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Epilogue: Ashes to Build a New Order [Day 03 | 0300 ]

[Chancellor Martok & Colonel Hauq | Klingon Flagship | The Triangle]
@Brutus @Nolan @chXinya @Griff @Stegro88 @RyeTanker @Pierce @Nesota Kynnovan @P.C. Haring @Eden @ob2lander961 @Dumedion @rae @Eirual @tongieboi @Tae @Hans Applegate @joshs1000 @Krajin @TWilkins



Martok’s fist struck the bulkhead hard enough to leave a shallow dent.

“Cowards,” he snarled. “Two Romulan rulers lie dead, their empire bleeding out, and already the Federation and this so‑called new allied Romulan order close their doors. We held the line. Klingon ships burned so the Theurgy could live. And now we are told to wait?”

Colonel Hauq did not immediately respond. He had learned, over many campaigns, when Martok’s fury needed space—and when it needed shaping.

“The battle has been over for meer hours,” Hauq said carefully. “Confusion favors those who move quietly. That does not mean they move wisely.”

Martok rounded on him, eyes blazing. “You defend their silence?”

“No,” Hauq replied evenly. “I warn against answering it with rage.”
The Chancellor’s breathing slowed, just enough. He turned back toward the viewport, where the scattered remains of the battle still drifted like dishonored bones.

“They speak of Romulan–Reman unity,” Martok growled. “Yet they bar the Klingon Empire from the table. Have they no regard for our history with the Romulans? Without us, the Theurgy would be debris among that wreckage.”

Hauq inclined his head. “The fleet notices. Captains are already asking what is being decided without them. They fear weapons forged in secrecy. Contingencies planned without Klingon eyes.”

Martok’s jaw tightened. “And they are not wrong to fear it.”

Silence stretched—heavy, dangerous.

At last, Martok straightened, reins pulled tight on his temper. “This is not a moment for blades. It is a moment for authority.” He turned to Hauq. “Contact President Bacco. Directly. No intermediaries. If the Federation still claims us as allies, she will speak to me—now.”

Hauq bowed his head. “It will be done, Chancellor.”


[Colonel Xiomek, Commander Rhaelyn ir’Velas, Sub‑Commander Tovan ch’Ress| Reman Warship Khopesh | The Triangle]



The transporter field faded, leaving the two Romulan officers standing rigidly on the Khopesh’s deck. They did not acknowledge one another. Commander Rhaelyn ir’Velas—Donatra’s Third Fleet—kept his chin high, eyes sharp. Sub‑Commander Tovan ch’Ress—once Tal’Aura’s—watched the room with practiced caution. Colonel Xiomek studied them both without hurry.

“Tal’Aura is dead,” he said. “Donatra is dead. The Imperial command structure is shattered. The Tal Shiar’s Citadel is crippled. The Senate exists by momentum alone.” Neither Romulan spoke. “The senatorial coalition supporting Romulan–Reman integration now holds a majority,” Xiomek continued. “Not because hearts have changed—but because the numbers no longer lie. Too many ships lost. Too many crews gone.”

Rhaelyn’s eyes narrowed. “You speak as if this outcome were inevitable.”

“It is,” Xiomek replied calmly. “Division now will finish what this war began. Romulan space will fracture into prizes—Orions, Nausicaans, Cardassians, Klingons. Even the Federation will not resist helping if you cannot help yourselves.”

Ch’Ress shifted. “And if we refuse?”

Xiomek met his gaze. “Then Romulus survives only as a dependency. Managed. Advised. Pacified. I do not intend to let that be our future.”

The words were not a threat. They were a statement of fact.

Rhaelyn exhaled slowly. “You ask us to carry this to crews who still hate one another.”

“I ask you to carry reality,” Xiomek said. “Unity first. Ideology later. Survival buys us choice.”

A long pause.

Finally, ch’Ress inclined his head. “Provisionally. I will issue the directive.”

Rhaelyn followed, more reluctantly. “So will I.”

Xiomek nodded once. “Then go. Romulus will not endure another internal war.”

They departed separately—but with the same orders.


[Cmdr. Stark, Lt. Cmdr. Cross, Lt. Madsen, Lt. Pierce| Captain’s Ready Room | USS Theurgy]



The hum of the ship felt louder than usual. The cryostasis display remained steady. Unforgiving. Final.

Lieutenant Enyd Madsen’s hands were clenched in her lap. “He’s alive,” she said quietly. “And somehow that makes this worse.”

Lieutenant Pierce stood rigid near the bulkhead, expression locked down. Shock had been converted into control—barely.

Lieutenant Commander Cross leaned forward, palms on the table. “He trusted this crew. He trusted you.” His eyes tracked across the room to settle on the acting captain.

Commander Stark felt the weight of that settle squarely on her shoulders. Pressing down the warring voices in her head that screamed of her insecurities and fears.

“I know,” she said. And after a beat: “And that means we do not falter.” She straightened, uncertainty pressed flat beneath command posture. “President Bacco has requested an immediate meeting. Before any engagement with the Klingons, Romulans, or Remans. I don’t know what she intends—only that she expects readiness.” She looked to Cross. “Until relieved or countermanded, you assume executive officer duties. I need department heads in position and this ship ready for scrutiny.”

“Yes, Captain,” Cross replied without hesitation.

Stark drew a breath, looking now between her chief diplomat and head of Intelligence. “Assessments. Quickly.”

Madsen spoke first. “Martok will not tolerate being sidelined. And the Romulan–Reman leadership is fragile—watching for advantage. We’re standing on new ground with both.” She paused, nibbled her lower lip, then continued. “I already shared the letter from Doctor Marlowe with Pierce regarding another…issue that may impact whatever is in store for all of us.”

Stark looked to Pierce, who nodded before speaking. “Intelligence from Marlowe suggests coordinated movement near Breen space—multiple factions. He’s a known asset, personally verified uninfested during his extraction from the Embassy brig on Qo’Nos.”

