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41
Episode 02: Cosmic Imperative / Re: Epi 2 [ D02 | 2300 hrs.] All Squared up at the Triangle
Last post by joshs1000 -
[CPO Avandar Lok | Flight Deck | Fighter Bay | Deck 16 | Vector 02 | USS Theurgy] Attn: @everyone
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His head pounded, his body was weak, and sleep gnawed at the frayed edges of his consciousness. At any other time Lok would have remained in sickbay to recover with some fluids and pain killers, the battle was over, he could stand at ease, let someone else take the burden for a while…but there was no one else, so many were gone now, and those that remained were just as hurt and tired as he was. So he walked, through the damaged corridors of the ship back to his post, gingerly stepping over the pools of blood from fallen shipmates and fallen enemies. Even as he went his mind, as uncomfortable as it was, noted the damage and considered solutions, as any engineer would; it wasn’t his department, but with the ship being so shorthanded, perhaps worse after this battle, the possibility of being assigned to repair Theurgy with the engineers loomed.

After passing the security checkpoint, Lok entered the fighter bay once more. Not quite how he left it. The barricade was still there, though actively being disassembled in preparation for the return of the fighter squadron, new blast marks were all over the walls, but most intently was the bodies of Romulans, laid out in three neat rows at the back of the deck and another row of his fellow shipmates. He felt nothing in the moment, perhaps a bit of pity, he had seen enough heaped dead in his career that it had about as much impact on him as a bulkhead or door, but still, deep down, his stomach clenched and his heart felt heavy with sorrow.  It's not that he didn't care it was just he had learned to essentially ignore it until such a time when he could grieve on his own.

As a dozen or so Romulan prisoners were being led away, Lok approached Petty Officer Hussein, who seemed a bit surprised to see the large black feline up and about. Several other crew chiefs gathered around in expectation of orders. They were all exhausted, no doubt running on autopilot, much like Lok himself.

“Let’s devote ourselves to just clearing a landing space for our birds”, Lok began in a low neutral voice, he just needed to rattle off some orders, he didn’t have much left for inspiring speeches, “once the LSOs bring them in we will just deck park them for now until we can get the rest of this place cleaned up.”

He paused for a moment as his mind searched for something profound to say, but nothing was forthcoming so he said simply, “Good job today, guys.”

No other words were needed, just some nods as the deck crew headed off to straighten up, giving orders to their own teams as they went. Lok followed and helped move some of the barricades out of the way but before too long he started to feel a little woozy and took a seat on the floor against the port side wall, near where he had been shot. He closed his eyes, the feeling started to go away.

“You alright Chief”, Hussein asked as she approached.

“Yeah I’m fine, just needed to sit for a...for a moment”, Lok mumbled.

“Alright, just let me know if you need anything, we should have this squared away pretty quick.”

"Uh-huh..."

Before she had even walked away a soft snore emanated from the large feline. She glanced back down at him and shook her head with a smile as she looked at the now sleeping form of Lok.

“You get some rest, Chief, we got it from here.”


Cmdr. (3rd) Hassar al-Zaheer | Bridge | Deck 1 | Vector 01 | USS Theurgy]
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With the battle over in a great victory, Hassar found himself once again floating about, having turned over the tactical station to its normal officer once things settled down. His primary task was to get a status of all of his teams and determine casualties as well as equipment losses. A grim task to be sure as he had known already they had lost people. With the help of one of the ship’s communications’ officers he was able to reach and account for all of his marines. The butcher’s bill was surprisingly light, three dead, eight wounded, but in a galaxy where barely a hundred thousand vaharrans remained, three might as well have been three thousand. No time to dwell on it though, not in that moment anyway, as he noted down the names and made a mental note to ask the Starfleet commanders when he could conduct a vaharran funeral service for his fallen comrades.

With all that taken care of, Hassar retrieved his weapon, bid Commander Stark farewell for the moment, then left the bridge into the corridors beyond. Already there were medical and maintenance crews looking things over, but the Arosan Marines that had followed Hassar up here simply milled about without much to do, unsure of the Starfleet protocols, they simply stood guard where they thought best. Unsure himself exactly where they were wanted, Hassar dismissed the Marines back to their original staging area until orders from on high were more forthcoming.

Even so, Hassar was curious about a rumored impromptu diplomatic event between the warring sides and wondered, as the direct envoy for his people and of his father, would he have to attend, was he even allowed to attend? Granted the Arosan Republic wasn’t exactly embroiled in the conflict with the Romulans, but there was the reason he came out here in the first place, to find his missing people, to find his son. At the same time he didn’t exactly know much about diplomacy, just how to be courteous and observe, based on his time during the Dominion War, but anything that involved actual negotiations, he was a bit lost.

All that was in the future though, other things required his attention first as he headed down to the assembly area, taking a moment to say a quiet prayer to the spirits that his fallen Marines would find passage to the world beyond.


OOC Notes-
-Hereafter Avandar Lok, though the butterfly effect, is a Ferasan. Further details will be provided elsewhere and on his profile when that is updated.
42
Episode 02: Cosmic Imperative / Re: CH2: S [Day 2 | 2315 hrs] For all the blood-tainted stars...
Last post by Dumedion -
[Colonel Hauq | IKS Bortas | Triangle Battlezone] Attn: @Ellen Fitz  @rae  @RyeTanker  @Havenborn  @Stegro88  @P.C. Haring  @Eden  @ob2lander961  @Pierce  @Krajin  @joshs1000  @Hans Applegate

A moment occurs in every battle where fortune and fate collide amidst the violence. For almost all the participants at the time, this moment is wholly ignored or passed without notice, due to the circumstances: one could be forgiven for not taking in the largest of pictures while fighting for survival. Regardless, the moment comes, inevitable as gravity – as the march of time itself. For one man, it was recognized with shocking clarity: the Colonel’s eyes widened at the tactical display as every Romulan ship suddenly appeared on the Bortas' sensors, cloaked or not.

This is it – the turning point, Hauq frowned at the display, then looked to the Chancellor. The instant their eyes met, he knew Martok understood. “Chancellor,” the Colonel spoke in a growled warning, but too little, too late. Martok was already turning to his commanders, ready to snarl orders as the Bortas endured under a furious assault that wracked its armored bones around them.

“Primary shields holding,” a warrior called.
 
“I see it Chancellor,” General K’var stalled Martok with a warded gesture, his dark eyes never leaving the viewscreen. The Valdore, Donatra’s flagship, was bared for all to see – surrounded and under relentless fire from her own people. “Order battlegroup’s Far’a and Ough’q to shift target priority to the Valdore immediately. We will deal with their stragglers.”

“What of the enemy seeking to flee,” a subordinate tactical officer grunted in question; the General hesitated – but Martok’s voice rang out assuredly, only after sharing a glance at Hauq.

“Let the cowards run –“

“Incoming fire,” another officer interrupted with a shout. “Brace for impact!”

Colonel Hauq saw the danger, too – even to a layman, a grunt lacking the subtly of void warfare’s unique and patient orchestration – he knew a dangerous overextension when he saw one. In their haste to break the Romulan formation’s flank to drive a spear-tip into the heart of the foe, the main Klingon attack group had penetrated deep into the battle-zone. The wing of D’Deridex cruisers it had thus far engaged had folded, with several of the massive warbirds destroyed or crippled, and now the few that remained had turned to flee.

And yet…

As the behemoth Valdore finally loomed into maximum visual range, those same wounded and limping warbirds spun about; not so wounded, after all.

We walked right into their trap, Hauq clenched his teeth in bitter realization.

Emerald fire pierced the void in streaks of overcharged plasma at Martok’s flotilla, followed by a massed barrage of incandescent, neon green orbs: each one a balled container of elctro-plasmic death. Fighter swarms fell from above and below the plane of attack; an ad-hoc mix of Stalkers and Scorpions, attracted to the melee like flies to rotting meat.

“All hands, brace,” someone roared. Hauq realized it was Martok, just as the first hammering impacts hit. The Bortas heaved violently to the side, sending every warrior staggering; some crashed into the deck, others bounced off the bulkheads, flung from exploding consoles and overloaded power circuits. K’var spit blood from his mouth as he regained his feet, then demanded a report into the acrid, smoke filled air as the ship continued to quake.

“Shields are down, helm unresponsive, main disruptors off-line...we’re bleeding power. Main engineering took a direct hit. Hull integrity weakening! Wait – General! They’re firing again,” tactical yelled over the carnage.

“Helm, evasive – maneuvering thrusters, I don’t care how,” K’var snarled, then jabbed a clawed finger at his weapons officer. “Return fire, everything we have left, now!”

