teeth wrapped in a bit of cloth to not scratch the crystal’s surface, while in the other was a screw driver (also cloth wrapped) that he was using to try and loosen the tight grip of the bent articulation frame. Gently he applied pressure to the screwdriver, using it like a pry bark to bend the frame, while his other hand wiggled the crystal in hopes it would slip free. Lok thought he had it and jerked on the crystal, only for the whole articulation frame to slip out of his hands and fall to the deck. He tried to lunch for it but watched almost in slow motion as the assembly flipped over and landed directly onto the dilithium crystal, shattering the unclamped potion into several large pieces. Lok looked at the shards as he felt a buildup of pure rage emanating from his chest.

Unable to contain it he let out a shout that broke the tranquil silence of the hangar and put all his strength into kicking the articulation frame off into some corner as he whipped around and kicked an open toolbox. The tools spilled onto the ground with a metallic clatter, a tricorder that had been sitting on top of the tools bounced across the flight deck shedding pieces of its case as it went.

This only served to infuriate him more. The ferasan whipped back around, spying his next target, the fuselage of Valkyrie 1087. He didn’t even hesitate as he repeated brought both of his clenched fists down upon the metal panel, shouting hoarsely, “FUCK! FUCK! FUCK!”

He stood there for several moments that felt like minutes, his back and shoulders rising in falling as he panted until finally his legs seemed to fail him and he slumped to the ground. Tears filled his eyes, the frustration, the helplessness, always lingering under the surface. Lok wasn’t even supposed to be here. He should have been doing what Starfleet did best, exploring the unknown aboard Perseus. Chief Covington should have been here, not him, Ensign Herrald should have been here, not him, he should have jumped ship when they were over Earth.

Lok inhaled, a ragged breath, then exhaled, his eyes glanced over to the spilled tools, salvation. In moments he was on his hands and knees picking up the mechanical implements and setting them gently back into the toolbox. There was still plenty of work to do and now he needed a new dilithium crystal, there were a few stored away, he just needed to clean up the mess he made first.

So he worked.

Cmdr. (3rd) Hassar al-Zaheer | Arboretum | Deck 22 | Vector 03 | USS Theurgy]
[Show/Hide]

The mood in the arboretum was thick and dour. The crew of Theurgy and other representatives from other ships and even the President of the Federation herself, had all gathered to mourn the dead and say something meaningful. For Hassar and the other vaharrans the whole thing felt strange, death was seen as a normal part of life, if one chose to mourn the passing of someone they knew, it was in private, all matters of cremation and interment of the ashes of the deceased was handled by the monks.Those that followed Kyros understood that for those who maintained a life of balance, death was not the end and instead viewed the loss with optimism.

However, Hassar knew of the customs of humans and several other species from his time with Starfleet as part of their Officer Exchange, many preferred this form of open remembrance, whether they believed in an afterlife or not. Out of respect for their allies, he decided that he and the rest of his Marines would join. Their group stayed near the back of the crowd, standing out in their blue jumpsuits, having not brought proper dress uniforms with them, but they had put on black armbands, suggested to them by one of the crew.

Hassar listened to the speeches that the President and Commander Stark gave, both passionate and emotional, describing the trials that Theurgy and her crew had gone through and those they had lost along the way. Hassar had to admit it was a bit eye opening, he had not realized the extent of hardship that this ship had seen. He couldn’t help but feel reminded of his time in The Fleet, the years of roaming through space. It was difficult to consider back then that they would ever find a place to call home and that one day they would all perish entombed in the last vestiges of their civilization. He often wondered after they encountered aliens, what if they had found the last ship of his people, cold and lifeless, the last vaharran, a skeleton, slumped in the pilot’s seat. He shuddered to think of it, but part of him knew that far back in their history, it had happened, over a dozen ships left and were never seen again.

The end of the President’s speech snapped Hassar out of his wandering mind and he re-focussed on the balcony above while feeling a little embarrassed that he had allowed his thoughts to so thoroughly draw his focus away from this somber moment. Hardly a moment of true discipline.

He stood up straighter and focussed his vision on the group one level up, waiting for the next portion of the service to begin.

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

Last post by Ellen Fitz - February 19, 2026, 05:52:10 PM

[ Lt. Cmdr. Cross | Deck 01 | Executive Officer’s Office | USS Theurgy ] @joshs1000

For a fraction of a second, Cross simply looked at them as they initially responded to his comment. “The floor is mine?” Ah. The barest flicker of understanding passed across his features, followed by a faint, almost private amusement. He inclined his head slightly.