Stark’s eyes sharpened. “Then I want verification. Hard reports only. Something I can put in front of the President without speculation.” She turned back to Cross. “Full personnel and ship status. No omissions.” Stark allowed herself one final glance at the stasis display—then turned away. “We hold the line,” she said. “That’s the job.”


[President Bacco & Ambassador Garak| Presidential Vessel | Approaching The Triangle]



“The Remans demand an audience. The Klingons demand an audience,” Bacco said sharply. “And the Theurgy tells me they’re preparing for my arrival. That’s it.”

Garak folded his hands behind his back. “Which suggests discipline. And restraint.”

She eyed him. “You make it sound comforting.”

“It is preferable to panic,” he replied. “Start with your own. Let the Theurgy manage the new Romulan order. You handle the Klingons. Familiar pressure, familiar language.”

Bacco exhaled. “Careful, Garak. I might make you Vice President at this rate.”

He looked suitably appalled. “Madam President, I assure you—that would destabilize several governments.”

The humor died as the viewport filled with wreckage—broken hulls, drifting debris, the silent cost of survival.

Bacco’s voice softened. “This is what it cost.”

Garak nodded once. “And now comes the harder part—deciding what it will mean.”

[Lt. Vytaohpathi "Vyta" th’Verohr | Presidential Vessel | Approaching the Triangle]

At the other end of the ship - at a discrete enough distance from the President that she could continue her conversation without him, but still close enough to summon should she have a question - Vyta idly drummed his fingers on a PADD. His eyes swept the room in a quick, repeating pattern. The President, the viewport, the PADD, the President, the viewport, the PADD, and on and on again.

This was hardly the first time that Admiral Anderson had sent his adjunct on a mission with only a set of encrypted coordinates as a guide, but he was admittedly surprised when they led him to the Presidential shuttle. Vyta had been even more surprised when he’d learned where they were heading. He’d managed to keep the shock off his face, but his antennae had given him away, jumping to rigid attention above his head.

Nysari would have made herself part of the conversation by now, but Vyta preferred to watch, gathering information for the admiral and waiting for a moment that required him.

The Theurgy coming in from the cold would change a great many plans. Vyta made himself focus on that.

But rather selfishly, his thoughts wandered. What would it change for his family, too? 


[ ENS. Talia Verne | Communications Officer | USS San Paulo | Deck 07 | Secure Comms Alcove ]



The chatter wasn’t supposed to mean anything at first. Routine subspace routing updates. Traffic control handoffs. Diplomatic priority flags sliding past one another in tight-beam bursts. The kind of thing you only really notice when you’ve been staring at the spectrum analyzer for too long and your brain starts pattern-hunting out of boredom.

Then the priority tags started stacking. Presidential clearance codes—old ones, rarely used. A convoy routing vector masked as a resupply corridor, but with escort tonnage that didn’t match. Fleet movements bending around something instead of through it.

Verne’s fingers paused over the console. She re-ran the filters, narrowed the bandwidth, stripped out the civilian noise.

The Triangle.

Her breath caught slightly as a new packet slid into place—Klingon transponder pings, erratic but unmistakable. Romulan signatures ghosting in and out, masked but sloppy. Weapons telemetry followed a heartbeat later, fragmented and delayed, but real. Weapons fire.

She didn’t waste time speculating.

“Captain to Communications,” she said, tapping her combadge. “I have something you’re going to want to see.”

[ CAPT. Jarek Thorne | Commanding Officer | USS San Paulo | Bridge ]

Thorne leaned over her shoulder as the data unfolded across the main viewer, his jaw tightening with each new overlay.

“The President’s ship,” he said quietly. “Or close enough to make no difference.”

“Yes, sir,” Verne replied. “Movement suggests a convergence vector. Heavy escorts. Diplomatic posture on the surface, but—” She gestured to the weapons telemetry. “There’s already been an exchange. Romulans and Klingons, localized but escalating.”

Thorne straightened slowly, arms folding behind his back. “And where those two start shooting at each other,” he murmured, “there’s usually a third party everyone’s circling.” His eyes flicked back to the display, to the Triangle’s jagged geometry hanging in space. “Theurgy,” he said at last—not a question.

Verne nodded. “If I were a renegade carrier trying to stay ahead of Starfleet and make a statement… that’s where I’d go.”

Silence settled over the bridge for a moment, heavy with implication. Thorne exhaled through his nose, decision already made.

“Package everything,” he ordered. “Raw intercepts, movement projections, weapons reports—no editorializing. Forward it up the chain to Admiral Sankolov.”

“Yes, sir.”

“The Admiral decides if we move,” Thorne continued, eyes still on the Triangle. “But if the Theurgy is anywhere near a political fault line like that… it’s the closest thing we’ve had to a real lead in weeks.”

Verne hesitated, just for a fraction of a second. “And if it is her, sir?”

Thorne didn’t look away. “Then the hunt isn’t over yet,” he said quietly. “Not by a long shot.”

“Sending now,” Verne replied, fingers already flying.

As the data burst leapt into subspace—bound for the Archeron—the Triangle continued to glow on the screen, sharp and waiting, like a wound that refused to close.




[ Lt. Cmdr. Jennifer Dewitt | “Borrowed” Breen Figher | Akh’Terel Veil | Breen-Ferengi Frontier ]

Lieutenant Commander Jennifer Dewitt had not stolen the Bleth Chaos Fighter. She had borrowed it—quietly, deliberately—from a Breen contact who trusted her just enough to believe she would never put the craft into exactly the state it was now in.

The fighter was coming apart around her as she tore her way out of the Akh’Terel Veil, a violent nebular shelf hanging above the Rolor Nebula along the Breen–Ferengi frontier. It was there—hidden inside ion storms and gravimetric shear—that representatives of the Orion Syndicate, the Tzenkethi Coalition, the Holy Order of the Kinshaya, the Gorn Hegemony, the Tholian Assembly, a few members of the Cardassian True Way faction, and even elements of the Breen Confederacy itself had convened. Not for trade. Not for diplomacy. But to discuss a coordinated alignment against what they perceived as a fractured, distracted Federation—one weakened by internal collapse and ripe for partition.