Beyond the confines of the wounded Klingon battle-barge, its escorts (likewise damaged, but unbowed) formed up abreast of their flagship, determined to stand their ground. Yet the massed fury of the Romulan’s never reached their intended target, for it was intercepted by a massive blur of silver-white:

The Ranger.

PCD’s howled silently into the night as she spun up vertically from below Martok’s plane of attack, phaser banks glowing bright as they cycled, lancing out fire-orange beams of fury, her shields alight in a bubble of blue-white energy that bled traces of EM backwash in her wake. She powered through the attack, trailing a clouded plume of venting plasma from one damaged nacelle, rolling her scorched and pot-marked hull under the devastation to unleash a blistering salvo of torpedoes in kind, adding her own anger alongside the Klingon’s counter-offensive.

Martok sneered at the display with a throaty chuckle. “Not bad, for a Vulcan,” he nodded once, then stood to his full commanding height. “Send my compliments to Ives; a shrewd warrior - I should have expected no less from his men. Our allies bleed with us brothers, but we shall see who reaches the gates of Sto’vo’kor first. Qapla'!”

His warriors roared their assent in reply, as Martok nodded to his general.

“We attack,” K’var intoned through a bloody grin.

This is the moment, Hauq narrowed his eyes at the flickering tactical display, wary of Romulan trickery. It’s now or never. To his shock, the trio of D’Deridex warbirds opened fire on the Valdore, leaving Donatra no-where to run. It was caught on all sides now, its shields battered under ceaseless fire.

“Valdore’s shields at sixty percent….fifty….forty-five,” tactical called out, counting down the inevitable.

Hauq’s eyes flicked to an emergency communication from the Ranger, highlighted in scrolling text. He nearly cursed aloud as he read it with a shake of his head. That woman, he snorted instead, then turned to his Chancellor with all seriousness. “Starfleet is preparing a boarding party. Once her shields are down, they intend to take the fight to Donatra – personally.”

The Chancellor glared at his Guard-Captain incredulously, before turning his eye to the viewscreen. “Remind me to have a word with that Vulcan, if he survives,” Martok ground his teeth, suddenly furious, “about proper battle-field etiquette. General,” the Chancellor spun to address K’var. “Strip that whore to the bones then finish any who still dare to challenge us. We finish Donatra in the old way, it seems - with blade in hand.”

In the moments that followed, through the holographic display on tactical and in the battle playing out beyond the viewscreen, Martok and his men watched the scene unfold:

They watched as the Romulans – the paltry few that remained combat capable – rallied in the face of a renewed onslaught. Most vented their wrath on the Valdore, along with the remaining escorts that still clung to foolish loyalty to the so-called Empress; most of them drifted in the void - crippled, or wise enough to feign it...

They watched their brave fighters dart alongside the remnants of the Theurgy’s Wolves, running between the shadows of titans, charging courageously into engagement after engagement without pause. Those that remained fought in the backlit flashes of miniature suns borne in increments of time too fast to track, only to die just as suddenly – each flare of light signaling another brave crew lost...

They watched as a singular detonation bloomed atop the Valdore’s angled hull amidship in a caustic display of violent green; the streaking forms of fighter-craft swallowed by the harsh, eerie light. Emerald energy dissipated out in a haze of drifting smog in its wake, slowly eaten by the forces of entropy. The Valdore’s hull, hooked prow pitted and cracked like the beak of some ravaged avian predator, trailed plumes of sporadic, fiery atmosphere from several ravaged breaches...

They watched, at last, as it drifted, weapons falling silent as power flickered through its dying body...

Then they turned their guns on what remained of Donatra’s fleet with impunity.


[Moments earlier…| Ens. Talia “Shadow” Al-Ibrahim | Cockpit | Wolf-04, AC-409 Mk. III Valkyrie]

As much as she wanted to tell Knox to fuck off, Talia held her tongue. We'll have a little chat after, she grimaced instead, rolling her fighter's belly up and over another wreck – while her shields ate more incoming fire aimed at the stolen Romulan fighter broadcasting the entire fleet’s position, along with everything else the idiot said.

A finger swiped her Ops console, hailing Janus directly. “This guy is going to get us killed out here boss,” Shadow grunted, lighting up another Stalker only to be forced to disengage as she evaded more enemy fire from below. She knew Janus would probably pick it off though. Before she could continue, Atlas’ voice broke in. Talia’s head and eyes turned to glance at the ship in question – the one Knox had been so keen to engage, over and over again – and winced at the carnage. That thing isn’t going to last long under that regardless, she snorted. A double-fisted shot of Atlas’ ordinance would kill a hard target though. Worth a shot at least.

Another flick brought her back on squadron coms and listened as Janus called for her, Salvo and Archon up to support Atlas’ run.

“Wolf-4, pushing to intercept,” Talia acknowledged after waiting for the others, then pitched up and rolled out, angling her nose at Atlas’ HUD-ident. The others closed fast, forming up in a lagged diamond formation on the big cat’s wing. Shadow’s eyes narrowed at Salvo’s ship, trailing a thin line of blue-white plasma from under his port wing. “Ten, Four –  strike element formed up,” she reported to Atlas, letting him know they were in line and ready.

[“Tetryon cannon ready to paint,”] Archon reported through a grunt of effort.

Talia nodded, then deployed her own cannon as they dove, reading the range to target shrink with every second. Never fired this thing before, she licked sweat from her upper lip. It’s a day of firsts, I guess. “Secondary cannon deployed,” she echoed.

[“Quantums armed, my last two, so – “] Salvo’s voice ended in sudden static as his shields ate a direct plasma torpedo from beyond Talia’s line of sight. In a flash of imploding energy the blue-white bubble collapsed and his Mk. II was wreathed in crackling emerald energy – which ate into the hull and through the already damaged fuselage with an almost organic eagerness.

Talia watched as she evaded, almost in slow motion, already screaming for him to eject, as his ship tumbled away, on fire and powerless.

“They’re all over us, abort – abort,” Shadow yelled, already weaving and evading streams of fire from a pair of Stalkers as their strike wing broke apart. Archon flipped up and over her, rolling past close enough for her to almost reach out and touch his canopy. Her eyes tracked the blurred movement, noting the blacked sears of scorch marks across the hull of his Valkyrie.

[“Break off Shadow, I’ll lag,”] his voice cracked in her helm, and Talia obeyed instantly. Emerald fire sailed past, filling the void where she had just been. Aft fire arced out from her rear arrays as Archon fell back and finished his rolling turn to drop back aft and low behind the Stalkers. [“Hard left and vertical, I got them.”]

“Don’t miss,” Talia hissed and hauled the stick hard to the side and back to her sternum, adding a roll by rote. Fire chased her, bright and angry, filling the darkness with emerald fury. “C’mon, c’mon,” she panted – straining to hold against the G’s.

She turned to glance back, as the first Stalker’s shields crumbled and its hull burst under several direct hits of sustained phaser fire – enough to shear a wing off and send the fighter tumbling off course. In the next second, Archon fired a quad-volley of micro-torps at the second – which streaked out into the black towards their target. Talia wrenched her fighter hard to starboard then, inverting her turn so the trailing Stalker would alter his pursuit angle and close the distance with Archon’s torps even faster.

[“Scratch one,”] she heard Archon wheeze.

The next moment, they pulled back up on Atlas’ wing as he finished off the last of their ambushers, then re-angled back at their target – the Valdore’s primary thalaron emitter. Her eyes glanced at the tactical display, squinting through the glare of the insane amount of fire the Romulan warship was enduring. She had no visual on Salvo. There was no time to look.

“In range. Locking on,” she reported, then tapped her trigger to paint the target.

[“Good paint. Pulse fire on your mark, Atlas,”] Archon huffed, almost out of breath. ["Call the shot."]

The trio dove toward literal hell – to unleash their own.

In the cascading fireball that followed, Talia couldn’t be sure when – but as the three of them climbed hard after the run – Archon fell behind, out of formation. The next thing she knew, her helm erupted with the gurgled sounds of a man choking on his own bodily fluid, unable to breathe. When she looked back for a visual, she watched with confused horror as Archon’s ship drifted in a fog of dissipating thalaron energy.

“Eject – Archon eject now,” she screamed back, but was powerless to help. Incoming fire slammed into her from the starboard side, forcing her to evade, yet again. Between bursts of G’s, her head panned, searching for Atlas. “Ten, Four – where are you? No joy,” she called out, hoping the big guy was still in visual range to assist - but he could also be dealing with his own problems.

