[ Lt. Cmdr. Rutherford | The Apache | Hawk-class Runabout | Upper Atmosphere | Qo'nos ] attn: @BipSpoon @Stegro88 @Swift @GroundPetrel @Pierce
In the history of Samantha's career there had been too many instances to count, where she had taken operational and disciplinary oversight on away missions. And while these missions were usually more placid, required protocol over ammunition, they had on occasion ended in a more offensive manner. But she could definitely not recall an instance that had started out that way. Not until today.
Granted, the usefulness for diplomacy had passed, at least in regard to Gorka and his following. There was no defeat in admitting that. But her special skillset in rallying people to a sole cause still came in handy. So even though the blonde felt quite like the fish out of water - a metaphor Sarresh on the other shuttle, would've surely appreciated - no one could deny the Vulcan logic playing behind the all too human notions of commitment and fear, that were impeccable motivators just the same.
She was easily the most dispensable senior officer in the current stage of hostilities, the Theurgy crew found themselves in. Security and Tactical were needed aboard and intelligence leadership was, obviously, incapacitated. Pair that with the knowledge of Klingon procedures and a decisive command style and you got the perfect candidate for an admittedly crazy missions such as 'dinner out'.
And on the other hand, there was surely no one more qualified to make sure everything was done to bring Commander Fisher back than the one person who surely cared the single most about him, out of the entire crew. At least the diplomat was in no frame of mind to accept any other reality. She needed him to hang on just a little longer ...
Focusing her icy blue hues on the console display ahead, Samantha split the screen into a feed from the optical sensors, zooming in on the live-view of the compound and its immediate surroundings - away team signals superimposed on top of it - while the other half was occupied by life-signs and other sensor data. They still had no clear idea where in the compound Andrew was held prisoner, but intelligence had already narrowed down the search. Updating her data with Theurgy, the circle drew quite literally closer. The satellite buildings were most likely hubs for guards and maintenance, they would not risk harboring a prisoner of war far away from the command center. Which was in all likelihood the best fortified structure in the center, with all the communications equipment. A good place to start ...
The screen flickered and the digital overlay vanished for just a few seconds, but it was enough to send the commander into an internal convulsion as her muscles tightened, even bubbling gently beneath the soft skin on the hinges of her jaws. Telemetry came back almost instantly, however, but she wasn't sure how many of these her heart could take.
Following the markers disperse in the air, as the numbers next to them ran down rapidly, she hoped until the last second that they would draw closer together. But as one after the other touched down it became rather clear that the team was dispersed as if someone had dropped a couple of potato sacks from the back of the shuttle.
Gripping her hand a little tighter to the side of the console frame Sam pressed the tip of her tongue to the roof of her mouth as she pressed those plump lips together with tense contemplation. All there was left really, at this point, was to watch and deal. Until the diplomatic detachment would hopefully establish their communication link soon. Yet even then, she would only be able to talk with Theurgy, not the away team ... not until they cat was out of the bag, really. Which, if only for the sake of being able to dictate proper procedure to them, a part of her was hoping would happen rather sooner than later.
But for now, instead of trying to establish some sort of mental connection to Commander Fisher, maybe she should concentrate on formulating an official complaint towards the Klingon government for allowing breach of the Khitomer Accords by taking a war prisoner and likely torturing him.
But she didn't want to think about that ... no. Someone else would have to deal with the formalities of Andrew's potential hardship. So swiftly she sent a short memo to Foval to deal with it, if he wasn't otherwise preoccupied with something important.
[ Lieutenant Valyn Amarik | Shuttlecraft Rosalind Franklin ] Attn: @Swift @Stegro88 @stardust @GroundPetrel @Pierce
As they breached the atmosphere, Valyn made her way to the rear of the craft. As she moved, she looked down to her feet, narrowing her eyebrows as her feet fell. The boots were surprisingly silent. She filled the temporary silence with a deep breath before she looked up to Pierce, waiting for any last minute information as they approached the drop-point. She checked her weapons one last time, the knife she carried strapped to her hip alongside her phaser-pistol. She tried, and failed to attempt a smirk at the smalltalk besider her. "Not a clue." She offered him a shrug, giving him a single onceover, trying to study his posture, trying to get a snap judgement of him. However, she didn't say anything else, and instead looked towards the doorway.