“It’s a Terran euphemism,” he clarified evenly. “It means you have the right to speak.”

He remembered—vividly—the first time someone had told him to “break a leg” before a public address after his liberation. He had spent several long, bewildered seconds trying to determine whether the remark had been a threat, sarcasm, or some obscure Earth ritual. Federation citizens trafficked in metaphor the way traders trafficked in goods—casually, constantly, without warning. It had taken him years to stop parsing every phrase for hidden meaning.

He was, not for the first time, grateful for the patience of the officers who had mentored him. They had corrected him without condescension. Explained without mockery. Taught him the difference between idiom and intent.

“I assure you,” he added mildly, “your translators are functioning.”

As Hassar moved into his requests, Cross’s expression settled back into attentive neutrality.

“Medical treatment will be granted immediately,” he said without hesitation. “Our doctors do not discriminate in matters of care. I’ll notify Sickbay personally to expect your wounded.” He offered a slight pause before continuing. “As for transporting those unable to return to duty—our resources are… limited at present. We’ve sustained significant damage, including to our medical stores. However, with the President’s vessel arriving shortly, if all proceeds without further incident, we may soon have access to Federation support and resupply. That would include medical and transport assistance.” His gaze held steady. “I cannot promise immediate passage home, but I can promise the request will be logged and prioritized once we have the capacity.”

Then came the final request. Cross did not answer immediately. Instead, he folded his hands loosely behind his back, prosthetic fingers curling with soft mechanical precision.

“You are asking,” he said carefully, “for this vessel to assist in locating your missing Vaharrans.” He raised a single eyebrow. “Why do you believe the Theurgy is the correct place to find them?” The question was not accusatory—only measured. “Our priority at present is recovery,” he continued. “We are stabilizing this ship, accounting for our losses, and reestablishing operational capacity. Until a few days ago, our primary mission was survival—exposing and containing the Infested threat.” His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. “That objective has been marginally achieved, at considerable cost.”

His gaze drifted briefly toward the stack of casualty reports before returning to Hassar.

“With the threat exposed and the Federation President en route, I do not know what comes next for this ship. We may be commended.” He gave a faint exhale. “We may be court-martialed. The Theurgy may remain intact. Or her crew may be dispersed across the fleet pending inquiry.” His tone remained calm, but there was no disguising the uncertainty beneath it. “Until the President renders her judgment, our future is undefined.” Hassar might have spoken then, but Cross lifted one hand—palm outward. Not dismissive. Simply pausing the momentum. “That uncertainty does not mean your request lacks merit,” he added, lowering his hand. “In fact, additional trained fighters would be welcome aboard. Your people proved their discipline and effectiveness in combat. If you and your troops are willing to abide by Starfleet standards, operate within our chain of command, and take orders from Starfleet personnel while assigned here, I would support your integration on a provisional basis.”

His eyes sharpened slightly—not unkind, but firm.

“However, I cannot, at this time, formally recommend allocating ship-wide resources toward an independent search operation. Not until we have clearer orders. Not until we know whether this vessel will even remain operational under its current command structure. If circumstances shift—if we are granted leeway, if our next directive allows for such an investigation—I will personally recommend that your missing people be added to our operational considerations.” He held Hassar’s gaze steadily. “But I will not make promises I cannot keep.”

Silence settled, not hostile, but weighty.

“For now,” Cross concluded, voice even, “your wounded will receive care. Your able-bodied troops may remain and assist—under Starfleet authority. And when more becomes known about our future, we will revisit the matter.” He inclined his head once more. “That is what I can offer you today, Commander.”

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

Last post by joshs1000 - February 19, 2026, 04:31:18 PM

Cmdr. (3rd) Hassar al-Zaheer | Executive Officer’s Office | Deck 1 | Vector 01 | USS Theurgy] Attn. @Ellen Fitz
[Show/Hide]

Hassar listened patiently while Cross returned their greeting, clearly also taken aback for a moment by the overly formal military decorum, then was right down to business of informing the two officers of the latest developments regarding the ship’s Commander and the Federation leader. More importantly though was when Cross expressed his personal gratitude at what the Marines had done in the recent battle. The older vaharran couldn’t help but glance to his right at the younger Al-Sahiin as he felt a bit vindicated from their earlier conversation. Cross even informed Hassar that if they had any requests they would honor it to the best of their abilities, this made him perk up somewhat and he did his best to temper any excitement while silently thanking the Spirits for guiding him to this moment.

Cross finally finished with, “The floor is yours, Command al-Zaheer.”