You got yourself into this fight - you can get yourself out, Shadow frowned, kicked her throttle back up to attack speed, then banked into the fire.


OOC - okay folks. Salvo and Archon are not KIA, they will be recovered and put in the freezer...eventually. Feel free to add more, but be advised I'll probably wrap this up with my next post. Thank you all for playing along :)
43
Episode 02: Cosmic Imperative / Re: EP 2 S: [D3 | 0015hrs] If You Want Blood, You Got It
Last post by RyeTanker -
[Lieutenant Ida zh'Wann | Spearhead Lounge | Deck 14 | Vector 1 | USS Theurgy] @Dumedion @Ellen Fitz @Tae @rae @TWilkins @Stegro88

The armoured Andorian kept the Indian woman's head down as she pushed her from behind towards the galley.  It wasn't great cover, but there was the bar and a wall, so maybe it would be enough to keep the civilian safe.  

Kamila hyperventilated as she let let out a scream when a shot came too close, but she kept going, following the guiding hand that had balled up the material on the back of her blouse.  That fist of bunched material represented safety, and Ida had come through for the crew on multiple occasions.  She screamed again as the wall sparked from a disruptor blast, but the fist forced her down and away.  

Ida was tied into the ship's internal sensors and she didn't look back at the chaos behind her as she kept Kamila going.  She didn't have time to explain how much of a risk she was actually putting the civilian in.  This was arguably less dangerous than the main door as the rest of the crew flooded in, making the entrance a potential disruptor fire magnet.  The reason it was less dangerous presented itself as a Romulan popped out to take the Theurgy crew in the rear.  Ida was having non of it as her outstretched phaser pistol shifted slightly and she fired a burst.  The Romulan few back into the pantry with a yelp as he took two bolts to the chest and one to the shoulder.  The immediate area was secure as she pushed the human behind the bar and pushed her out of the line of fire. "You should be safe here." Lt. zh'Wann told the wide eyed woman and nodded to her as she turned around.  The Andorian pressed against a cabinet for a moment as she raised her eyes above the bar and took a look.  The mayhem was starting to subside, and it looked like the Romulans had thrown in the towel.  Starfleet security were more disciplined, but also far less blood thirsty than the Klingons as they pulled away rifles, pistols, knives, and anything else that looked like a weapon.

The Klingons didn't seem as gentle.  Some of them even looked like they were trying to get the fight started again.  The Deputy stood.  Her eyes locked on a warrior that was flicking his weapon at a Romulan.  The Romulan wasn't taking the bait and the Klingon was becoming more agitated with his failing attempts to draw more blood.  Ida rounded the bar and would have made her way over to stop the goading when her vision told her something else worse was coming.  Her head turned and she saw a human profusely apologizing to a prone form of another Klingon.  She didn't quite realize what was going on till she got closer and the audio pickups helped her sort out what he was complaining about.  She mentally grimaced when she realized he was apologizing for having shot the Klingon enough times to knock him out.  She knew this was really her fault since she'd ordered everyone to shoot everything to forcibly calm the situtaion. 

And it likely would have worked except another hulking Klingon, did see what the engineer had done and was going over to make his thoughts known to the possibly treacherous human.  "Starboard team, standby.  If you hear fighting start up again, come in guns blazing against the Klingons and Romulans."

The Klingon stopped when the shorter set of Starfleet armour stepped in his way and stood its ground.  "Your man will be taken care of." Ida told the warrior as he stopped stomp, dumbfounded at the smaller roadblock that had just been thrown in his way.

The brief moment of befuddlement dissipated quickly.  "This bolwI’ qoH shot my cousin.  He is as inept as he is treacherous and I will have my recompense now."

The Andorian's teeth gritted at the Klingon's preposterous statement. "It was the heat of combat, and how can you be so sure he actually was the one who shot him?" she asked through enforced calm.

The Klingon stumbled for a moment, then his eyes grew wide and he pointed a meaty finger at the engineer who seemed to come to the realization that his life was in danger once more.  "He has admitted his guilt as much. He is offering a confession like he pryaing at Boreth."

Ida's face didn't change but her mental teeth gritted harder. It was time to try a different tact. "Yes and he had shown great remorse in his course of action."  The Andorian would try to steamroller the warrior like a Vulcan, hoping sufficient logic would win out to stay the hand intent on blood. "He's an engineer, this is not his strong suit, but he was willing to commit himself to honourable battle against the actual enemy, and conducted himself well under the cirumstances...."

"Circumstances?" The Klingon cut off. "His training is demonstrates lacking..."

"And that is why he acquitted himself well." The Andorian strode on as she grabbed the sliver of a chance. "He used to dealing with technology and gadgets in a methodical manner, not the chaos of combat.  The fact he was willing to fight despite being poorly trained speaks to his warrior spirit."  The Klingon scoffed at this. 

"A Klingon engineer would not be caught so flat footed in their skills."  The angry warrior hotly declared. "And enough double speak, you think and talk like these green blooded cowards."  Lieutenant zh'Wann bristled at this, but kept her posture, knowing if she caved, the innocent human was in for a world of hurt. "Besides, how do I know you speak truly when you hide behind that helmet and mask?"

It was Ida's turn to be dumbfounded as she hadn't even considered what it was like to talk to someone when you couldn't even really see their face.  She had to make a choice and quickly, then the dead former Chief of Security's voice talked to her from beyond the grave.  Or in this case, a brought up  previous conversation the two had regarding some of their subordinates. There was another moment of hesitation and Lieutenant zh'Wann's hands moved toward the seals of her helmet and removed her head gear.

She wasn't the most diplomatic person on the ship and it showed when she her grip tightened on her pistol and she glared at the taller Klingon.  "Your man will be taken care of." She repeated slowly and knife edged finality.  "And if you insist on blood for this perceived insult, you can come for mine.  I ordered him to take that course of action." She continued sharp calm, leaving out the part where the Klingons violently storming the place had forced her hand so as to avoid antagonizing his comrades.

The Klingon took it as well as Klingon could be expected to take such news and Ida grunted as she felt a meaty hand grab her head, trying to squeeze her cheeks till they touched.  The sound of weapons powering up and metal being pulled from scabbards rang in the room, then all motion halted as her arm shot up with an open palm.  There was tense hesitation from all around, but no one lowered or sheathed their weapons.  The Klingon was oblivious to this as he snarled at her and Ida carefully ignored the stench he breathed on her as ice blue eyes locked with brown ones in a contest of will.

Metal scraped scabbards and Ida felt the cold steel of a d'k tahg against her cheek. Her arm jerked for her side to halt once more, bringing both sides to a tense halt. "Are you really ready to die for his error?"  The Klingon hissed.  Ida's expression didn't change.  "Are you ready to be heirless?"  She gritted out between squished teeth as she pushed her long utility blade up higher into the crotch of the Klingon's pants.  The Klingon's anger seemed to waver at the threat to his future generation, then he sneered.  "I wouldn't be so sure.  It's got a mono molecular edge and a high frequency vibration generator.  It won't stop till I'm done slicing."

This time, the Klingon really did stop and his eyes widened.  Could these Starfleet people be as brutal and ruthless?  They had never shows such viciousness before.  He looked in the ice blue eyes for any signs that his quarry was bluffing.  All he saw was a cold yet fiery abyss staring back at him.  The abyss blinked when the Klingon started laughing.  "She has a warriors soul and heart that would make Grethor weep brothers!" He declared loudly to all.  The rest of the Klingons laughed at the declaration.  "Perhaps you should replace your mate!  This one has more spirit!"  Someone heckled.  The Klingon smiled, flashing teeth as he let go of Ida and stepped away.  "See to my man, there is still glory to be won this day."  he called as he turned around.  "Give the Romulans to Starfleet, then come!  More glory and honour await!" 