She appeared unphased by the impending jump, even raising up a bit on her toes to peer outside as the hatch opened. "Got it."
She acknowledged the rendezvous point and rolled her neck, taking one last breath, drawing herself closer into the eerily familial version of herself, one she thought she'd left with the Dominion War. Watching someone go for the exit, she followed quickly after. Her eyes went wide the moment she stepped off, and she fell into a 'swimming' pose, guiding herself closer to her target. Their altitude however, didn't allow for much maneuvering.
Her eyes slowly began to narrow as the ground neared, and she kicked her legs forward, putting her into a standing position. She kicked on her thrusters, cutting it as close as possible as to not alert anyone below. She took a quick look around, and hid behind a dilapidated looking crate. She was close to the facility. She could hear the general traffic and sounds of life in the distance. However, nearer to herself, she heard a voice. It was Klingon, and it triggered an immediate response. Crouching, she crept a bit forward, spotting the Klingon behind a large container, shouting at the console. He gave it a kick and started typing into the screen on the door again.
She brought her eyes just over the edge of the crate and took a quick glance around. He was alone, likely just the man who handled some cargo. He certainly didn't appear to be a soldier, but she knew better than to not think every Klingon in the vicinity a warrior. She edged closer to him, quickly glancing at her wrist to see where everyone else had landed, and luckily she didn't seem to be too far off from the others. The warrior however, turned around and she pursed her lips. His hand fell to his waist and in a flash, she'd flicked the knife forward, sending it flying like a javelin at his head. It struck true and he fell. She rushed forward, slowing his fall. She was quick enough to catch him, but she set him down at once. She went to work on the same console, attempting to decipher the Klingon from what little she remembered from all those years ago. It came back to her quickly, and the door opened.
It was an empty container, only having a single crate of disruptors in it. She dragged the body inside and sealed the door, locking out the console before setting off. "Fuck." She muttered, looking back once. Her day had been filled with nothing but violence, from the moment she'd woken up, she'd been knee-deep in Klingons and battle. What she resented more than that fact alone though, was that part of her felt content, glad to be back into her old shoes, forever a soldier. From childhood, she had always been a soldier.
As she moved closer to the rendezvous, within a hundred meters, she attempted to 'ping' another of her comrades, not knowing who exactly, nor if they would even respond, but she sent it nonetheless. Two were better than one, after all. It never hurt to have a friend on the approach.
Last post by Auctor Lucan -
[ Captain Gorka, son of Margon, of House Mo'Kai | Deck 13 | Holding Cell | IKC Ta'rom | En-Route to Qo'noS ]
As tempted as he was to end the life of the human just for the sake of his own satisfaction - in ire over the virus that had affected his standing with his allied Houses - Gorka did not, for he reckoned that there were more important answers to be had.
"Over the past couple of days," he said quietly and crouched down over the puny Human, boot still on his neck, "the Theurgy was able to cross many light years, using some means of propulsion that gives your ship an advantage. If you wish to live, you will give me the means for this kind of travel, and I think it would be in your best interest to give me this information now... rather than my House pulling the answers out of your throat with mutilation and pain. Those are your two options."
Gauging the Human's wiliness to oblige his demand, tilting his head a little as he looked at the struggles of the prisoner, Gorka eventually stood tall and removed his boot from the man's throat.
"Speak, and live a life as a whole man, or remain silent if you wish to take your chances." With his dagger still in his hand, Gorka idly paced the chamber. "I should warn you, however, that your mind might break long before your body surrenders to the inevitable, and at that point... you will be saying anything to make them stop. So, tell me now instead, how can the Theurgy cross Klingon space so fast? How, I ask!"
Like the crack of a whip, Gorka's voice flayed the barren walls of the chamber, equivalent to a kick in the teeth. The promise of the dagger in his hand served as the non-vocal threat as he stalked the room in quietude - waiting for the Human to speak.
[Lieutenant Alistair Leavitt | Praxis Surface ]
When the airlock doors opened, the away team were greeted by a bizarre sight; in place of the Klingons they had been expecting, they instead saw a human, a Starfleet officer. He was a perfectly ordinary man in a bizarre situation, given the extreme lengths that the away team had resorted to just to reach the facility. The human just stood there, bold as brass, his phaser holstered as if it was just another day, a padd attached to his belt.