“The floor is mine?” Hassar replied apprehensively as he and Ahzed looked on in slight confusion, perhaps wondering if their universal translators had malfunctioned.

Uncertain of what exactly Cross meant, and not particularly wanting to linger on the awkward moment, he cleared his throat and laid out his requests.

“Ahem, first I would like medical treatment for my troops, I know your doctors wouldn’t hesitate but I thought I would make it formal. Next, if possible, I would like to request that those troops too badly wounded to return to duty be transported home.”

These seemed like reasonable requests and probably not ones that he necessarily needed to ask, but he wanted to get those two small requests out of the way before moving onto the more important stuff.

“Now, I think I have told your Commander Stark previously that I was originally out here searching for a missing group of vaharrans, they were returning home from Earth when they went missing. I would like your help to find them and I would like to join your crew to ensure that it is carried out as well as earn my keep while aboard.’

He paused as he waited for Cross’s reaction, it was probably a lot, at least right now but he hoped that perhaps it would be granted some consideration.

Episode 02: Cosmic Imperative / Re: EPI S: [Day 03 | 0415] Bubble-suit Bitchassness

Last post by Dumedion - February 18, 2026, 08:22:11 PM

“I'm glad you two made it,” Talia smiled while Via and Charles talked over each other, a shoulder leaned to the side of the door as she enjoyed the show. Both of them were so animated and their voices so muffled, it was hard for her to keep up. Neither of them seemed to realize how ridiculous they looked and sounded.

That only added to Shadow’s amusement.

“Throttle back,” Talia laughed, hands in the air. “The nurse out front said they put you in those because of some kind of contagion – but neither one of you sound sick, so what’s the deal,” she asked, eyeing Via suspiciously. A brow arched to add effect. “Who’d you piss off this time?”

A voice cut in then, slightly raspy with mechanical distortion. “That would be me, the resident nurse “bitchass”. Be advised – well, let me be clear – be warned: any attempt at physical altercation with any medical staff will have severe consequences. And yes, we’ve been monitoring you two the entire time – if you’ll direct your attention to the corner over the door? Your left. No, your other left.”

Talia turned her head with them, at what appeared to be an audio/visual node tucked into the corner of the room.

“Yahtzee. For the record, Mr. Wellington – its pronounced “dee-ruh-juh-bl”, dirigible – and Ms. Wix, please refrain from further attempts at dancing, you could depressurize your suit and suffocate.”

“Whoa, wait a minute now,” Talia spoke up, somewhat alarmed and outraged. “Look, all jokes aside - they’ve been in here long enough – when was the last time they got checked out? Neither one seems sick.”

The voice fell silent.

Talia cocked her head at Via, brow raised again. “Nurse Bitchass,” she asked through a smile, then shook her head. “Ya hamar, I don’t want to know. Lets look for a tricorder – maybe I can scan you two and prove your healthy, then we can all get out of here. Yallah.”

OOC - Sorry its short 😅
*Ya hamar = you donkey
*Yallah = quick/hurry up
*This thread is now a drinking game - everytime you use the word bitchass, the reader takes a shot.

Episode 02: Cosmic Imperative / Re: Epi S: [Day 03 | 0615] A Man's Purpose

Last post by Ellen Fitz - February 16, 2026, 02:05:50 AM

[ Lt. Cmdr. Cross | Recovery Ward | Deck 11 | USS Theurgy ] @Eden @Stegro88

Cross gave Cal a single, sharp nod as the other man finished. “That will be done,” he replied evenly. “You will have every relevant datapad on your," he glanced at the biobed then askew to a movable cart, "inside the hour. Engineering summaries, requisition backlogs, flagged personnel reports—the entire stack. I expect measurable movement on the high-priority items before the end of the shift.”

Not a threat. Not quite. But the expectation was there, clean and immovable. Bidding the former pilot a polite farewell, he did not linger for further discussion. Cross was already running through the next layers of the day in his head—logistics, readiness reports, the diplomatic traffic he had yet to untangle.

Halfway down the corridor, a tall, broad silhouette moved through the low light—soundless, deliberate. Lorad.

Cross slowed a fraction. The Reman’s presence was difficult to miss: the visor catching overhead illumination, the heavy set of his shoulders, the faint mechanical precision in the movement of his prosthetic arm. Stark’s briefing resurfaced in Cross’s memory—temporal changes, anomalous engagements, unresolved classification flags. Not a reprimand file. But it was a dossier that required clarity.