Dewitt had stayed behind in Breen space to make certain the Confederacy did not formally commit to that alliance. What she uncovered instead was worse: proof that others intended to move regardless—and soon. She had the data now. And almost no chance of crossing Federation space with it undetected.

Still, there were people between here and the last known location of the Theurgy who could hide her, move her, help her pass the truth hand to hand if need be. Friends. Smugglers. Old allies who knew when not to ask questions. It wasn’t a plan so much as a chain of trust—but it was the only one she had.

If she survived the next few minutes.

She felt the impact before the alarms reached her ears.

The Breen fighter lurched as if struck by a hammer, its angular hull screaming through the frame as a Kinshaya Hellfire torpedo detonated just off the port quarter. The cockpit lights flared and dimmed, coolant vapor flooding the compartment as inertial dampers struggled to keep pace. Outside, the nebula burned with overlapping weapons fire—Tzenkethi ships of glass, stone, and animal bone knifing through the haze, and beyond them the terrible symmetry of Kinshaya vessels, spherical war-suns advancing in disciplined silence.

Two Kōryū-Bi–class Vulpinian fighters clung to the crippled Breen craft, their crimson hulls flashing as they maneuvered with predatory precision. Where Dewitt fought the Breen controls, forcing the damaged ship through a staggered evasive roll, the Vulpinians flowed around her. Their long, narrow fuselages snapped laterally on Sirillium-Impulse Vector Drives, ventral wing-blades firing micro-thrusters in perfect coordination. One rode high, dorsal spine aglow as it shed heat and fed sensor data into the pack; the other stayed close to her starboard flank, its phase-reactive ablative skin shimmering as it disrupted targeting locks meant for the Breen fighter.

The Kinshaya pressed the attack. A Liberator-class spherical cruiser emerged from the nebula, domed command deck ringed with banners even in vacuum, its shields flaring gold as they absorbed scattered fire. Phased polaron beams carved disciplined arcs through space, followed by the searing bloom of another Hellfire launch. Dewitt shoved the Breen craft into a desperate dive, but the ship was already dying—control lagging, power bleeding away despite its heavy Breen armor. Nanite-controlled damage control crawled across the Kinshaya hulls as return fire glanced off them, while the Tzenkethi formations closed in, crystalline weapons refracting light into lethal geometries.

“Critical,” the Breen console intoned, far too calmly.

Dewitt didn’t hesitate.

She triggered a compressed data burst, the stolen meeting intel ripping free of her systems and leaping across the void to the nearer Kōryū-Bi. The Vulpinian fighter acknowledged instantly, its nose-mounted pulse cannons still firing tight, disciplined bursts to keep pursuit at bay.

“Take it,” Dewitt ordered, voice steady despite the Breen ship’s failing inertial field. “Run it to the Theurgy. Tell them it came from me.”

The male Vulpinian pilot’s reply came back sharp and immediate, edged with a growl she could hear even through the translator. He refused—snapping his fighter closer, using its agile frame to mask her broken vector as another Kinshaya beam scorched past. His craft moved like a living thing—violent snap-turns no human design could survive—drawing fire away, refusing to abandon the hunt.
Dewitt clenched her jaw.

“If you hope for your people to avoid another war like the Dominion War,” she said, each word measured, “you’d better get the hell out of here. That data matters more than my ship.”

For a heartbeat, the Kōryū-Bi hesitated—its dorsal spine flaring brighter as heat bled away, its minimal shields flickering under sustained fire. Then the pilot broke formation. The crimson fighter rolled hard and burned away, Sirillium drives screaming as it vanished into the nebula with the data burst locked in its systems.

The remaining Kōryū-Bi tightened its orbit around the Breen craft, fighting like a cornered predator. It wasn’t enough. Another Kinshaya salvo tore through the haze, and the Breen fighter’s power grid collapsed in a cascade of failures. As the cockpit lights died and the ship began its final, uncontrolled drift, Jennifer Dewitt allowed herself one brief, grim satisfaction. The message was away. The Theurgy would know. At least her death had meaning.


GM Notes: Part 1.

This officially opens the Epilogue for all writers. Remember to use EPI S [Day 03 | Time Stamp ] Thread Title.

The Epilogue technically lasts for one day in-game, with the Interregnum starting on Day 04 at midnight (see the Cosmic Calendar for reminders). There will be a few big threads for all writers to join in on, namely the Memorial Thread as well as a thread with some of the ramifications of the president’s visit.

We encourage writers to look at the story prompts to see what prompts they might be interested in (and there are actually still prompts from years’ ago that can be completed in the Director’s Cut area for tokens still).

Re: Epilogue: Ashes to Build a New Order [Day 03 | 0300 ]

Reply #1 –
[Chancellor Martok & President Bacco | IKC Rotarran | The Triangle | 0330 ] attn: @Brutus  @Nolan  @chXinya  @Griff  @Stegro88  @RyeTanker  @Pierce  @Nesota Kynnovan  @P.C. Haring  @Eden  @ob2lander961  @Dumedion  @rae  @Eirual  @tongieboi  @Tae  @Hans Applegate  @joshs1000  @Krajin  @TWilkins

The IKC Rotarran’s captain’s ready room was austere even by Klingon standards—no ornamentation beyond a single, battered bat’leth mounted above the viewport and a bloodwine decanter that had seen more councils than celebrations. President Nanietta Bacco stood at ease, hands folded before her, waiting. Martok did not offer her a seat. He stood with his back to her, staring out at the debris field beyond the Triangle, the wreckage of ships that had bled alongside his own. When he spoke, his voice was low, deliberate, and sharpened by restraint rather than rage.