"Hi!" he said far too jauntily, even waving, but when everyone's phasers automatically swivelled to aim at his chest, he raised his hands in panic. "Oh shit, woah, friendly, friendly! Look, it's a long story, but I'm Alistair Leavitt, I was sent here by time travellers from the future, and I'm here to stop this moon from exploding. Again. I know that's a lot to swallow, and this is a little messed up, but seriously, here to help. I know what the Infested are planning to do here, and I know how to stop them, but I need to talk to Lieutenant Commander Stark on the Theurgy right now. Uh...please. Freedom Sentinel, if that helps? That's the code in this timeline, right?"
In the confused silence that followed, Alistair grinned anxiously, painfully aware of the various armed strangers in front of him (including, Alistair was trying very hard not to notice, a Gorn who could probably bite his head off with ease). "Pretty please? We really don't have much time."
[ Lt. Cmdr. Andrew Fisher | Makeshift Holding Cell | Sub-Level 03 | House of Mo'Kai Staging Compound | Qo'nos ] Attn: @Auctor Lucan @Stegro88 @BipSpoon @stardust @GroundPetrel @Pierce
The world entire that was this confined space had become little more than a blurry mess of whispers, echoes, and ghosts.
The ache within Fisher's head seemed to be the only constant as it was gradually getting worse, accompanied by a throbbing which perfectly coincided with the all-too-slow rhythm of the heart thumping inside of his bruised and broken ribcage. As for the rest, arms legs and other, they had all gone numb, yet he could still control and even to an extent make distinct sense of the sensations being brought on by them. But again, next to nothing felt right or even familiar. It was all wrong, and try as he might, he couldn't recall ever being in such a strange malaise of disconnectedness. Hell, something as simple as blinking eyelids over glassy sage green orbs triggered a hazy and vague reminiscence of hallucination, making Fisher wonder if anything he was seeing was even real. The general sense of confusion only continued to mount as he could hardly even remember the circumstances of where he was, what he was doing, and worse still he was having trouble maintaining a cursory understanding of who he was.
With a shake of his head, the world whirling about him as a result, he tried to clear his thoughts and focus. Transfixing his blurred gaze on a solitary point of reference as if to anchor himself, he searched the periphery of his consciousness for something to latch onto and found something. A face. It had stared back at him; a slight yet soft smile drawn across its beautiful features which would quicken his heartbeat.
Reaching out, he sought to touch her only for the visualization to fade away, the fingertips of his right-hand gingerly touching against the cold wall of his cell, and for the first time in a while, Fisher could remember where he was, and what was happening to him. "Shit!" each letter in his spoken expletive felt uneven, some long and drawn out, others a staccato that defied reality; the passage of time was distorted to him in his disarray. They'd drugged him. Badly. No doubt an attempt to try and crack whatever conscious barriers of obfuscation that he could still muster, in the hope that once thoroughly diminished, his mind could be plundered for any and all secrets that might have been locked away inside. Touching his forehead, he tried to rub away some of the disorientation that beleaguered him, yet instead he found himself focusing on the crude metal cuff attached to his wrist, a heavy chain hanging beneath it. Fisher had sworn that just a moment earlier, his arms had been free from any kind of bonds. Or had they been?
'Fisher!' a faint voice called to him from behind.
Spinning about, he looked to find the source, instead reaffirming that he was alone in a small room. There was no one. Only the bleak surroundings of this cell. He had imagined the voice. But it had sounded so clear, and he had even felt the soft brushing of whispered words tickling against the back of his neck. Breathing deeply through his nostrils, instinct which had been honed and bore into him through arduous training was beginning to take over, a subconscious effort to try and maintain some semblance of defense against the effects of whatever drugs had been administered. Like other Intelligence Operatives, Fisher had been taught how to withhold information in defiance of interrogation, regardless of whether that interrogation was active or passive in nature. It was a fundamental aspect of his profession, and one in which he had taken some pride. No doubt the Klingons who were working against him had their own methods and understanding of this process and would attempt to counter any and all attempts that Fisher would make.