“Petty Officer Lorad.” His voice carried without sharpness, but it brooked no confusion. He gestured slightly down the corridor. “Walk with me.”

He resumed toward his office without waiting to see if the Reman complied. He knew he would.

“I have been briefed by Commander Stark regarding your recent temporal activities,” Cross continued, hands clasped behind his back as they moved. “There are… irregularities. Circumstances that place you at the edge of several departments’ interests.” A sideways glance—measuring. He hated temporal mechanics; always gave him a headache. “I am less concerned with speculation than I am with intent.” They turned a corner, the corridor quieter here. “What are your expectations moving forward, Petty Officer?” Cross asked. “Regarding your place on this ship. Your duties.”

Episode 02: Cosmic Imperative / Epilogue: They That Shed Their Blood [Day 03 | 1800 ]

Last post by Ellen Fitz - February 15, 2026, 11:56:45 PM

[ President Bacco | Corridor outside the Arboretum Terrace | Deck 21 | Vector 3| USS Theurgy ]
ATTN: @Brutus @Nolan @ob2lander961 @chXinya @Dumedion @Griff @rae @Stegro88 @Eirual @RyeTanker @tongieboi @Pierce @Tae @Nesota Kynnovan @Hans Applegate @joshs1000 @P.C. Haring @Krajin @Eden @TWilkins

President Nanietta Bacco stood just off the memorial space, listening to the muted cadence of voices inside as final preparations were made. The responsibility before her was a narrow one—intentional, negotiated. She would preside over only a portion of the service. The heart of it belonged to the ship, and to Commander Natalie Stark, who would carry most of the words, the silences, the weight.

That was as it should be.

An aide leaned in quietly, careful not to intrude on the moment more than necessary. “Madam President,” she murmured, “we’ve received another formal request from a Federation council member. They’re asking for a reassessment of the Theurgy’s pardon—this time through a more official, public review process.”

Bacco closed her eyes for a fraction of a second. Not surprise. Fatigue.

“Noted,” she said evenly. “After the memorial.”

A second aide spoke just as softly, tension threading his voice. “Additionally—Task Force Archeron has officially disbanded. However, Admiral Sankolov has rerouted himself and several remaining assets. He’s citing new intelligence: a potential threat to the Federation near the Ferengi border.”

Bacco’s gaze lifted, finding Ambassador Garak without turning her head. For a long beat, neither of them spoke.

“Convenient,” she said at last.

“Or inspired timing,” Garak replied mildly. “Depending on one’s generosity.”

They shared a look—quiet, wary, unspoken calculations moving behind both pairs of eyes. Was it a legitimate threat? Or a carefully placed excuse to avoid comprehensive scans, scrutiny, and the uncomfortable exposure Bacco had just asked of Qo’noS?

There would be time to untangle that knot. Not now.

Bacco straightened, setting the questions aside with practiced discipline. “Commander Stark will lead,” she said. “I’ll take my place when invited.”

The doors opened.

[ Petty Officer Second Class Kavon Brown | Personal Quarters | Deck 20 | Vector 3 ]

Petty Officer Second Class Kavon Brown stood in his quarters, hands resting on the edge of the small desk bolted to the bulkhead, staring at the padd in front of him without really seeing it. He’d read the casualty report three times already. He couldn’t remember all the names. Not cleanly. Not in order. They blurred together after a point—too many, too fast, each one a quiet blow he hadn’t been braced for. But some of them stuck. Some of them refused to be filed away.

The untouchables. The ones who had always seemed like they’d somehow make it through anything. The ones who walked into triage with half their uniform burned away and still cracked jokes. The ones who felt… permanent.

Valyn Amarik.
Asra Tek.
Tyreke Okafor.
Jonathan Byrne.
Evelyn Rawley.
Andram Obair.
Talera Emlott.

Names he knew. Some he’d worked with. Some he’d shared meals with. A few he’d dated. Faces he could still picture across a biobed, or leaning in a hatchway, or slumped against a bulkhead waiting for clearance he’d once helped sign off on.

Liam Herrald.
Kai Akoni.
Thomas Ravon.
Cir’Cie.
Vinata Vojona.
Kizra Tos.
Sorek Morgan.
Amissa.
Scruffy LeBlanc—he huffed softly at that, the ghost of a laugh that died before it fully formed.

Others he’d never known, their time onboard had been too brief.

Sashenka Kreshkova.
Nara Nueva.