Lieutenant zh'Wann held her glare as the Klingons left.  She took a deep breath of relief, then sheathed the blade. Looking around, she grabbed her dropped helmet and secured it to the magnetic locking point, then tapped the communication system on her suit.  "Lieutenant zh'Wann to security, the Spearhead Lounge is secure.  Update on the rest of the ship?"


bolwI’ qoH = traitorous fool
44
Episode 02: Cosmic Imperative / Re: Topic: EP 2 S: [D3 | 0020hrs] Heavy is the Head
Last post by TWilkins -
[ Sylvain Llewellyn-Kth | CONN station | Bridge | Deck One | Vector One | USS Theurgy ] @Brutus @joshs1000 @Stegro88 @Nesota Kynnovan @Ellen Fitz @RyeTanker

Captain Yume had always insisted on formality aboard the Bowman; “It might be a small ship, but we’re still representing Starfleet.”, had been one of the first things she’d said to him the when he’d originally come aboard, and not once during his time aboard the Bowman, had he seen that rule waver. She was a formal woman, proud, unwavering in her commitment to Starfleet’s mission. She believed that Starfleet needed to be an inspiration, a beacon of hope amongst the stars for those people who relied on them for protection, resources, medical support… Captain Yume had always said that it was their duty as Starfleet Officers, to keep that inspiration alive. And she had meant it; throughout his entire time serving under her, he didn’t think that she had used his first name once. It was always ‘Ensign’, or ‘Ensign Llewellyn-Kth’, or ‘Helm’. He’d grown quite accustomed to it over the past twenty months; he’d taken to recording all of his personal logs using his surname too…

So much so, that actually being called Sylvain, felt a little unfamiliar…

He’d been engrossed in sensor readings, eyes, mind and fingers conducting an orchestra across his station, navigating the debris field as swiftly as possible, as to make the Helmet a more difficult target; if their Klingon allies could approach them from beyond the debris, a cloaked Romulan could very much do the same. The conversation being woven around him hadn’t escaped his notice, but his mind had been far too fixated on the rest of his duties to truly absorb what was otherwise being discussed. The duranium-cobalt-thallium makeup of the debris field, was requiring constant sensor modulation in order to facilitate their ongoing sensor sweeps, and the debris itself was whirling around them in a pattern so chaotic, that the evasive actions necessary to keep them from getting hit was actually fairly involved; he supposed that was what they got for agitating such a dense debris field with their tractor beam…

As such, whilst he wasn’t not paying attention, Sylvain was too engrossed in his duties to actively be following the discussion. The conversation was one of tactics, that much he was aware of, and he understood, more-or-less, most of what was being discussed. He knew that the Klingon Colonel was being asked form a squadron on the Helmet, he’d understood that Commander Cross had been asked to engage the main Romulan force with the second and third Vectors of the Theurgy, and that a person by the name of Jaya, whom he believed also worked the CONN based on his brief overview of the crew manifest, has been asked to coordinate their fighter squadrons in their upcoming assault… Sylvain had acknowledged what was being said, even if it hadn’t really sunk in straight away.

Though, the entire context of their tactical planning washed over him like a deluge of frozen slush, when the Commander addressed him by his first name…

The Ensign had almost missed it, his eyes widening in a genuine double take as he remembered that Sylvain, was indeed his own name, ears standing to attention as his honey-brown eyes flickered up from his console for the briefest of moments. In any other circumstance, he’d have swivelled his chair in order to face the Commander, out of respect if nothing else, but with his fingers mid-way through conducting a veritable concerto upon the CONN, he could only listen, and swallow dryly in response to her words.

Her command was nothing if not bleak to the Ensign, who had secretly been hoping that they might have been able to remain in the relative sanctuary of their debris field a while longer; they’d destroyed two Romulan vessels with a ramshackle railgun that they’d cobbled together from cobalt ore and a tractor beam, surely that warranted a small break, perhaps a tea? He’d not been involved in destroying more than a pirate freighter before now, and the concept of the utter obliteration of not one, but two Romulan Warbirds, was quite something to behold. Hell, forget the tea, such a feat probably warranted some sort of carbonated beverage and an enormous serving of tiramisu, caffeine, sugar and synthehol be damned…

Admittedly, he knew that whilst his time aboard the Bowman might have considered destroying two Romulan Warbirds quite the feat, to the Theurgy crew, it was probably just another Tuesday… Even in his own brief time aboard, he’d been placed in a situation where transporting a tank-full of genetically modified alien creatures onto a hostile enemy space station, had been a reasonable solution to a problem; he didn’t think that even he could consider the destruction of two Romulan Warbirds impressive any longer… 

Still, Sylvain would have preferred it if their destination hadn’t been the Romulan flagship…

“Affirmative Commander…” He responded, sipping a small breath into his lungs as the Helmet crested above the largest section of the asteroid, sensors immediately confirming the location of the Romulan Flagship, and his fingers laying in a course that, whilst not the most efficient, would certainly give him a little more room to be flamboyant with their piloting. The Ensign didn’t feel especially easy about flying towards such a threat, nor flying towards such a threat, with the explicit purpose of getting its attention… He was hardly a ‘showy’ pilot; ‘showing off’ was by and large, an inefficient use of fuel, as far as he was concerned… Yet nonetheless, he had his order, and Sylvain was hardly one to question orders. “...I’m sure I can manage to give the Romulans a bit of the ol’ razzle dazzle.”

‘Razzle dazzle’ perhaps wasn’t the most scientific item in his vocabulary, nor the most appropriate tactical description to provide his Commander with… But he was fairly confident that it existed within the constraints of the brief.

Outside of the debris field, the battle was raging as fierce as ever, perhaps more so now that the Erudite had taken its leave. Romulan, Reman, Klingon and Starfleet forces were engaging on all fronts, a level of destruction erupting around them, that probably hadn’t been seen since before he was old enough to join Starfleet… The Helmet however, was a deft and manoeuvrable craft, and typically he’d have been well-equipped enough to guide such an agile vessel through such carnage. However, Sylvain found the prospect of relinquishing efficiency in favour of flair, rather daunting… He piloted with mathematical efficiency, working alongside the computer to choose only the most efficient pathways; demonstrating an effective evasive manoeuvre in an active conflict, generally involved avoiding drawing any additional attention to oneself, at least, according to Lieutenant T’Pith from the USS Thames… She’d really opened his eyes as to the value of efficiency when it came to piloting a Starship…

As such, ‘making a show’ was far outside his comfort zone.

The computer was suggesting that it would take a few minutes for them to reach weapons range of the Romulan flagship, and whatever he did to get them there, had to be extravagant enough to take their enemy’s attention away from everything else that was going on. No small feat. The Ensign’s brain wrestled with itself over how he could best run a mathematical algorithm within their evasive patterns, that not only got them to their destination in one piece, but did so with panache. Some sort of fractal algorithm that would randomise their approach? Not especially flashy, just erratic; the Romulan’s might think that they were having problems with the nacelle couplings… Perhaps he could just ask the computer to add a few loops and barrel rolls? Hardly an organic solution; their approach would look unnatural with no mathematical basis to guide the computer, and the Romulans would probably see through their distraction…

It needed to look fluid, natural, yet be dramatic enough that it would give the Romulan’s a reason to direct their attention towards the Helmet, and away from the rest of their fighters. It needed to portray the Helmet as a threat, without making it look like they were trying to look like a threat. He needed to make the Helmet perform in such a way that it made their Klingon entourage look like Tellarite freighters, send the Helmet striking forwards as though it held a master plan to destroy the Romulans, enrapture their attention by telling a story through nothing but his wits and the control panel on the CONN…

And then Sylvain had something of an orthodox idea.

He might not have been any good at showy piloting, but he’d spend three years involved with the Academy theatre department… He knew how to dance.

“Compu… Thea…” The Ensign all but whispered into his station, words drowned out under the noise that flooded the bridge as the Helmet reentered the combat zone, Sylvain’s fingers flying across the console as he spoke. “... please access my personal database and select a song with a tempo between one-hundred and seventy-five and one-hundred and eighty BPM, and calculate an evasive trajectory, with the Romulan flagship as the destination, using its mathematical qualities, and set a course.” He quietly instructed, eyes flickering between the console and the viewscreen in front of him, as the computer dove into the cultural database and remerged with a song that met his specification. “Copy music to Ensign Llewellyn-Kth’s personal PADD, vibrate only.”

The last thing he needed was accidentally commanding the computer to start a rave on the bridge…

A robust spiral that took the Helmet hurtling straight into the firing line of the Romulan forces ignited across his console, and Sylvain felt a thrumming against his thigh from where his PADD rested in his pocket. Inhaling a deep breath, the Ensign swallowed tightly around a dry lump in his throat, before his strong fingers rippled across his console, engaging maximum propulsion as his touch sent the Helmet into a worryingly tight corkscrew, one that teased the curvature of the hull only a few kilometers from the bow of one of their Klingon accompaniments, blitzing through the battlefield as Sylvain’s fingers made lightning-fast adjustments upon the CONN, soaring past the Klingons and deep into the fray.