In the end, it was a battle of attrition, and despite his victories this far, Fisher was at a decided disadvantage.
'You're not going to last much longer. You know that right?' the voice whispered.
Turning once more to face the other direction, Fisher's gaze found another face, this one far less appealing than the previous he had beheld; it in fact belonged to the one person in existence he most desired to forget. Lost to the moment, he grew ignorant of his surroundings and the situation in which he was mired. "What the hell are you doing here?!" he spat out aloud, a finger pointed directly at where the visage was leant against a bare wall, the smug confidence espoused eating at the last bit of nerve Fisher had in reserve. Again, his voice sounded like it wobbled in tempo and pitch, the intensity of the ache in his temples spiking with each syllable. It was almost enough to drive him to his hands and knees in disorientation and general overall discomfort. "Never mind. You're not even real." He dismissively added, waving his hand freely in a wide are as if to escape the hallucination, which he was having supreme difficulty in disbelieving.
'Oh I most certainly am. I'm just not here with you.' answered the other man as he pushed off of the wall, stepping our of the shadows and into the dim light cast by an old fixture high overhead. 'But I'm out there.' He waved a hand, the ember of a lit cigarette flaring as it was pinned between index and middle-fingers. 'Out there, doing my job. While you're stuck here because you failed at yours. Again.' Returning the cigarette to his lips, he drew deeply on it before exhaling a column of smoke right into Fisher's face, and the captured spy could even distinctly taste the acrid flavor of the burning tobacco as it stung his nostrils. 'Stuck here because you never know when to make the smart move, and deal.' Walking over to the lone door that led out of his cell, the figure examined it closely for a few moments before looking back to Fisher with an almost amused sense of satisfaction. 'Oh well, won't matter much to me. Or anyone for that matter. Klingons will get bored of your schtick sooner or later, and drip dry you in due time.'
"Fuck you, Hurley!" Fisher blurted.
'Fuck me? I thought you were uhh...' pausing to make an obscene gesture with his hand, Hurley grinned degradingly at Fisher before resuming his sentence. '...y'know, giving *IT* to that blonde diplomat?' Waiting another moment to enjoy Fisher's annoyed and disgusted reaction, Hurley waved him off derisively. 'Won't be doing much more of that. Or going back home to... where was it? New York? Philadel--'
"Boston. I'm from Boston you asshole!"
Making a mockingly apologetic face, Hurley grabbed a stool from the corner of the room and loudly planted it before plopping himself down on, his stare returning to once more gauge Fisher. 'How is old Ma Fisher doing this days?' he laughed, clearly not caring to know, just keenly aware of how sensitive the subject was, and how it would continue to annoy and unnerve his former protégé.
[ Commandant's Personal Estate | House of Mo'Kai Staging Compound | Qo'nos ]
Watching the monitor as it relayed everything that was unfolding in the makeshift holding cell, Commandant Kle'enk sipped at his bitter leaf tea before peering to his left at his personal attendant, Jurael. The tall brooding warrior was one of the few whom he could absolutely trust with the overseeing of operations at the compound and all of his illicit dealings. For the most part, the compound acted as a storage cache for illegal narcotics and weapons that the House of Mo'Kai had been funneling to various civil uprisings throughout the Empire. Naturally, they would play both sides for profit, which they could then use to bolster the efforts of the House's push for more glory and power. Kle'enk had been chosen to head up this particular base of operations by Gorka's grandfather for his organization skills and aptitude, which he had exemplified during the short Klingon campaign against the Cardassians. Since then, his dealings had far outreached even those which Gorka was directly aware of. The way Kle'enk had seen it, so long as he didn't directly interfere in any of the General's plans, then there was no harm in garnering a little additional wealth and power on the side.
"The human is surprisingly resistant to the drug. We had to administer a second dosage just to elicit the effects that you're seeing." Explained another Klingon, who sat patiently in one of the unusually ornate chairs situated before Kle'enk's desk.
"...and if we administer a third dosage? What then, would be the results?" posed Kle'enk, a hint of annoyance detected in his voice.
"He would likely suffer a total cerebral shutdown."
Growling, Jurael stepped away from the large monitor in apparent disproval.
"Something the matter, Jurael?"