Kavon exhaled slowly and set the padd down. He’d been with the Theurgy since the beginning. Commissioning crew. Medical. Nurse, physio. He’d learned this ship the hard way—during chaos, during flight, during that long, cold stretch of stasis after Earth when his body had been too broken to keep up. He remembered waking above Aldea, stiff and disoriented, angry at the time he’d lost. Now he wondered if that enforced pause had spared him names that would have otherwise been on this list.

The Theurgy was—tentatively—back in the Federation’s good graces. That was the phrase people were using. Tentatively. Carefully. Like the whole thing might shatter if said too loudly. Home, though, still felt impossibly far away.

Kavon adjusted his uniform, smoothing a nonexistent wrinkle, and forced himself to stand straighter. The memorial wasn’t about his fear, or his exhaustion, or the quiet question gnawing at him now. How many more? How many more names before this ship was finally allowed to stop running? Before “holding the line” didn’t mean watching the people you thought were invincible prove—one by one—that they weren’t?

He squared his shoulders and stepped out into the corridor, joining the slow flow of crew heading toward the memorial space.
Behind him, the hum of the Theurgy continued—scarred, stubborn, alive. Ahead, the names waited to be spoken. And the long road home stretched on, uncertain and unforgiving, asking its price in advance.

[ Commander Natalie Stark | Arboretum Terrace - Memorial Wall | Deck 21 | Vector 3| USS Theurgy ]

Not for the first time, Natalie stood in front of the wall of names that ringed the level above the ships Arbortetum. Numerous fellow officers and enlisted crammed the walkway, the cafe above, and the garden below. More still would be watching throughout the Theurgy, as this would be broadcast to any and all who wished to watch. This was however, the first time that Natalie was doing so as the Commanding Officer of the Theurgy. Even when not present, Ives had been the backdrop upon which every person here could rely. And they were gone. Not dead, but not available. That simply compounded the pain she already felt over the plight of Lt.Vanya, infected with a nasty parting gift from the Tal Shiar. And the loss of life, so many colleagues that they were here to remember now. Not to mention allies in both the Klingon and Romulan fleets that had battled...so many dead. How she was standing now was a mystery to the woman from Mars.

A cold comfort to the pardon that the President had given the crew. Welcome back to the fold. Sorry, the person most responsible is frozen in stasis right now, but there’s work to be done. Lots of people will hate you, but the mission isn’t over. How the hell could she make that a palatable message to swallow? What words could she use to sweeten that bitter pill?

Beating herself up wouldn’t make it any easier. Focusing on the pressure, the stress, the worry, the inadequacy - she would spiral. It would be so easy. And too many people depended on her to do that. Yet again, responsibility was dropped onto her shoulders, and she knew it was only a matter of time until the weight would be too much. But she could manage for now.

Adjusting the hem of her dress uniform, she glanced over at President Bacco and Ambassador Garak on one side of her, then to Lt. Commander Cross, and Thea, her projection attired in somber black, on the other. Drawing strength from their presence, Natalie stepped forward and placed her hands upon the railing in front of her, looking down to the assembled crew below. A ghost of a smile - fleeting and bittersweet - graced her face as she summoned up the courage to speak.

“We are gathered here once more to pay homage to those we have lost. Another battle. Another fight for the very salvation of all of our collected peoples. Another gathering to mourn the dead, and the wounded, too hurt to be with us here.” She paused, feeling anger bubble in her chest alongside the sense of loss. “Every time we gather like this, it hurts. It’s a festering pain that eats away at all of us. A void of grief when we say goodbye to another comrade. A bubbling bile of pure bitter rage that can barely be contained, when we suffer more losses, in what seems like an endless stream of fight after fight.

“For so long, it has been one hopeless moment after another. But,” she paused, looking out, then over, acknowledging just who was there today, standing beside her. “We are not alone. First, it was our allies in the Klingon Empire that stood with us. That gave us shelter and care, and offered up brothers and sisters in arms to our cause. Who bled and died alongside us. Then, there were Romulans, who answered the call. The Remans have come to the table. This last battle was horrific. Costly. We were flung across many lightyears, strung out on a myriad of missions that were each critical to the very future of the galaxy itself.”

Her knuckles were white as she gripped that rail, and she prayed her voice did not quiver or crack as her arms shook slightly. She pushed on. “And now....now we are vindicated. The Truth is out there. Our own people now know of our sacrifice. The horrors we have faced,” she turned and gestured now, to the President. “The Federation now knows! And I know what that has cost. What we have all paid for dearly to get to this point. I know the pain, the sorrow, the anger you all feel. And I know that the mission is not done. There is more to do. We cannot let the sacrifices to this point fade just because we have finally had real, marked success. We cannot let the vigilance we have shown die. For each other. For those we have lost. For the future of the Federation and our allies. For Jien Ives, who never once wavered, and who will surely return to use when healed. Will we let them down by failing to carry on the fight?”