“You come aboard my flagship,” he said, “because you know this moment matters.” He turned then, one scarred eye fixing on her. “My people did not arrive here by accident. Klingon ships burned so the Federation could breathe. Klingon warriors died buying time while others debated procedure. And now—” his lip curled, “—now we are told to wait while Romulans and Remans decide the future of a quadrant soaked in Klingon blood.” Bacco said nothing. Martok took a step closer. “I have watched Romulan leaders lie with calm faces. I have seen one of them infested—wearing her treachery like a crown—declare war on us all. I remember Paris. I remember the thalaron fire. And I remember who stood with the Theurgy when Starfleet hesitated.” His voice hardened. “You will not shut Klingon eyes while knives move in the dark. If the Klingon Empire is excluded from these talks, I will officially reevaluate every alliance forged in blood since the Dominion War.”

A pause and in it he saw a myriad of emotions flicker across the president's face.  “My people are tired of civil war,” Martok continued, quieter now. “The Battle of the Houses nearly tore us apart. I will not lead them into another internal struggle.” His jaw set. “But do not mistake restraint for weakness. A Klingon never loses his thirst for the blood of his enemies. I do not wish to make new ones—only to eradicate those still at large.” He met her gaze squarely. “So tell me, President Bacco. What do you intend to do?”

Only then did Bacco speak. “I intend to survive long enough to make the right decisions,” she said evenly. “And I intend to do so without pretending I know this enemy as well as you do. You have lived with the Infested as a reality,” she continued. “You fought them when much of my government still believed they were rumors, conspiracies, or convenient scapegoats. For me—for the Federation—this is new territory. Dangerous territory.” She inclined her head slightly. “That is precisely why your insight matters to me.” She took a breath. “But I will be honest with you. The Federation will not accept this truth overnight. Starfleet, civilian channels—many still dismiss it. Some of that resistance may be Infested manipulation. Some of it is fear. And I cannot declare every skeptic an enemy without becoming the very thing we’re fighting.”

Martok’s expression did not soften.

“What will not take the Federation time,” Bacco continued, “is this: you are the legitimate Chancellor of Qo’noS. The Federation will formally recognize your claim. And if you require support in tracking down or quelling any remaining rebels—”

“I do not,” Martok snapped. “And I do not need placating offers dressed as respect,” he added coldly. “They insult us both.” Bacco accepted the rebuke without flinching. “Then let me be clear,” Martok went on. “The Romulan–Reman government does not negotiate the future of this quadrant without Klingons present. Not after this much blood. Not after this history.”

Bacco held his gaze. “If the positions were reversed,” she said, “I would honor the Klingon Empire’s right to private negotiations—just as I am honoring theirs now.” Martok’s eyes narrowed. “But,” she continued firmly, “if anything arises in those discussions that directly impacts Klingon territorial claims, Qo’noS, or the balance of power affecting your people—I will contact you immediately. I will request your presence. No intermediaries.”

Silence stretched between them, thick with unspoken disagreement.

Martok’s hands clenched behind his back. “I do not like it,” he growled.

“I know,” Bacco replied.

He took a step toward her again, preparing to press—

And then she shifted the battlefield. “Chancellor,” she said, carefully, “I need your help.” That gave him pause. “You know this enemy better than anyone alive,” she went on. “They win through infiltration. Through delay. Through turning allies against one another.” Her voice lowered. “I want Qo’noS—and your fleet—to be the first power to submit to a full, comprehensive internal scan. Political, military, civilian. Every layer.” Martok stared at her. “This will take time,” she acknowledged. “Coordination. Trust. And patience. But there is no ‘quick’ answer to an enemy that burrowed this deeply.”

For a long moment, the Chancellor said nothing. Then—slowly—his expression changed. The anger did not vanish, but it focused.

“You ask much,” he said.

“I ask what only you can give,” Bacco replied.

At last, Martok nodded once. “It will be done,” he said. “Qo’noS will not hide from its own shadow.” He fixed her with a final, warning look. “But if those talks turn against Klingon interests—even once—you will contact me.”

“I will,” Bacco said without hesitation.

Martok turned back toward the viewport, the conversation ended by Klingon custom.

“Go,” he said. “And remember this, President of the Federation: the Klingon Empire does not abandon its allies lightly.”

Bacco inclined her head. “Neither does the Federation,” she replied—and left him standing amid the wreckage of war, watching for the next enemy to show its face.
[President Bacco & Acting Captain Stark | USS Theurgy | The Triangle | 0400]

Twenty minutes after her meeting with Chancellor Martok concluded, the transporter room aboard the USS Theurgy shimmered with pale blue light.
President Nanietta Bacco materialized at its center, flanked immediately by a full Federation security detail. At her right stood her Andorian aide—antennae rigid, posture protective—and just behind her, hands folded neatly behind his back, Ambassador Elim Garak surveyed the room with polite, unreadable interest.

Waiting at the foot of the transporter pad was Commander Natalie Stark. The deck plating beneath their feet bore the scars of recent violence—newly replaced panels still a shade too bright, conduits humming where bulkheads had been hastily resealed. The air carried the faint tang of burned circuitry and disinfectant, the smell of a ship that had bled and was still healing.

Bacco took it in all at once. Her gaze swept the compartment, then lifted—catching on Stark’s face, on the uniform she wore, on the quiet weight she carried in her posture. For a fraction of a second, the President of the United Federation of Planets was simply a woman staring at the cost of survival.
Her eyes shone. She blinked hard, jaw tightening, and forced the tears back down with practiced discipline. Protocol first.

She straightened, hands clasping before her. “Commander Stark,” Bacco said formally, her voice steady despite the moment before. “I request permission to come aboard the USS Theurgy.”

Natalie swallowed once. Then she nodded. “Permission granted, Madam President.” No pressure she thought, just another day in the ‘Fleet. Nothing to see here.

Thea’s whistle cut cleanly through the compartment—a sharp, ceremonial note that echoed down the corridor beyond. “Attention, all hands.” Thea’s voice rang out over the shipwide comm, crisp and clear. “The President of the United Federation of Planets is now aboard this vessel.”

Bacco startled—just slightly—at the announcement, then turned back with a small, surprised smile.