"We should just execute the human and be done with it! He is without honor! A spy, who murdered nearly fifty Warriors on the General's ship!" With a gauntleted finger, he pointed at the seated Kling, then to himself as he addressed the Commandant. "Let me do it, Commandant! We've entertained Doctor Pohr'ghek and his ridiculous attempt at interrogation long enough!"
"Give it time, Jurael. Be patient. We're already seeing some progress. His subconscious is causing his guard to slip." The Doctor replied, an unnatural evenness to his tone of voice which only further agitated the more aggressive Jurael. "Perhaps it would be better if you returned to your post, overseeing the defense of the base, and leave more delicate matters like this spy to my more... capable... hands." There was an implicit insult hidden in the carefully chosen words that the slender built Klingon Doctor had used in how he addressed Jurael, and were it not for duty preventing him, it likely would have led to a physical retort from the larger of the two. Instead, the Commandant spun away from the monitor he had been watching, knowing it wise to intercede in the moment, rather than let it go on any longer.
"Doctor Pohr'ghek is right. Return to your post."
Jurael cast one more glare to the Doctor, before offering an obedient nod to the Commandant.
"Rest assured, when the time comes, I will grant your blade the human's throat." Kle'enk knew that the decision to dispose of the captured spy would ultimately come to Gorka, of whom he would keep apprised of the details of the ongoing interrogation. For now though, he understood the danger presented to himself, the compound, and his operations by the very presence of said spy. Each moment the spy was within their custody, they were faced with the very real possibility of an attack, and as far as he knew, the ship from which the spy had originated, this Theurgy, had yet to be dealt with in any final manner. It unnerved Kle'enk to no end to be in such a precarious situation, and he was more than tempted to allow Jurael to do as he so wished, feigning a failed escape attempt by the spy as an excuse, but he also didn't want to risk losing Gorka's favor, especially with the fate of the Chancellorship at play.
[ Control Tower | House of Mo'Kai Staging Compound | Qo'nos ]
Exiting the turbolift which led to the upper most level of the central Control Tower that overlooked the modestly sized compound, Jurael peered out of an open viewport at the old solid granite walls which enveloped them. An old fortress from centuries ago, the House of Mo'Kai had taken ownership of and converted it into a secure compound during the consolidation of a lesser house and their assets. For his part, Jurael had only come to take up the duty of Personal Attendant to the Commandant a little over three-months ago, and in that relatively short time he had struggled to bring its defensive capabilities up to a level which he could tolerate. The staff that the Commandant had brought to the compound when he'd taken over some time prior to that, weren't exactly the best of the best when it came to Warrior tendencies, and it showed. Were it not for the two-dozen Warriors that he himself had requisitioned from other posts across the Klingon home world, Jurael imagined that even a small strike team comprised of Ferengi could have laid effective siege to the facility.
But even with his hand-picked men dispersed among the general staff, Jurael had serious doubts as to how well they could defend the compound. The high perimeter walls which worked well in preventing any wild beasts or insurgent ground forces from penetrating the interior, were also to an extent a weakness, as undermanned as they were, they allowed plenty of blind spots to exist. If anyone was quiet enough, they could quite literally wander up to the exterior of the wall unnoticed, especially with the ongoing issues that plagued the sensor grid. But some sacrifices had to have been made, and when he took over, Jurael had placed a higher emphasis on establishing an effective anti-ship defense, as well as a nigh-impenetrable field of transport inhibitors. This had made the compound next to impossible to assault from a shuttle, or from high orbit. Anyone who was foolish enough to make an attempt would need to storm the walls, and Jurael was betting on his men posting along them to see them coming.
Scowling, Jurael glanced out at the dusk laden sky beyond the walls as night beckoned with haste.
[ Aft Compartment | Type-11 Shuttlecraft | Rosalind Franklin ]
Since their briefing, Byrne had mostly kept to himself as he made preparations for this rescue mission. It'd barely been two-weeks since the new CO to his department had come aboard Theurgy, and he'd already managed to get himself captured. Sure, from what Byrne had read of the reports, it wasn't necessarily Fisher's fault that he had been separated from the others during their incursion aboard the Ta'Rom, and thusly left behind as a result, but it still made him wonder. Physically, he shook the thought from his head as he tried to re-focus his attention on the immediate task at hand, in this case running a quick diagnostic on the systems built into this newer iteration of a security suit. The readout on the small monitor built into the gauntlet that encapsulated his left forearm read as good-to-go. An undercover specialist, who had spent most of his career living a double-life on Aldea Prime, he'd had little to no experience wearing any kind of field gear like this suit, so he'd figured it smart to once-over it's operation before things really got underway in any meaningful sense.