“... and go dancing in the rain…” Sylvain whispered under his breath, eyes fixated on his console as he lurched the Helmet to port, curving tightly around a volley of torpedoes that erupted from one of the Warbirds that had taken the bait and attempted to engage them. “... like a bullet to your brain…” The Helmet shot downwards in a graceful dive, Sylvain’s eyes catching a series of EM emissions only a few hundred kilometres behind their starboard bow, approaching them at an alarming pace. Yet no sooner had he dove to escape them, had their Klingon allies moved to expunge the threat diving into an attack pattern that sent the cloaked vessels scrambling into a dogfight, as Sylvain carried the Theurgy forwards. “...makes you order French champaign…”

It was certainly an erratic display of piloting as far as Sylvain was concerned, but the addition of a musical algorithm had given the manoeuvres a fluidity that made it seem substantially more organic than anything he’d have come up with on the fly. He’d found himself mouthing around the words as he flew, not especially consciously, but it had helped him keep his own movements in tune with the rather unorthodox flight pattern that the computer had laid out for him, the swooping turns and sharp banks all keeping time with the vibrations thrumming into his thigh, ensuring that their course remained smooth, but ever-changing and utterly unpredictable; truth be told, Sylvain didn’t really even know what his next move was in the bizarre salsa that the Helmet was raking across the void… It was instinct, rhythm, analysis, only one of which was something Sylvain was especially comfortable with. He was keeping up with the enemy flight patterns, but he barely had a second to consider his next moves before he made them, his mind occupied to bursting as much as it felt vacant of all thought. He wasn’t quite sure if his display had truly baffled the Romulans, whether it was some sort of instinctual precognition that had seen them through, or whether it was outright divine intervention… Whatever it was, the Ensign wasn’t in a fit state to question whatever blessing had delivered them to their destination, because the moment the Romulan flagship was within firing range, an almighty salvo of disruptor bursts had cascaded out towards them, and a very different type of dance began…

One thing was for certain,  whatever his piloting had looked like to a spectator, it had certainly caused something of a ruckus amongst the Romulans.

“Steady as you go Ensign,” The Commander spoke with a voice as calm as a glass of iced water, as Sylvain’s rhythmic foot-tapping dissolved into more of a frantic tap-dance under his console, the act of flying through a battle to the rhythm of a four-hundred year old song, proving to be far less taxing than enduring the full onslaught of a Romulan Flagship. “... Sylvain, take whatever evasive action is needed, but don’t back down from that ship. Let’s give them something to shoot at…”

Sylvain’s evasive patterns dialed up to something beyond even his own understanding, a string of incoherent manoeuvres cobbled together into a form that kept the Helmet from the worst of the Romulan flagship’s assault, only a handful of stray bursts scraping their shields as the Helmet unleashed volleys of photon torpedoes in response. Dozens of Romulan fighters swept at the Helmet like sheets of insects, as Sylvain’s fingers pressed so hard into the console that they threatened the leave streaks of blood in their wake, rolling beneath one assault run before having to bank away from streaks of disruptor fire erupting from the underbelly of the Romulan flagship, before another swarm of fighters closed from another angle.

Sylvain was lost in a miasma of battle, where even his hyper-analytical mind couldn’t make use of the fluctuating sensor information fast enough. The computer feed him data to enhance his own hodgepodge algorithms, as the boy operated on little more than sweat and instinct, his coppery hair plastered to his forehead as the conflict took him to his edge, and beyond. He had no time to think, no time to consider whether he was relying on his precognitive abilities, or if this was just the result of being an accomplished Starfleet pilot… He could agonise over that difference in his personal time... In the moment, he could only act, barely even aware of his own breathing, his own thoughts, as he swam through the maelstrom of battle in a manner that he never even considered possible, every twitch of his finger, the difference between taking a torpedo to their viewscreen, and them all living to see another day.
45
Episode 02: Cosmic Imperative / Re: EP 2 S: [D3 | 0015hrs] If You Want Blood, You Got It
Last post by Dumedion -
[Jaeih T’haelaa | Deck 11 | Vector 1] Attn: @all

The former Sentinel betrayed no outward reaction while Madsen spoke; her body remained perfectly passive – loose and relaxed by all outward appearance – yet her mind churned with possibilities. This new faction the diplomat spoke of introduced an unknown and unforeseen variable onto the board; a potentially problematic one, which left the Romulan momentarily stunned.

When Madsen concluded, inquiring as to Jaeih’s preference in the matter of dealing with Donatra, it took almost all of the Romulan’s considerable will to keep from laughing. Of course she’d timed her appearance precisely - Good intelligence work, indeed, the Sentinel thought with the faintest of smiles.

Her lips opened to speak when the scent registered – a hint of ozone, laced with v’rolia oil – a particularly nasty neurotoxin, derived from the refined spines of a species of crustacean from Romulus itself.

It was the only warning Jaeih had: The Agent, a Tal Shiar assassin bred and trained since birth, no doubt, moved in a blur of photo-electrical discharge as its cloak-suit fell away, slicing with a bladed weapon into the air her head had just occupied. She avoided total decapitation by leaning back and dropping down, with a push added to clear Madsen from danger, but the assassin was faster: a leg snapped up and caught Jaeih’s shoulder, launching her away – then he spun, cracking an elbow into the diplomats head – only to launch himself upon the armored Trill.

Jaeih heard metal striking metal as she was launched off her feet to the side, tumbled across the holographic table – sending the three-dimensional imagery there scattering into pixilated chaos – then cracked her face into the floor. She shook off the dazed confusion, as emerald eyes locked onto the prone, unmoving form of the Diplomat, LT Madsen. The human leaked a trail of blood from a nasty gash above her right eye where she had been hit, seemingly knocked unconscious.

“Madsen,” Jaeih hissed, but the human only whimpered weakly, so the Romulan flipped up to rejoin the fight instead – and was instantly seized by an electro-charged pulse of energy. With a silent scream, every muscle in her body locked tight, every nerve aflame. The pain was so intense, so sudden, the Romulan’s vision darkened as unconsciousness threatened, then swallowed her completely.

She woke with a start, moments or hours later, propped up against a wall. Slowly, through the pain and confusion, Jaeih realized two facts: one was that the fight with the Tal Shiar assassin had been concluded – judging by the amount of emerald and crimson blood splattered across the walls and pooled upon the carpet...

The other was the palpable sense of raw emotion rolling off the blood-stained Diplomat, watching her from the other side of the room where she knelt beside a particular spot, drenched arterial red, a hand pressed to the blood slicked wall.

“Lieutenant,” Jaeih grunted as she got to her feet, biting back the lingering pain of electrocution. “I...believe we have a score to settle with the Empress – shall we begin?” From the folds of her robe, the Romulan procured a single data chip and held it out. “I entrust this data with the understanding that I very well may not live to see the dawn of a new era for my people; yet I care not,” her eyes flicked to the bloodstains - reading the signs there of what had transpired. She chose her next words carefully, out of sincere respect:

“Some ideals are worth dying for: vengeance, justice, freedom…and loyalty, above all. Loyalty to those that remain, and those that might come after.”

[PO2 Kino Jeen | approximately six minutes earlier…]

It all happened too fast:

Madsen dropped in a heap, cold cocked by a nearly invisible assailant – but in the very same flowing movement, the Romulan cunt was sent flying...

Jeen’s rifle had only managed to barely track the attacker when she realized he – and it was a he – was on her; too close, too damn fast. The Accipator was knocked aside, but Kino pivoted with the momentum, turning the rifle into a shield against a flurry of slashing attacks. Three, four blocks, then Jeen countered with a lunged vertical strike, using her rifle as a bar, driving it into his face. With all the speed she could muster, Kino followed up with an elbow to the side of his exposed chin, then an attempted leg sweep – but the attacker countered – his body twisted, swiping the blade up and into the soft meat of her armpit – then out, and down the back of her forearm and hand.

The strike was so sudden, the pain so unexpected, Kino gasped, and ate the finisher she never saw coming:

The assassin took a single step back to open up space between them, then dropped and drove his elbow into her sternum with enough force to crack armor. Kino’s back slammed into the wall, struggling to breathe as her bruised sternum instantly clamped against the trauma. The following blows were met with raised arms as she pivoted and weaved – trying desperately to avoid fists and blade – but failing. Her head was cannoned to the side as the blade bit and sliced. Shoulder, collarbone, a piercing stab of agony to her side and ribs - blood arced in the air between them.

Then something hit Kino's abdomen with brutal force; it was a sledgehammer, mashed in deep – bone deep – soul deep. It drove the air from her lungs with such totality that she couldn’t even utter a sound, not at first. Only when her hand clamped over his as the bastard heaved upwards…that’s when she realized what happened:

His blade was sunk to the hilt in her guts.