Silence hung on her words. She didn’t realize she was breathing heavy. She couldn’t tell her face was flushed, and her eyes were alight with some inner fire. For a moment, silence. She sucked in a breath. “No. We will not. We will not falter. Not now. Not ever.”

“Never!” someone below called out. Then another voice. And another. And soon it was a roar. Natlaie blinked in surprise at the ferocity that answered her in that moment. She wondered if this was why Klignons cried to the skies at the death of a comrade, to warn the halls of Sto’Vo’Kor that a new Warrior was coming to join in eternal glory? She let them have their moment, then raised a hand.

“I am sure that all those we lost heard you, wherever their souls have found solace,” Natalie said, feeling the quiet tears streaking her cheeks. When had those started? “A roaring send off. And now, a small moment of silence, before others have their say. I’m sure you all don’t want to just listen to me.” A smattering of chuckles, then respectfully, all bowed their heads. Natalie felt humbled in the moment, and wanted nothing more than to step back through the doors behind her and hide after baring her soul in a speech that had been nothing as she had planned.

“Thank you,” she said quietly into that silence, and took a step back, turning to Nanietta Bacco. “Madame President, the floor is yours.”

[ President Bacco | Arboretum Terrace - Memorial Wall | Deck 21 | Vector 3| USS Theurgy ]
President Bacco stepped forward slowly, one hand resting briefly on the cool stone of the memorial wall before she turned to face the crew of the USS Theurgy. For a moment, she did not speak. She couldn’t. Not with the sheer weight of the number of names listed on this wall. When she did, her voice carried the steadiness of someone who had weathered political storms—and chosen, deliberately, to stand in one more.

“Captain,” she began gently to Stark, “if there are those who doubt the resolve of this crew, they need only have heard you.”
Her gaze swept over the gathered crew—Starfleet uniforms, the somber projection of Thea, the scars and bandages still visible on too many. “I stand before you not only as President of the United Federation of Planets, but as a citizen who owes you a debt.” She allowed a pause, gathered her racing thoughts and emotions, before continuing. “For months, you were called traitors. Outlaws. Renegades. The machinery of our own government turned against you. Orders were issued to hunt you. To silence you. To erase you.”

She did not soften the truth. That would only cheapen the sacrifice.

“And you endured.” Her eyes hardened—not in anger, but in clarity. “You endured not for vengeance. Not for pride. But for truth.” She inclined her head slightly toward the memorial wall. “The names behind me did not give their lives in rebellion against the Federation. They gave their lives to preserve it.” A ripple of quiet moved through the crowd. “The infection that reached into Starfleet Command was not merely an impersonation of senior officers. It was an assault on trust itself. On the belief that our institutions are stronger than our enemies. On the conviction that transparency and law will outlast deception and fear.” She folded her hands before her. “You proved that conviction right.”

Bacco's gaze returned to Stark. “You asked whether we would let them down by faltering now.” Glancing at Garak, her resolve strengthened and her voice deepened. “No. The Federation does not abandon those who defend it from within and without. The pardon you were granted is not a political convenience. It is a recognition of fact: you acted in defense of the Federation when its own voice had been stolen.”

“But vindication does not erase grief. Nor does justice restore the fallen.” Her voice softened. “I cannot give you back Captain Ives’ presence. I cannot promise that there will not be those within the Federation who still question you. Institutions heal more slowly than people.” She inwardly sighed. “But I can promise this: the truth will not be buried again. Starfleet Command will be rebuilt with safeguards that will make such infiltration far more difficult. Oversight will be expanded. Civilian review councils will be strengthened. And the record will reflect—clearly and permanently—the actions of this crew.”

She allowed the weight of that to settle before continuing. “The Federation was founded on a simple, radical idea: that diverse worlds, with different histories and different wounds, could choose cooperation over conquest. In recent months, that idea was tested.” Her eyes shone now—not with tears, but with fierce belief. “You did more than survive that test. You reminded us what we are supposed to be.” She drew in a breath. “The mission is not over. There are still enemies in shadow. There are still fractures between allies that must be mended. There are still those who would exploit our divisions. But you are no longer alone in that fight.” Her gaze swept the gathered crew once more. “You are back in the fold—not as prodigal officers reluctantly tolerated, but as exemplars of Starfleet’s highest calling.”