Peering over his shoulder as he sensed the approach of Lieutenant Pierce, he hastily retrieved his atmospheric helmet, and a small black duffle bag in which a portion of the gear and equipment they'd need for this mission was stowed.
It was time.
"This ought to be interesting." He stated softly, though still loud enough for the other strike team members to hear, a tinge of sarcasm clearly evident in his tone of voice, though he hadn't meant to elicit any sense of insubordination for the crimson-haired acting Intelligence Chief. Casting her a sort of apologetic look, he slipped on and sealed his helmet as she gave last-minute instructions. "Understood." He acknowledged, approaching the aft loading ramp just as she'd activated a forcefield to protect against impromptu atmospheric blowout. In addition to Lieutenant Pierce, there was also a Romulan Lieutenant by the name of Valyn, she was recent addition to the crew as far as he knew, and Lorad, the big Reman Security Officer whom he'd seen once or twice but never interacted with. Magnetically stowing his rifle behind his back, he winced as the ramp opened to reveal the brilliant yet dwindling rays of light cast by the Klingon home world's star as it was gradually disappearing beyond the horizon. An instant later, light filters automatically activated, assuaging the harshness of the sunset.
"Jones, when we land, try and hook up with me, Rivard, or Lorad. Hebert, same for you with Tucker and Hildebrandt." Keyah slipped her helmet on over her blue head, a slight hiss audible as it sealed to protect her from the vacuum.
"Why is it called, 'Dinner out?' I wonder." Byrne asked softly, making idle chat while they waited for the go ahead to embark upon the endeavor.
OOC: Some appropriate hype music to accompany the scene aboard the Rosalind Franklin as it's unfolding. Enjoy!
[ Ensign Lauren Pierce | Bridge | USS Allegiant | Approaching Praxis ] Attn: @Fife @Stegro88 @Sqweloookle e@uytrereee @Auctor Lucan @Griffinsummoner @jreeves1701
Lauren heard Arnold's retort of the barrel roll capability, her rosy lips contorted into a smirk as she acknowledged him. She continued to monitor as the situation escalated and the command was given by Lt. Cmdr. Cross to "make it dance" on the battlefield. "Acknowledged sir!"
She could hear the sounds of disruptor fire hitting near and close to the vessel. Gracefully her hands worked the touchpad as well as a musician could play a difficult song on the piano. Carefully avoiding fire but giving some appearances that damage was taken before real fire began to hit the Allegiant.
Her thoughts flashed back to the battle of the Dominion War and anxiety began to well inside her briefly before the thoughts of what recently happened to Tessa struck the cords of her heart and mind again. The Klingons were her target now. The only thing present was keeping her and her comrades alive as she leaned into her console from a hard jolt on the port side of the small vessel. "Ugh!" she yelled as the ship lurched again. The lights flickered overhead briefly before restoring. She hoped the shields would hold up in this close proximity fight.
"Barrel roll commensing! Hold tight!" She whisked her hands across the touch pad, watching for the somewhat pattern of the Klingon's disruptor fire was heading and hit a sequence into her console. The Allegiant turned briefly to the side as the ship missed some fire and the ship flipped a few times before settling in over the facility once more. "If you have cloak capabilities, now would be a perfect time!"
She waited for further instructions while she continued to dodge the incoming blasts.
[ CPO Mickayla MacGregor | Chief Councillor's Office | Deck 11 | Vector 02 | USS Theurgy | Aldea ] Attn: @P.C. Haring
"Pinocchio!" Mickayla exclaimed silently almost as soon as she had finished speaking. "Access to centuries of history from multiple civilisations and you pick a 20th children's film for inspiration. Let's hope that Hathev hasn't seen it and takes the more obvious meaning of what you have said." Taking a moment to reflect, Mickayla felt calmer at this point in her weekly session with the Vulcan than she had at the same point in her any of her prior ones. It was as if a weight had been removed from her shoulders. Hathev confirmed her statement even as the now familiar chime sounded that signalled the end of their session.