Stark nodded. “That was Thea, the ship’s AI.”

“Thank you,” she said, inclining her head, then back to Stark. “Commander.”

“Madam President,” Stark replied, equally formal, though something softer flickered behind her eyes. “If you’ll follow me, the captain’s ready room is prepared.”

They set off together. As they moved through the corridors, the ship revealed itself in fragments—crews working around exposed bulkheads, engineers rerouting power through temporary junctions, medics guiding the injured with quiet efficiency. Officers and enlisted alike straightened as the President passed, salutes crisp but tired, eyes carrying the weight of weeks spent running, fighting, surviving. Bacco slowed unconsciously, her gaze lingering on a crewman with an arm in a regeneration sling, on scorched deck plating half-covered by repair mats.

“How is the ship?” she asked quietly. “And your people?”

Stark didn’t hesitate. “Operational,” she said. “Scarred. Holding.” A breath. “MIA stands at twenty-three,” Stark continued, voice steady but unsoftened. Too much first hand experience with this sort of thing had happened at each step of her accelerated rise up the proverbial ladder. “Confirmed KIA is one hundred and eighteen, accumulated over the past several months. We still have others in stasis—including Captain Ives.”

Bacco stopped. The number hit her like a physical blow. Her shoulders sagged, just for an instant, and her foot faltered mid-step. It was the Andorian aide who gently placed a guiding hand at her elbow, steering her forward again without a word.

Bacco nodded once, eyes forward now. “There’s… much I need to understand,” she said quietly. “And I can’t escape the feeling that time is already pressing us.”

Stark inclined her head. “I understand, Madam President.”

They reached the doors to the captain’s ready room.

Bacco turned to the assembled escort. “I’d like a private discussion,” she said. “Commander Stark only.”

Security stiffened. The Andorian aide hesitated. Garak’s expression remained pleasantly neutral, though his eyes sharpened with interest. Reluctantly, they complied. The doors slid shut behind Stark and the President, sealing the room in quiet. For a long moment, neither spoke. Bacco looked around—at the familiar Starfleet furnishings worn thin by use, at the desk that belonged to a captain currently frozen between life and death. Then she looked back at Natalie Stark.

Her composure softened. Almost shyly, she asked, “Commander… would it be acceptable if I gave you a hug?”

The question hung there—simple, human, and heavy with everything unspoken.
[ Admiral Sankolov | Flag Operations Center | Task Force Archeron | 0430 ]

The Triangle burned on the main display—an ugly convergence of vectors, debris clouds, and overlapping transponder ghosts. Sankolov stood with his hands clasped behind his back, shoulders squared, posture immaculate. To anyone watching, he was the image of a Starfleet admiral responding to a crisis with decisive clarity. Inside, something colder watched through his eyes.

“Signal all task force elements,” Sankolov said, voice calm, clipped. “Priority Alpha. Break holding patterns. Full burn to the Triangle. I want Archeron ships arriving in layered waves, not a single mass—overlapping sensor coverage, redundant command links. No gaps.”

“Yes, Admiral,” the ops officer replied instantly.

He didn’t look away from the display as status confirmations began to stack. USS San Paulo. USS Hawking. USS Bellerophon. All moving. All obedient. All pieces sliding into place.

“Open a secure channel,” Sankolov continued. “Presidential priority. Direct.” There was a fractional pause—protocol hesitation—then the channel opened. The encryption shimmered green. “President Bacco,” Sankolov said, tone perfectly respectful, perfectly urgent. “This is Admiral Sankolov. I’m receiving fragmented but credible intelligence indicating weapons fire in the Triangle and possible proximity to the USS Theurgy. I understand you are already in the region.” He allowed just enough edge to creep in. “I need immediate updates on your security posture and the status of any engagement.”

He ended the transmission without waiting for a response.

To the bridge crew, it would read as concern. Duty. A flag officer scrambling to get ahead of a deteriorating situation involving the President of the Federation.

Internally—
—tighten the noose.

The thought was not words so much as pressure, a silent pulse that rippled outward through channels no sensor could detect.
She is closer than anticipated.

Others answered. Distant. Intimate. A chorus of awareness brushing against his mind like fingers against glass.
Influence nodes are strained, one presence replied. Starfleet Command remains compliant, but political resistance is consolidating around her.

Then shore it up, Sankolov sent back without hesitation. Civilian oversight. Security committees. Fleet logistics. Delay orders where needed. Accelerate others. Confusion is acceptable. Loss of control is not.

He watched the Triangle, as if space itself were turning toward a decision.

If she aligns herself with the carrier, another presence warned, cautious, calculating, overt action may be required.

Sankolov’s jaw tightened—just a fraction.

We did not come this far to retreat, he answered. We survived exposure. We weathered the Klingons. We neutralized Romulan leadership at the precise moment it mattered. The Federation is closer to collapse than it has ever been.

A pause. Then, colder still:

If the President proves an obstacle rather than an asset… we remove the obstacle.

The noose did not need to close all at once. Pressure. Leverage. Isolation. A scandal here, a delay there. An “unfortunate” security failure if necessary. Overthrow did not always require phasers.

Sankolov turned slightly as a junior officer approached.

“Admiral, updated telemetry from the San Paulo,” she reported. “They’re confident the Theurgy is in or near the Triangle.”

“Good,” Sankolov said, at once aloud and inwardly. Aloud, he added, “Then we proceed as planned.”

Inside, the Infested mind smiled—patient, predatory.

The Triangle was no longer just a battlefield. It was a decision point. And Admiral Sankolov intended to ensure the outcome bent the right way—no matter who had to fall to make it so.
[ Vulpinian Pilot  | Kōryū-Bi Fighter | Cardassian Space | 0500 ]

The cockpit smelled wrong.

Not smoke—he’d smelled smoke before—but overheated polymers and stressed power conduits, the sharp metallic tang of a ship being asked to pretend it wasn’t wounded. The Vulpinian pilot flicked his ears back instinctively, a habit from atmosphere flight that did nothing in vacuum but still steadied him. The cramped fighter cockpit wrapped around him like an old coat, scorched and frayed but familiar in all the right places.