A quiet strength filled her voice. “Go forward not as fugitives. Not as victims of betrayal. But as the crew who refused to let the Federation fall to deception. To those we lost: your sacrifice will not be forgotten.” For the first time since stepping forward, Nanietta Bacco allowed the faintest edge of iron into her tone. “Let history record that when the Federation’s voice was stolen, the crew of the USS Theurgy carried it—through fire, through exile, and back into the light.” She stepped back from the railing. “The Federation stands with you.”

[ Aide Tomas Virel ]

From behind the discreet shoulder-mounted FNN camera, Aide Tomas Virel kept his breathing slow and even. The red recording light blinked steadily. He made sure the frame was perfect—President Nanietta Bacco centered against the memorial wall, the insignia of the United Federation of Planets subtly visible above her shoulder, the gathered crew of the USS Theurgy arranged in solemn tiers below. It would make an excellent broadcast. Stirring. Historic.

Dangerous.

He adjusted the focus manually, though it didn’t need adjusting. The President’s voice carried with conviction—measured, righteous, resolute. It would play well across the core worlds. It would play even better on frontier colonies who already believed Starfleet Command had grown distant and insulated.

But Tomas knew something most of the viewers would not. There had been no full Council session. No formal vote. No procedural inquiry completed before the pardon was issued. The emergency powers invoked were technically within executive authority, yes—but they were meant to be provisional, temporary, pending review by the Federation Council. Instead, the announcement had been made publicly. Decisively. Irrevocably.

He kept the camera steady as the President promised oversight reforms. Oversight that had not yet been drafted. He felt the faint sheen of sweat under his collar.

He believed the crew of the Theurgy had likely done the right thing. The initial evidence packets recovered from the infiltrated Starfleet Command were compelling. Horrifying. If even half of it was authenticated—and early intelligence suggested it was—then this crew had saved the Federation from internal rot.

But bureaucracy had its own gravity. Procedure was not decoration. It was legitimacy. And legitimacy was fragile.
He imagined the Council chambers on Earth already buzzing. Andoria demanding procedural review. Vulcan insisting on investigative transparency. Tellarite delegates sharpening objections not to the outcome—but to the order of operations.

Order mattered. In governance, order sometimes mattered more than being right. Because once precedent was set—that a President could unilaterally pardon a crew accused of treason, restructure Starfleet oversight, and declare institutional vindication before full Council ratification—future leaders might not wield that authority so carefully.

His lens caught the moment the President said, “The Federation stands with you.”

It was a powerful line. It would trend on every subspace channel within the hour. And half the quadrant would cheer. The other half would ask who authorized her to speak for them.

Tomas swallowed. He would edit nothing. That was not his role. FNN prided itself on uncut feeds of presidential addresses. Transparency, even when uncomfortable. Especially when uncomfortable.

Still, as applause rose and the President stepped back, he couldn’t shake the unease curling in his gut. History might remember this as the moment the Federation reclaimed its moral center. Or as the moment executive authority quietly expanded under the cover of righteous necessity.

The camera’s red light continued to blink. He kept filming.

GM Notes: We will post the next portion of the memorial next Sunday. All writers have exactly one week to respond to this portion of the memorial. Then once we post up the second, and final, portion of the memorial, writers will have exactly one week to respond to that before the memorial is closed, thereby concluding the Epilogue, and launching us into the Interregnum.

Episode 02: Cosmic Imperative / Re: Epi S: [Day 03 | 0800] Meeting of the Minds

Last post by Brutus - February 15, 2026, 10:43:46 PM

[ Lt (jg) Sarresh Morali | Conference Lounge | Deck 01 | Vector 01 | USS Theurgy] Attn: @Eirual @Ellen Fitz @chXinya @Nesota Kynnovan @Pierce

[Show/Hide]

Well fuck me, Sarresh thought, wondering idly if he was always going to be sticking his foot in his mouth. Then again, he wondered if he cared. Giving that thought due consideration, Sarresh shrugged his shoulders and decided the he did not, in fact, care, and moved to replicate a cup of Jumja tea, extra caffeinated. He needed something sweet to pry his eyes open, and he had fallen into the habit of that drink during his time with Ryuan Sel. Whom he could now think of without the massive pain in his chest flaring at her loss. Progress, he thought as he moved around the room, punching his order into the replicator now, and then looking for, and taking, his seat. To the new Lieutenant, Sarresh merely offered up another shrug and a muttered, "Welcome to the meat grinder, Lieutenant."

Rather affable, all things considered.