"I regret that we are out of time for today, Mickayla. Know that I am proud of you and the progress you have made. I continue to encourage you to continue on this journey, make choices that are healthy and good for you, and worry less about what others might think."
"Thank you," Mickayla acknowledged, blushing slightly at the unexpected praise once more. Not immediately coming up with a response for the Vulcan's words, the Klingon instead recovered her fallen dress and slipped it back over her head, shivering visibly as the fabric caressed her bare skin as it fell to the floor to once again conceal her body. Slipping her sandals back on, Mickayla turned to look at Hathev again.
"I don't think I could be any other way now. I wouldn't be happy with myself if I were. I may not fit in anywhere at all. But now I know that I don't have to," Mickayla stated. "As before, I will book another session with the receptionist. I will see you next week."
With nothing else to say, Mickayla strode from the room, her dress once again billowing out to match her stride.
Lt. Arven Leux | Main Sickbay | Deck 11 | Vector 2 | USS Theurgy ] ATTN @Aharon @Luciain
Arven smiled politely to Vinata. he wasn't quite used to Ovri, and he'd met very few during his time in Starfleet. Vinata was the first that he'd encountered. But he knew who he was going to be meeting when he reported to the Theurgy. And he'd read the short dossier that he'd had access to. So Arven wasn't sure if Ovri were sexually dimorphic like humans if he was trans, or something entirely different. But the choice of gender that Vinata preferred was noted, so he smiles politely and bows politely at the waist to Vinata.
"A pleasure to meet you then, Sir, and glad to be aboard." he'd recovered relatively well from his flashbacks to the camps, specifically that day that some of his fellow prisoners had attempted an escape. The smell of scorched materials from weapons fire, and the slight strange gaseous smell that high energy particles left behind.
Arven moved slowly behind Vinata, keeping a pace that paired well with him. So he notices the shortening of breath when Vinata speaks about the invasion. He was by no means schooled in how Ovri reacted, but he'd seen enough fear responses in the POW camp and the mirror every morning that he recognized the signs. Arven frowns slightly and reaches out, placing a strong hand on Vinata's shoulder. Giving a polite squeeze to Vinata's shoulder, he smiles softly, nodding to the much shorter man.
"If you want to talk later, we can. I understand." Sure, Arven was taking a chance, but he hoped that Vinata would understand what he was talking about right now. His own eyes were flicking to the various phaser and disruptor burns that marred the walls and floor.
"Anyway, call me Arven. My specialty is Internal medicine, if you're not aware. I'm also a fair hand with trauma and other combat-related injuries, especially on patients that are..." he pauses, getting that thousand-yard stare again. His entire demeanor seemed to shift and withdraw slightly on him, and It was clear that Arven had baggage of his own. "Patients that are not in ideal condition."
Looking around Sickbay, he sighs heavily and looks to Vinata then, giving a significant look, after noting the condition of the staff that was still hanging around. "It might not be my place to suggest this yet Sir, Sickbay is still yours. But I'd suggest that everyone finish with their current patients and get some rest. You've all been through hell. It's time to step out of that fire and have as many people hit their bunks as possible. We don't know how much more we're going to see before the day is over. So if everyone's stable, it's time for the current shift to rest." Arven's concern for the sickbay staff was obvious, just as clearly as he was concerned for the rest of the crew. Arven knew that he could go for most of the remainder of the shift himself, and he looks over to Katie, hoping that she'd have his back on this one. He'd built his career on being an excellent administrator, efficient, and caring as much for his staff as he did the patients.
[ Ens. K'Ren | Cockpit | AC-307 Mark-II Valkyrie, Gryphon-class "Hellcat" ]
"Roger," K'Ren remarked into comms. She'd been monitoring the frequencies so when the text came in, she was already readying a reply, and very quickly retransmitted the reply towards the vessel, hoping their contact aboard got the message and got aboard a shuttle. She then turned her attention to the tactical board as the Wolves accelerated to do battle with the now crippled, but hardly toothless warbird. And her guess about the stalker fighters had been correct as almost as she began to run targeting scans on the mighty warbird, a squadron of stalker fighters launched from the vessels main flight deck.