“Easy… easy…” he murmured in Vulpinian, claws light on the controls as he coaxed another fraction of thrust from the engines.

The nav solution Dewitt had pushed to his console pulsed in amber: projected intercept zone — USS Theurgy. Not a guarantee. A conviction. One born of experience, instinct, and a Starfleet officer’s talent for reading chaos like weather. He trusted it more than his own long-range sensors, half of which were lying to him now out of mechanical embarrassment.

The ship shuddered again. Another warning chimed, sharper this time.

INERTIAL DAMPER GRID: DEGRADED (63%)

His lips peeled back in a brief, humorless grin. “You’re doing your best,” he told the fighter, tapping the console with two fingers. “So am I.”
He pushed the nose just a hair lower on the vector, shaving time at the expense of comfort. The stars smeared, stretched—then stabilized as the dampers caught up, whining like an old hound forced to run too far.

This wouldn’t last. He knew it. The ship knew it. Every vibration through the seat told the same story. He could maybe make the halfway mark before something important decided it had had enough. Power coupling. Structural spar. Life support if the universe was feeling especially ironic.
He would have to switch ships. The thought sat heavy in his chest.

He’d flown a lot of hulls over the years—stolen, borrowed, shot full of holes—but this fighter had been his. Modified to his reach, his reflexes, his ears. He knew every lag in the controls, every rattle that meant “ignore me” versus “you should be concerned.” Leaving it behind, even temporarily, felt like abandoning a wounded packmate.

Another alert scrolled.
THERMAL BLEED FAILURE — PORT NACELLE

He grimaced, ears flattening again. “All right. I hear you.”

The clock was ticking now. Not metaphorically—literally, in the rising cascade of red margins and yellow predictions. Somewhere ahead, there had to be a friendly face. A patrol. A carrier. Anyone willing to let a half-shot Vulpinian pilot hop cockpits without asking too many questions.
His thoughts slipped, uninvited, to what Dewitt’s data implied.

Kinshaya. Tzenkethi. Orions. Breen. Gorn. Tholian. Names that carried weight—some familiar, some only known through secondhand reports and bitter histories. He’d crossed paths with most of the others over the years: stared down Orions who smiled while planning your funeral, traded fire with Breen whose silence was never accidental, danced around Tholian space like it was a minefield made of glass and grudges.

But the Kinshaya and Tzenkethi? Those were different. Old powers. Patient ones. If they were talking—really talking—about shared resources and coordinated force against or around the Federation, then Dewitt was right. This wasn’t a border skirmish or a posturing exercise. This was a matchpoint.

And his people—already scattered, already surviving on the margins—were about to find themselves standing on the doorstep of something vast and hungry. Quadrant-spanning war didn’t care who you were. It only cared where you stood when the first pieces fell.

Another shudder ran through the fighter, stronger this time. He bared his teeth, focused forward, and fed just enough power to keep the vector tight.

“Hold together,” he whispered—not sure if he was speaking to the ship, himself, or the fragile future he was racing toward. “Just a little longer.”

Somewhere out there was the Theurgy. Somewhere out there was answers, allies, and the next terrible decision waiting to be made. He just had to get close enough—before the cockpit went silent and the clock finally ran out.
[ Lt. Enyd Isolde Madsen | Deck 2 | Vector 1 | USS Theurgy | 0515 ]
Enyd was already moving with purpose when the pressure shift registered—the faint displacement of air that came from a presence she had not sanctioned and had no difficulty identifying. She stopped. Not in surprise. In refusal. She had learned, on Qo’noS, that momentum was a weapon. She would not give him another inch of it.

“Lieutenant.” The voice was controlled to the point of austerity, stripped of inflection the way Romulans did when emotion risked becoming leverage. It carried memory with it regardless: storm-choked skies over the First City, the bite of restraints at her wrists, the unnerving calm of a man who never raised his voice while deciding whether she lived or died. Water closing over her head. The shock of breath stolen. The moment clarity struck—not rescue, but permission. Escape only because he had chosen to allow it.

She turned. Hirek tr’Aimne stood several paces back, posture deliberately neutral, hands visible, eyes steady and unreadable. He looked leaner than she remembered. Not weakened—refined. Like someone who had learned the difference between survival and safety and no longer confused the two.

“Why are you still here?” Enyd asked, flat and precise. “I read rosters. You should be on Romulus.”

Hirek raised one eyebrow. “Keeping tabs on me,” he shifted forward, “out of concern?”

“Fuck no.” Enyd grimaced, not because of the expletive but because she’d given him more emotional fodder to potentially use against her.

“And yet,” Hirek replied, falling into step as she resumed walking, “you should hear this.”

Her jaw tightened. She did not tell him to stop.

“You’re on your way to meet with Colonel Xiomek, the military arm of the new Romulan-Reman alliance,” he didn’t bother looking at her to see if she was surprised he’d known as much. “This reunification faction is consolidating support—Romulan and Reman. Not symbolically. Not nostalgically. With structure and with influence.”

Enyd cut a glance sideways, measuring. “Everyone on Romulus claims consolidation.”

“This one is operational,” Hirek replied. “Its ideological framework traces back to Shinzon.” A pause. “Not the excesses. The statutes.” That slowed her half a step. “They reject isolationism,” Hirek went on. “They view the Romulan–Reman divide as an engineered weakness that has outlived its utility. They want trade corridors reopened. Embassies. Formalized agreements beyond the Neutral Zone.” He angled a look toward her. “Including with the Federation.”

Enyd stopped, turning to study Hirek. “How do you know this?”

“My cousin serves a Romulan senator, currently acting as intermediary for the Reman senator believed to be leading the faction.  Senator Vkruvux is positioning himself as the next unifying figure of a Romulan–Reman state. He wants legitimacy without absorption. Romulan solutions to Romulan failures.”