Kino screamed, then – a cry of anguish, of rage, wrath – a bellow of defiance, a shout of denial – all of this and more. It was a call of a wounded animal, fighting for its life, and so she did: Kino lashed out with her mechanical limb, punch after punch, as the Romulan threatened to lift her off her feet in his attempt to carve her torso open. Her head thrust against his, once – twice – on the third, she managed to twist and yanked herself off his blade, driving him into the wall instead. Her hand clamped onto the side of his face, fingers hooked into his eyes and nostril, and she slammed his skull into the wall with every last iota of strength she possessed – again and again and again – then drove her knee up directly into his eye socket with a sickening crunch-pop of bone and organ.

Kino let the body fall back and collapsed to her knees beside him, vomiting a surge of hot, bitter blood. He wasn’t finished though, so neither was she – with a grunt of effort, the noncom pulled her combat blade from its sheath built into her thigh – and mounted the dazed, bloody bastard with a snarl of fury.

Her blade came down and sank deep, just below his neck. Kino froze, snarling through blood-frothed teeth, then ripped the blade to the side and out – opening his neck to the bone. Only then did she feel the cold ache in her chest, spreading into fire – into agonizing numbness. She shoved herself back, falling off his corpse to slam her back into the wall, then sank down on nerveless legs. The hilt of his blade stood out from her chest – just to the left of her sternum.

Kino blinked – too shocked to understand what was happening. She tried to speak, but only gurgled up more blood. Her vision swam, searching for Madsen, for the other Romulan, for anyone - but they were either dead, or knocked out - and she was alone.

She was alone.

Then Kino felt Jeen’s memories fade, even as she tried to reach for them, like a summer breeze through fingertips. Her hand felt through her ruined abdomen, confirming what she could already feel: the Jeen symbiote lay just beneath the ragged cleaved open flesh - carved apart with her. A cry of bitter heartache gurgled from her abused lips: She couldn’t feel them anymore. Couldn’t remember all those lives, all that love, all the…

Reika.

Kino felt herself try to gasp for air through blood-filled lungs as she slowly slid to the side – unable to keep herself upright any longer.

Reika I’m so sorry, she tried to speak, but she wasn’t capable of speech anymore. Her body twitched in desperation, oxygen starved nerves firing on instinct as her vision clouded with red-tinted darkness. Cold numbness, agonizing beyond anything she’d ever known, spread out across her body as the life drained away with every pump of her fluttering, spasm-wracked heart.

R-Rieka…I…

Kino was drowning in darkness, until darkness took her completely. It took the pain, the loss, the grief and rage...It took everything she ever was and might have one day been...

With that finality, the apology that Kino had tried so hard to say left her split and bruised lips as a gurgled sigh…

…and took her life with it.
46
Episode 02: Cosmic Imperative / Re: Epi 2 [ D02 | 2300 hrs.] All Squared up at the Triangle
Last post by Ellen Fitz -
[ Ensign Karen Duncan | Cryogenic Stasis | Deck 11 | USS Theurgy | D03 0100hrs ] @Brutus @Nolan @ob2lander961 @chXinya @Dumedion @Griff @rae @Stegro88 @Eirual @RyeTanker @tongieboi @Number6 @Hans Applegate @Pierce @joshs1000 @Nesota Kynnovan @Krajin @P.C. Haring @TWilkins @Eden @SomeBunny

Her hands were shaking. She couldn't make them stop.

Karen worked quickly despite the tremor in her fingers, checking the cryochamber's readings for the third time in as many seconds. Everything had to be perfect. Absolutely perfect. There would be no second chances, no room for error. Not with this patient.

Captain Ives lay before her, barely clinging to life.

The captain's breathing was shallow, assisted entirely by the biobed's life support systems. Pale skin—so pale it seemed translucent under the harsh medical lighting—was marred by burns and trauma that made Karen's stomach clench even after years of medical training that should have inured her to such sights. The injuries were catastrophic. The kind of injuries that should have killed someone immediately.

Would have killed someone, if not for...

"Readings are stable," Doctor Nicander's voice cut through her spiraling thoughts. The Câroon physician moved with practiced efficiency, his hands steady where hers trembled, though Karen couldn't help but notice the armed security officers flanking him on either side, their weapons never wavering from ready positions. "We need to initiate the cryogenic process now. Petty Officer Timmons, confirm the matter stream preservation protocols held."

The sight of those guards—fingers on triggers, eyes hard and watchful—should have been disturbing. Would have been disturbing under normal circumstances. But these weren't normal circumstances. Doctor Nicander was Infested. Had been Infested for who knew how long. Was still Infested, the parasite lurking somewhere inside him even as he worked to save their captain's life.

The irony wasn't lost on her. Neither was the desperate necessity that had led to this moment.

"Confirmed, Doctor." Timmons' voice came from the engineering console he'd practically welded himself to since they'd begun this desperate gambit. The petty officer looked exhausted, his face drawn and haggard, but his eyes were sharp as he monitored the readouts. "The captain's pattern remained stable in the buffer throughout the engagement. It was... it was close, sir. We lost power twice. Had to reroute from auxiliary systems to keep the buffer from degrading."

Karen felt her breath catch. The buffer. They'd kept Captain Ives suspended in a transporter matter stream for the duration of the battle—hours of violent engagement, of ship-to-ship combat, of systems failing and power fluctuating. One wrong surge, one failed conduit, one moment of instability, and the captain would have been lost forever, scattered into nothingness like static on a viewscreen.

But somehow, impossibly, it had worked.

She'd heard the story in fragments, pieced together from hurried conversations and terse reports. The accident aboard the Allegiant had been catastrophic—Captain Ives wounded so terribly that conventional transport was impossible. Materializing in that condition would have killed the captain instantly. And there, in the makeshift brig where they'd confined him, Doctor Nicander had heard what happened. Had demanded to be released. Had argued with his captors—argued that he could save the captain, that the Infested inside him wanted Ives dead but he didn't, that he could fight it long enough to do what needed to be done.

It must have been an impossible decision. Trust an Infested. Let him out of confinement during a battle when he could sabotage everything, when the parasite could take control at any moment and finish what the accident had started. Risk everything on the word of a man who wasn't entirely himself anymore.

But they'd done it. They'd released him, surrounded him with armed guards—the same guards who stood in Sickbay now, watching his every movement—and he'd worked with Timmons to do something that should have been impossible: suspended the captain mid-transport. Held in the pattern buffer, neither here nor there, preserved in a state of quantum uncertainty while the battle raged around them.

It was brilliant. It was insane. It was the kind of desperate improvisation that defined life aboard the Theurgy.

And it had required trusting a man possessed by their greatest enemy.

"Initiating cryogenic suspension," Doctor Nicander announced, his hands moving across the controls with the confidence of someone who had done this too many times before. His movements were careful, deliberate—not just because of the delicate nature of the work, the nurse realized, but because any sudden motion might be interpreted as hostile by the guards whose weapons never wavered from their target. "Nurse, monitor the captain's vital signs. Alert me immediately if there's any fluctuation."

"Yes, Doctor." Her voice came out steadier than she felt, muscle memory and training overriding emotion. Her eyes locked onto the biobed readouts, watching as the captain's already slow heartbeat began to decrease further, metabolism slowing as the cryogenic process took hold.

The chamber began to seal, transparent aluminum sliding into place with a pneumatic hiss that sounded too final, too much like a coffin closing. The nurse wanted to reach out, to stop it, to do something other than stand here and watch as their captain—the person who had led them through impossible odds, who had kept them together when the entire Federation wanted them dead, who had believed in them when no one else would—was locked away in frozen stasis.

"Captain..." The word slipped out before she could stop it, barely a whisper.

Doctor Nicander's eyes flicked to her, not unkind despite the intensity of the moment. "The captain will survive," he said quietly, though whether he was reassuring her or himself, she couldn't tell. "This gives us time. Time for the wounds to stabilize, time to develop treatment protocols, time for..." He trailed off, leaving the rest unsaid.

Time for what? Time to figure out how to save someone who by all rights should already be dead? Time to hope that medical technology would advance enough to repair damage this severe? Time to pray?

The chamber sealed completely, and the nurse watched as frost began to form on the interior surfaces, watched as the captain's chest rose and fell one last time before the suspension fully took hold and all movement ceased. Frozen. Preserved. Alive, technically, but so far from living that the distinction felt meaningless.

"Readings are stable," she reported mechanically, because that's what she was supposed to do. Report. Function. Be professional. "Cryogenic suspension holding at optimal parameters."

"Good." Doctor Nicander stepped back from the chamber, his expression unreadable. His hands remained visible, non-threatening—a conscious choice, the nurse realized, to avoid spooking the guards. "Petty Officer Timmons, I recommend that you archive all transporter buffer data. A complete record of every second the captain spent in suspension. You may need it for the revival protocol."