More figures joined them, the room filling up slowly as officer after officer trickled in. He tumbled Frost's name around in his brain a few times to see if anything shook loose, either from personnel flies he'd read while on duty aboard the Theurgy, or from some deep memory hidden behind the mind block programing left by the Relativity, to be revealed only in a time of need, or when facing some trigger. He got nothing. That could mean many things, including his worse fear - that the future had been changed to such a point that any information still locked away in his brain was no longer of use. Or worse even, that the Relativity no longer existed as a result of the incapacitation of Ives, or who knew what else. Temporal shielding be damned.

That way lead to another headache, and Sarresh realized that not only had someone sat next to him - Hirek, Romulan, knowledgeable, distant, but a known entity - but that the new face was talking again. Forcing himself to set aside his ever present meanderings and trying to focus, Sarresh shipped his tea and watched Frost, his mouth hidden by his mug.

So something has happened to the Android, Sarresh realized, as Frost informed them of his position as Acting Chief. The man must have come aboard from one of the other ships that had swarmed into the Triangle in the wake of the recent battle. Sarresh still had much to process from that, but his focus had been on his own mission, and the debriefing he had given Stark earlier that morning. He wondered if Ducane would bring her further into the fold with Ives being unavailable, then realized he was about to spiral down the same drain he'd been circling for hours, and the smirk became a deep frown. That wouldn't help anyone, least of all himself.

Gods I need sleep, he lamented, sure he was far from the only person present to feel the same. He kept the mug in his hands, elbows on the table, body hunched forward as a status summary of the Science departments physical assets began to scroll across the display, eyes focused on the screen, and not the man speaking. Sarresh didn't even bother to stifle the chuckle as he learned that a vole was on the loose. Of all the things that could go wrong, a vole running a muck just hit him sideways. The sheer incredulity of it all was damn near staggering. Before the chuckle could develop into a full laugh, Sarresh caught the glare from the Benzite, and rolled his eyes. There was little need to antagonize Zarqan further than he already was.

He didnt' have to struggle for long, as Frost called on him to give a report. Letting out a sigh, Sarresh started to push back from his seat (since Zarqan had stood up for his bit) when the doors opened and a new face walked in. He paused and watched the curious looking woman, some form of hybrid officer, judging by those ears and that skin tone, make an introduction. Not waiting for Frost to get around to doing his part, Sarresh finished standing and gestured to one of the empty seats. "Cybernetics eh? Something happened with the old Chief and no one has told us what yet, but she was an Android so maybe you can help. In any event," he dismissed her from his mind, wondering why he had said any of that, the words feeling foreign in his mouth. That he knew something had to be wrong, and not a simple change of duties was one of those gut instincts that flared up, and Sarresh presumed it was something leaking out of programing in his mind. Or he was going insane. That was always a possibility.

"Lt. JG Sarresh Morali. Temporal Affairs," there was curtness in his response as he finally addressed Lt. Frost, though it was novel to be an unknown for once. The upside of the high turn over for officers and the abysmal casualty rate aboard the ship. These new comers wouldn't know the rumors about him. Yet. "And my lab is fine. No major damage that I can't repair myself, and if I need anything, its a rather short list of engineers that actually have the clearance to enter the lab." He frowned for a moment, contemplating Frost and how much of an ass to be.

"I'll have to see what it will take to get you clearance, sir," he barely remembered to add the honorific at the end. "Unfortunately, I'm not sure 'acting' head will be enough with the protocols put in place, and the person most equipped to provide command override is currently in a stasis tube." He was sure he could feel the glare of a few officers around the table, but he didn't care. Access to that laboratory was highly restricted after he'd come aboard, with all the future tech that had been worked into the background and hidden from site. More than one of the other scientists found it something of an affront to their sensibilities when it came to the free exchange of thoughts and ideas, and felt that they were unfairly cut out of the loop when it came to how closely guarded Morali's little kingdom had become.

Not that he cared of course.

Extending an olive branch to the Lieutenant, he added, "But that does mean, baring any other command level briefings I get dragged into, I should be available to help elsewhere. Just let me get a few hours of sleep first, eh?" In truth it was less about sleep, and more about having time to meet up with the few people he actually cared about aboard this ship, and make sure for himself they were alright. Sure, the messages he had sent and received back said they were fine, but there was something to be said for seeing a thing for one self.

Sarresh waited until the Lieutenant signaled for him to sit, and then did, repressing a groan as he sank back into the cushioned chair. Say what you will about Starfleet, but they make sure the chairs are comfortable.