Enyd hummed in thought before resuming her walk towards where she’d asked the colonel to be led once he beamed aboard. “And the Tal’Shiar?” she asked, not breaking stride.

Hirek allowed the silence to stretch—deliberate, not evasive. “There is no official stance,” he said finally. “Unofficially, the position is pragmatic. Reform through employment. Excise incompetence. Retain capacity.” His mouth twitched, humorless. “A belief that even broken instruments remain useful if handled correctly.”

Enyd exhaled on a barely restrained snort. “That isn’t reform. That’s continuity with better branding.”

“It is politics,” Hirek agreed. “And it is gaining support.”

She stopped and turned fully toward him. “Do they intend to challenge Klingon-held territory?”

Hirek met her gaze without hesitation. “I do not know.”

“But,” Enyd crossed her arms over her chest, “You’re telling me you can ask,” Enyd said.

“Yes.”

She didn’t bother masking her displeasure. “I don’t like this. I don’t like that you’re the one who has the connection.”

“And I thought we’d become such fast friends.”

She studied him then—this man who had been her jailer and her exit strategy, whose family had been dismantled by Tal’Shiar policy, whose uncle had died believing Romulus could exist without fear as its organizing principle.

“I want you available,” Enyd said at last. “If I have questions. If Intelligence needs a channel. And if Starfleet needs someone who can speak to them without pretending we don’t understand exactly what they are.”

Hirek’s expression barely shifted, but something settled behind his eyes—not hope, not relief, but resolve sharpened by loss.

“I will do what is required,” he said. “For my people to have a future not dictated by Tal’Shiar knives. If this faction is the viable path, then I will walk it.”

Enyd nodded once. Not agreement. Acknowledgment. She turned and continued down the corridor, leaving Hirek behind, and hating the fact, at every step, that most likely she’d have to see him more often in the coming days.
GM Notes: Part 2.

Remember to use EPI S [Day 03 | Time Stamp ] Thread Title for your threads. We should have the memorial thread up soon. The Epilogue technically lasts for one day in-game, with the Interregnum starting on Day 04 at midnight (see the Cosmic Calendar for reminders).

Re: Epilogue: Ashes to Build a New Order [Day 03 | 0300 ]

Reply #2 –
[ Councilor Albrecht Tovan, Civilian Oversight Committee Member| Starbase 84 | 0730 ] attn: @Brutus   @Nolan   @chXinya   @Griff   @Stegro88   @RyeTanker   @Pierce   @Nesota Kynnovan   @P.C. Haring   @Eden   @ob2lander961   @Dumedion   @rae   @Eirual   @tongieboi   @Tae   @Hans Applegate   @joshs1000  @Krajin   @TWilkins

Councilor Albrecht Tovan had learned, over three decades of civilian oversight, that the truth never announced itself cleanly. It arrived sideways—through murmurs in transit lounges, half-phrases cut short when uniforms approached, discrepancies between what was said officially and what people actually talked about when they thought no one important was listening.

Starbase 84 was thick with it. The official feeds played endlessly in the background of the committee offices: calm anchors, careful language. A reported engagement near the Romulan Neutral Zone. Unconfirmed sensor data. The President’s vessel altering course as a precautionary diplomatic measure. Everything was framed as prudent, controlled, measured. Too measured.

Tovan stood at the viewport, hands folded behind his back, watching civilian traffic weave between docking pylons. Below him, the concourse buzzed with people who didn’t have to pretend neutrality for a living. He listened. A Bolian transport pilot whispering about how the President didn’t divert toward danger unless she already knew something. A Tellarite merchant complaining loudly that Starfleet kept saying “Romulan instability” when everyone knew the Romulan government barely existed anymore.  A pair of junior analysts—civilian, not Starfleet—arguing in hushed tones over Dr. Marlowe’s broadcast.

That, more than anything, had cracked the veneer.

Marlowe hadn’t spoken like a politician. He hadn’t even spoken like a scientist trying to hedge uncertainty. He had spoken like someone who knew the cost of being ignored. Officially, the broadcast was being treated as “contextually valuable but unverified.” Off the record, it had detonated. People were connecting threads Starfleet had spent years keeping separate. Qo’noS. Paris.  The Infested.
T
ovan had heard the rumors himself—how Marlowe’s data aligned disturbingly well with the Klingon transmission from the capital, how certain elements inside Starfleet Intelligence had quietly reclassified the Paris bombing from Romulan extremist action to external manipulation with biological vectors. How the Romulans might not have been the architects at all.

And how convenient it had been, politically, to let them take the blame. He exhaled slowly. The committee was already under pressure. Emergency sessions were being proposed. Motions drafted, withdrawn, redrafted. Some members wanted to move immediately—sanctions, investigations, public statements. Others wanted silence. Tovan wanted facts. He had learned the hard way that the galaxy punished certainty more harshly than caution. Wars did not begin because of lies alone. They began because people convinced themselves the truth was simple.

He turned back toward the room as another aide entered, datapad in hand, already talking.

“Councilor, there’s more chatter from the civilian networks—unofficial relays, encrypted forums. They’re saying Marlowe’s sources trace back to Theurgy. To Nicander.”

Tovan closed his eyes briefly. Of course they did. The name alone was radioactive. Infested. Asset. Prisoner. Oracle. Threat. He opened his eyes again, expression carefully neutral.

“Log it,” he said. “But we don’t speculate. Not yet.”

The aide hesitated. “Sir… people are asking what side we’re on.”

Tovan allowed himself a thin, tired smile. “That,” he said quietly, “is usually a sign we don’t yet know who the sides really are.”
[ K’Temak, Klingon High Council Member| First City | Qo’Nos | 0800 ]

K’Temak, son of Dorgath, had not spoken during the council session. That alone was being noticed. He stood now in the shadowed archway overlooking the First City, the red glow of the sky reflecting off armor that had not seen battle in too long. Below, the city roared as it always had—alive, furious, proud. Klingon life endured. But its leadership?