The slight emphasis on you wasn't lost on anyone in the room.

"Already done." Timmons looked like he might collapse where he stood. "I've encrypted it with every security protocol I know. No one's accessing that data without authorization from Commander Stark or..." He hesitated, glancing at Nicander, then at the guards.

"Or whoever Commander Stark designates," Nicander finished for him, his voice carefully neutral. "I..." He paused, something flickering across his face—pain, perhaps, or regret. "I would appreciate being informed of any updates to the captain's condition. But I recognize that I don't have a right to that information. Not anymore."

The admission hung heavy in the air. The nurse felt her throat tighten. Here was a man who had just saved their captain's life through impossible means, who had fought against the thing inside him long enough to preserve the one person who mattered most to this crew—and he knew that none of it absolved him. Knew that he was still compromised, still dangerous, still the enemy wearing a familiar face.

One of the security guards—a hard-faced woman whose name Karen didn't know—spoke for the first time. "Doctor Nicander, you'll be escorted back to the brig now." It wasn't a question.

"Of course." Nicander's hands remained visible, movements slow and deliberate as he stepped away from the medical equipment. "I understand completely." His eyes found the cryochamber one last time, lingering on the frost-covered surface that obscured Captain Ives' face. "I'm... I'm glad we were able to do this. Whatever happens to me, whatever the thing inside me wants—this was worth it."

Karen watched as the guards moved into formation around him, weapons still ready, still watchful. Watched as Doctor Nicander—who had just performed medical miracles under impossible conditions—was led away like a prisoner. Which, she supposed, he was. Even heroes could be compromised. Even brilliant physicians could harbor enemies within their own flesh.

It was the cruel mathematics of their situation: trust was a luxury they couldn't afford, even when necessity demanded they extend it temporarily.

"Ma'am?" Timmons' voice was quiet, tired. "Are you alright?"

Karen realized she'd been staring at the doorway through which Nicander and his handlers had disappeared. She blinked, forcing herself back to the present, back to the work that remained. "I'm... yes. I'm fine."

She wasn't fine. None of them were fine. But they would function anyway, because that's what the situation demanded.

Commander Stark.

Right.

Karen felt reality crash back down around her with that thought. Commander Stark was in command now. The captain—their captain—was gone. Not dead, not exactly, but gone nonetheless. Locked away in frozen sleep while the ship continued to face threats that hadn't diminished just because one person fell.
What happened now? What happened to a crew that had followed their captain through hell and back, only to have that captain taken away at the moment when leadership was most needed? The battle was over—at least this battle—but the war continued. The Infested were still out there. The conspiracy still spread through the Federation like a cancer. Enemies surrounded them on all sides.

And Captain Ives was frozen in a tube, unable to lead, unable to guide, unable to do anything but exist in the space between life and death. Saved by an enemy who had fought against his own nature long enough to be their salvation.

Karen felt tears prick at her eyes and angrily blinked them away. Not here. Not now. There would be time for grief later, time to process what this meant, time to mourn the loss of the person who had kept them all together through impossible circumstances.

Behind her, the cryochamber hummed its steady preservation song. Captain Ives slept in frozen suspension. And somewhere in the brig, Doctor Nicander was being locked away again, the guards who had watched him save a life now ensuring he couldn't take others.

Karen squared her shoulders, wiped at her eyes one final time, and returned to work. Because that's what they did aboard the Theurgy. They kept going. They survived.
[ Commander Stark  | Bridge | USS Theurgy | The Triangle ]

The bridge was still thick with the hum of systems recovering from the battle when Lieutenant Madsen’s voice came over the comms—uneven at first, broken by static and interference. Then, clarity cut through.

[“Thalaron weapon neutralized. Donatra’s ship disabled. Donatra herself… is no longer a threat.”]

For a moment, Natalie Stark didn’t breathe. The words hung in the air like a lifeline, and when she finally exhaled, it felt as though the entire ship joined her. Shoulders eased, the silence that followed not one of dread, but of dawning relief. The impossible threat—the thalaron weapon—was gone.

But that relief lasted only seconds.

The next report came from Sickbay, and it struck harder than any blow the Romulans could deliver. Captain Ives had survived—but just barely. The damage was too extensive for their medtech to handle, compounded by his unique physiology. It had been Doctor Nicander—against every expectation—who had kept the Captain alive long enough for the transfer to stasis.

Nicander himself had returned to the brig afterward, without resistance, without a word. Stark didn’t know yet what to feel about that—whether gratitude outweighed distrust, or if either emotion mattered now. The baggage she carried about that man could fill a shuttle and there was nothing she could do about it. Could not let it play into her judgment. All she knew was that the Captain still breathed because of him.

And the Savi… silence. Hails unanswered. If they weren’t coming back, then there was no telling when—or if—Ives could ever be revived.

A soft tone pulled her back to the present. Long-range sensors had picked up multiple Starfleet signatures, closing fast. She checked the readout herself—her pulse quickening despite her effort to stay composed.

Several ships. Federation registry. One transponder unmistakable.

The Presidential flagship.

They would arrive within three hours.

The realization settled over her like cold water. Whatever this new chapter would bring, they had little time to prepare.

She rose from the command chair—his chair—and faced the bridge crew. Fatigue lined every face, but so did resolve. They’d fought, they’d survived, and now they looked to her.

“The battle is over,” she said, her voice steady despite the knot in her chest. “Donatra’s ship has been captured. A few Romulan runabouts escaped the field, but the rest have stood down and are willing to negotiate.”

She took a breath before continuing.

“Captain Ives has been placed in a cryo-stasis chamber. His condition is critical, and until further notice, I am assuming command of the Theurgy.”

The words felt too large, too final, but she pressed on.

“Multiple Starfleet vessels are inbound, including the Presidential flagship. They’ll reach our coordinates within three hours. I want full damage and casualty reports submitted by then. Every ship in our task group needs to be reintegrated and as ready as possible—we have no idea what to expect when the President arrives.”

She turned toward the tactical station. “Signal our Klingon allies. Inform them of the incoming Starfleet fleet and advise them to stand down until we know the President’s intentions.”

Then, to communications: “Maintain open channels with the Romulan forces. Begin coordinating for a diplomatic meeting in a neutral location—preferably aboard Theurgy—once we’ve established contact with the Starfleet vessels.”

Acknowledgments came quickly, the crew already moving with the quiet precision of those too tired for hesitation. Reports scrolled across consoles, voices rose in controlled exchange, and the ship began to feel alive again—wounded, but breathing.

Stark stood a moment longer, watching them, feeling the weight of command settle fully onto her shoulders. She thought of Ives lying in cold suspension, of Nicander returning to his cell, of the uncertain fleet speeding toward them under the Federation’s banner.

Whatever came next, there would be no pause. No reprieve.

She sank back into the command chair, hands tightening on the armrests as the stars beyond the viewport drifted past—steady, silent, and indifferent.

The battle was over.

But command had truly begun.
[ Ambassador Elim Garak | Observation Deck | Paris One | Approaching Coordinates near the Romulan Neutral Zone ]

The stars stretched before him in their infinite, indifferent beauty—a tapestry of light against the void that had witnessed countless civilizations rise and fall with equal dispassion. Garak stood with his hands clasped loosely behind his back, his reflection ghosting across the viewport's surface like a specter from some half-remembered nightmare. How fitting, he mused, that he should appear so insubstantial when recent events had proven just how fragile the veneer of civilization truly was.

It had been a near thing, their escape from the brig. President Bacco had proven herself to be remarkably composed under pressure—a quality Garak had always appreciated in his adversaries and allies alike, though the line between the two had become delightfully blurred in recent days. The chaos following Admiral Abrik's attempted coup had provided just enough cover for them to reach the Jeffries tubes, and from there... well, desperation made for creative solutions.

Doctor Marlowe's broadcast had been their salvation, ironically enough. Once the crew of the Paris One had witnessed the simulcast—the real events on Qo'noS, not the sanitized fiction the Infested had been peddling—the atmosphere aboard ship had shifted dramatically. The president's order to screen every crew member had been met with surprisingly little resistance. Perhaps that spoke to how deeply the rot had spread, that people were relieved to prove their humanity rather than offended by the implication they might not be human at all.

The screening had revealed only one other compromised individual: Admiral Abrik himself, who now occupied the very cell Garak had so recently vacated. There was a certain poetic justice in that, though Garak found poetry poor consolation when weighed against the broader implications. If a man of Abrik's position had been compromised, how many others throughout Starfleet, throughout the Federation, remained undiscovered?