"Looks like this just got exciting Salvo," she remarked through the fighter's internal comms. "I'll paint them, you nail them. Stalk and Pounce." Even as she said it she knew the odds were against them, and for the briefest second she worried she might die, but she quickly pushed the thought aside, if it was her day, it was her day, and she'd be with Deacon in the afterlife, that much she knew. But she would be damned if she was going to roll over and let death have her without a fight.
As they began to maneuver, Razor calling out several bandits, K'Ren fed Salvo targeting data, trying to be the eyes and ears, and keep situational awareness for the squadron. She was the backseater of the only two seat bird in the flight so she was the eyes and ears of the squadron at this moment. She had an open comms to the other fighters, and a secured datalink letting her pass the targeting and threat data on to the other fighters. "Two bandits vectoring in on Razor. Two more on Ghost, and two vectoring onto our six. Looks like a proper furball," she remarked, doing her best to keep her eyes focused on her screen as Salvo began manouvering with the others to fend off the fighters. six on three wasn't a fair fight, but the Wolves were used to being outnumbered.
She noticed as Ghost maneuvered, one of the pair was maneuvering into a position for a clean shot. "Salvo, Target Charlie 2." she called out. "Ghost, Second bandit, Break right."
[ Ens. Vinata Vojona | Main Sickbay | Deck 11 | Vector 2 | USS Theurgy ] ATTN: @Luciain @Tae
As Vinata processed the sight of the two officers materializing in the space in front of him, he felt himself breathe a little easier. They were both a very welcomed addition to the Theurgy medical team.
The Ovri took in the sight of a tall, slim but well toned Trill with the rank of Lieutenant - the man was by all accounts quite physically attractive as far as Vinata was concerned, his eyes a striking and intriguing violet colour. He found himself staring for an impolite amount of time at Arven and quickly shifted his view to the strikingly shorter female officer, who held the rank of Ensign. There was a humorous juxtaposition in the heights of the two personnel. The young female had beautifully styled brunette hair and a generous bust, Vinata found her to be quite physically appealing too.
"Permission granted. You are both most welcome here, Doctor Arvin and Nurse Locke." Vinata extended his hands outwards palm-up and bowed slightly, he offered a greeting of welcome and respect among his own people to both of them. "I am Head Nurse, Ensign Vinata Vojona. I wish I could be welcoming you to our team in less dire circumstances." While offering them a verbal greeting as well, Vinata had taken into consideration both of their introductions - already thinking in his mind where their respective skill-sets would be best utilized within the department.
"There is certainly no shortage of work here at the moment. May I give you a brief tour to orientate you to the space before offloading working assignments?" Vinata's eyes glimmered and blinked several times as he gave both of his colleagues an inquisitive and curious look. He felt it both polite but also useful to give the officers a general orientation to the space before throwing them into the rotation - he certainly did not doubt their ability to practice in an environment different from their own within the Oneida's, he hoped it would not come off as such.
As the group traversed the main sickback area, Vinata made introductions to those officers and staff who had a free moment to interact with them. It would be clear to the group that the medical staff were busy, tired, and currently well worked. It would also be clear, visibly to Arven and Katie, that there had been a massacre of sorts in the department. Carpets, walls, stations in several different areas had still been blood stained.
Repair crews had to use their time wisely, Vinata knew this. Sadly - the space was functioning for the most part and aesthetics would come secondary or tertiary to other priorities. "As you can see, we have been through a great ordeal in this space. The entire ship has been. Sadly, our department was especially hit during the invasion by enemy forces...." Up until now Vinata had been quite chatty, that was until the group entered the surgical suite area. Flashbacks of the events earlier in the day came to the forefront of his mind and caused him to stammer a bit.
There was an awkward silence now, Vinata had fallen quiet and his front of confidence had been hampered. Thoughts of nearly losing his dear friend Kate, Lieutenant Lance - the patient they had worked hard to save and his own life flashed through his mind. The screams of those who had been murdered by the Klingons, staff and colleagues he had worked with who were no more. His chest tightened and it was as if with every flashback, more breath had been stolen from him.