That was another matter. Martok’s words still echoed in his ears. Honor. Sacrifice. Restraint. Restraint. K’Temak bared his teeth in a silent snarl.

The war had bloodied the Empire. Ships lost. Warriors dead. And for what? To prop up a Federation vessel chased across the stars, to bow before humans who spoke of alliances while quietly calculating how much Klingon fury they could afford to waste.

Martok had stood before them and spoken of cooperation. Of patience. Of diplomacy. Of waiting. Waiting while the Federation weighed pardons.  Waiting while Romulan worlds burned. Waiting while Klingon dead cooled in their graves. It stank of weakness. Worse—it stank of gratitude.

A junior councilor had whispered to him earlier, voice low and eager: The Mo’Kai still gather. Not openly. But they watch. They remember what the Empire was before Martok learned to ask permission.

K’Temak had dismissed him then. Now, alone, he reconsidered. The Mo’Kai were dishonorable. Traitors. But they were also Klingon—and they had never pretended to kneel. Perhaps the Empire did not need Martok’s kind of honor anymore. Perhaps it needed fear again. Teeth. Fire.

He imagined the look on Martok’s face if challenged—not by the Federation, but by his own people. By warriors who believed he had traded the blade for a leash. K’Temak rested his hand on the stone railing. Supporting the Mo’Kai would be dangerous. Possibly fatal. But history did not remember the cautious. It remembered those who acted when leaders forgot what strength looked like.

“Qapla’,” he murmured, not as a salute—but as a promise.
[ Lira t’Vess, Romulan Citizen | Site of Former Tal’Shiar Citadel | Romulus| 0830 ]

The stone was still warm. That was what struck Lira t’Vess most as she stood among the ruins—how the shattered walls of the Tal’Shiar Citadel still held the day’s heat, as if the building itself had not yet accepted that it was dead.

Around her, people moved slowly. Quietly. No chanting. No riots. Just numb, careful motion, like survivors picking their way through a collapsed home.
Tal’Aura was dead. There had been no room for doubt. The broadcast had played on every public screen, every private receiver. Her voice. Her defiance. Her death. Donatra’s fate was less certain. That made it worse. Rumors moved faster than facts now—whispered in alleyways, traded in glances. Some said her ship had been destroyed. Others said she had vanished into exile, or was being hidden by what remained of the fleet.

And then there were the Remans. They were everywhere. Not armed. Not aggressive. Just present. Walking openly through the capital. Standing at transit hubs. Speaking quietly among themselves in a language Romulans pretended not to understand. Lira watched one pass now—a Reman woman, scarred, posture straight, eyes forward. Not a conqueror. Not a servant. A reminder.

The Tal’Shiar had ruled through shadows. Through certainty. Through fear. Now their fortress was rubble, and the shadows had nowhere left to hide. Lira clasped her hands together, unsure whether she felt hope or dread.

Change was coming. That much was undeniable. The only question—spoken softly, again and again—was whether it would arrive through votes… or blood.
[ Captain Brik | Golden Ledger | Federation Space | 0900 ]

Captain Brik of the Golden Ledger trusted three things in life. Latinum.  Timing.  And getting out before the shooting started. All three were currently in question.

His ship drifted just outside a busy trade corridor, engines idling, crew unusually quiet. The subspace channels were chaos—rumors of battles, rerouted convoys, canceled contracts. War made prices volatile. Volatility was good. Uncertainty, however, was bad for insurance premiums.

Brik flicked his lobes irritably as another message scrolled across his console. Klingon shipping surcharges. Romulan tariffs suspended—suspended, not lifted. Federation “temporary inspections” that somehow always took longer for Ferengi vessels. And then there was the chatter no one officially acknowledged. Infested.  Biological infiltrators.  Whole governments nudged into disaster.

Brik snorted. If even half of it was true, someone was going to make an obscene amount of money—and someone else was going to be blamed for it. He leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers. Rule of Acquisition Number 34: War is good for business. Rule 190: Hear all, trust nothing.

He opened a private ledger and began quietly adjusting routes. Because whatever was coming, Brik had no intention of being caught on the wrong side of it—or worse, the honest side.
[ Lucan Nicander Brig | Security Center | Deck 07 | USS Theurgy  0930 ]

There was no knocking this time. No careful, creeping intrusion. They simply were. Lucan’s mind was quieter than before—disciplined, shielded, threaded with light that burned where they touched it. Annoying. Painful. But not impenetrable. Nothing ever was.

They did not speak in words at first. Words were crude things, bound by sequence and limitation. Instead, they brushed against memory, sensation, inevitability.

They are listening now.

Images flickered—crowded halls, burning cities, council chambers thick with fear. Klingons arguing. Humans hesitating. Romulans mourning. Pieces moving exactly as they should.

Confusion ripens the field.

There was resistance, too. Lucan’s will flared, a sharp, defiant thing. He clung to names. Faces. Purpose. Admirable. Temporary. They pressed closer—not to dominate, not yet—but to remind.

You see them doubt you. You feel their fear.  You know how easily it breaks.

A sensation like cold fingers tracing neural pathways. Not cruel. Not kind. Patient.

Cycles turn. Stars burn. Empires fracture. And still, they ask whether it is cut and dry.

A whisper, then—almost fond.

It never is.

And somewhere, deep within him, something listened.

FIN
GM Notes: Part 3/3. Hopefully, seeing things from various perspectives can give you added inspirational fodder for writing Epilogue scenes leading up to the Memorial and after. We will have the Memorial thread up soon and will add this note there as well but we will post up the initial post, give ten days for folks to respond, then do the next GM-based post, and give an additional 10 days before we FIN it. From there we can open up the Interregnum. 

Remember to use EPI S [Day 03 | Time Stamp ] Thread Title for your Epilogue threads. We should have the memorial thread up soon. The Epilogue technically lasts for one day in-game, with the Interregnum starting on Day 04 at midnight (see the Cosmic Calendar for reminders).
 
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