The straitjacket had been necessary. The parasite had driven Abrik to attempt self-termination three times before they'd restrained him properly. Watching the admiral—a man who had commanded fleets and advised presidents—reduced to a thrashing, foam-flecked creature had been... illuminating. And deeply unsettling.

The sound of approaching footsteps pulled Garak from his reverie. He didn't turn; he recognized the president's measured gait, accompanied by the heavier tread of at least two security personnel. They were taking no chances now.

"Ambassador Garak." President Bacco moved to stand beside him at the viewport, her gaze following his toward the stars. She looked tired—the kind of exhaustion that settled into bones and stayed there. "According to our latest scans, we're approaching the remains of a significant engagement. Ships from multiple powers: Klingon, Romulan, Reman..." She paused, and Garak could hear the weight in that silence. "And the Theurgy."

"Ah." Garak allowed himself a slight smile. "The renegades, as they've been so colorfully termed. Though I suspect that particular designation may require revision in the official records."

"Among other things." Bacco's lips compressed into a thin line. "The question is, Ambassador, what do we do when we arrive? I've spent the last hour trying to formulate an approach, and I find myself at something of a loss."

"You might start with a simple thank you," Garak suggested, his tone deceptively mild. "I understand Starfleet has been rather remiss in expressing gratitude to those who've been fighting to preserve the Federation while being hunted by it. A touch of appreciation might go a long way toward establishing productive dialogue."

The president turned to look at him directly, one eyebrow raised. "Sarcasm noted, Ambassador. But you're not wrong." She sighed, the sound carrying the weight of worlds. "The problem extends far beyond this moment, this ship, these coordinates. The rest of the Federation is only just beginning to wake up to the threat. And many—too many—still aren't buying it."

"Ah yes, the eternal challenge of truth versus comfortable fiction." Garak tilted his head thoughtfully. "Tell me, Madam President, of those who refuse to believe, how many do you suspect are compromised themselves, and how many are simply engaged in that most human of behaviors: denial?"

"That's the hell of it—I don't know." Bacco's hands clenched at her sides. "Not all disbelief stems from infestation. Some people genuinely can't accept that they've been deceived on this scale. Others have political or personal reasons to reject the narrative. Sorting the compromised from the merely obstinate is going to take time we may not have."

"And then there's the diplomatic quagmire," Garak continued smoothly, warming to his theme. "The Romulans who bombed Paris—how many were Infested, and how many were simply following orders from those who were? It's the oldest defense in the book, and one of the most difficult to refute."

"Just following orders." The president's voice was flat, hollow. "As if that absolves them of responsibility."

"It doesn't, of course." Garak turned to face her fully now, his blue eyes sharp despite the casual tone. "But it does complicate matters considerably. You cannot simply execute every Romulan officer who participated in that atrocity—many were acting on legitimate orders from their chain of command. They believed they were serving their Empire. Punishing them as war criminals when they were, in essence, tools of the Infested... well, that creates its own set of diplomatic nightmares, doesn't it?"

Bacco closed her eyes briefly, and when she opened them again, Garak saw the steel beneath her exhaustion. "The radicalization aspect makes it worse. Most of those involved weren't Infested themselves—they'd simply been conditioned by Infested superiors to view the Federation as an existential threat. How do you prosecute someone for being successfully manipulated?"

"You don't," Garak said simply. "At least, not in the traditional sense. But you must do something, or risk appearing weak to those who demand justice for the dead. It's a delicate balance—accountability without vengeance, justice without genocide. Threading that needle will require..." He paused, allowing himself a small, sardonic smile. "Well, it will require someone comfortable swimming in murky waters."

The president surprised him by laughing—a short, sharp bark of sound that held more irony than humor. "That's one way to put it. Ambassador, I'm glad you're here. I'm going to need someone who can navigate the grey areas we're about to enter. And from what I understand of your reputation, you're rather adept at finding your way through the shadows."

"You flatter me, Madam President." Garak's smile widened fractionally. "Though I note you stop just short of calling me a spy, a liar, and a master manipulator. How very diplomatic of you."

"I'm calling you an asset," Bacco corrected, her tone brooking no argument. "One I intend to utilize fully in the days ahead. We're about to walk into a situation that makes first contact with the Borg look straightforward by comparison. Multiple powers, multiple agendas, and an existential threat wearing the faces of people we trusted. If we're going to navigate this successfully, I need people who understand that sometimes the right thing and the legal thing aren't the same thing."

"How refreshingly pragmatic of you." Garak returned his gaze to the viewport, where the coordinates were growing closer with each passing moment. "Very well, Madam President. I accept your implicit offer of employment in this dubious enterprise. Though I do have one question."

"Which is?"

"When we arrive, and you extend your gratitude to Captain Ives and the crew of the Theurgy, will you be doing so as the President of the United Federation of Planets?" Garak's voice was soft, almost gentle. "Or as a fugitive president whose authority has been compromised by the very conspiracy we're trying to expose? Because that distinction, I'm afraid, will matter a great deal to how your words are received."

The silence that followed was heavy with implications. Finally, Bacco spoke, her voice carrying a strength that age and exhaustion couldn't diminish.

"I'll be doing so as both, Ambassador. As a president who acknowledges her government has been infiltrated and her authority questioned, but who nonetheless represents the legitimate civilian authority of the Federation. And as a woman who owes her life to the very people my government has been trying to destroy." She straightened her shoulders, lifting her chin. "If that makes me a fugitive president, so be it. But I'm still the president, and I intend to act like it."

"Good." Garak nodded approvingly. "Because they'll respect honesty far more than false certainty. These are people who've been lied about, hunted, and forced to make impossible choices while the Federation they swore to protect branded them traitors. They'll see through any attempt at political posturing in an instant."

"Then I'll give them truth instead." Bacco turned from the viewport, her security detail shifting to accommodate her movement. "Thank you, Ambassador. For the reminder, if nothing else, that this is going to require a level of honesty politicians aren't usually comfortable with."

"My pleasure, Madam President." Garak watched her go, then returned his attention to the stars.

Somewhere ahead, in the coordinates they approached, lay the Theurgy and whatever remained of the forces that had engaged them. Klingons, Romulans, Remans—a powder keg of interstellar tensions given form and fleet. And at the center of it all, a ship full of people who had sacrificed everything to expose a truth no one wanted to hear.

How very familiar that felt.

Garak's reflection smiled back at him from the viewport's surface, and for once, there was something genuine in the expression. They were swimming toward murky waters indeed, but murky waters had always been his natural habitat.

The game, as they said, was afoot.

And this time, perhaps, he was playing on the right side.
[ Dr. James Hudson Marlowe | Personal Office | SS Liberum | En Route to Classified Repair Facility ]

The smell of burnt circuitry and scorched metal still clung to everything despite the ship's environmental systems working overtime. Marlowe had grown almost accustomed to it—just another reminder of how close they'd come to being silenced permanently. The droids' attack had cost them dearly: Amy, Sil, and too many crew members whose names he kept running through his mind like a litany of the fallen.

But they were alive. Battered, bloodied, and limping toward one of Jaal's "trusted" facilities for repairs, but alive. And more importantly, still broadcasting when they could manage it.

Marlowe hunched over his desk, the blue glow of multiple PADDs illuminating his haggard features. Sleep remained an elusive luxury—every time he closed his eyes, he saw Amy's lifeless face, her body draped over the console she'd died protecting. So he worked instead, compiling data, cross-referencing reports, following the threads of information that continued to filter in through Jaal's classified channels.

The latest batch of intelligence had his full attention.

Reports of major engagement near Romulan Neutral Zone. Multiple fleet elements: Klingon Empire, Romulan Star Empire, Reman forces. Unconfirmed reports place USS Theurgy at center of conflict. Casualty estimates unavailable. Outcome: inconclusive.

Marlowe read the words for the fourth time, his fingers drumming an anxious rhythm against the desk's edge. The Theurgy. Of course it would be the Theurgy. That ship had become the fulcrum upon which the fate of the Federation seemed to balance—a vessel full of people branded traitors who were actually the last line of defense against an enemy most still refused to acknowledge existed.

Enyd was on that ship. His former student, his friend—the stubborn woman who'd somehow ended up caught in the middle of this nightmare and who'd been part of the team that had rescued him from that Federation brig on Qo'noS. He'd seen her then, alive and determined, but that felt like a lifetime ago. Was she still alive now? Had she survived whatever battle had taken place near the Neutral Zone?

"Is that where it happens?" he murmured to the empty office. "Is that where we find out if truth wins, or if comfortable lies continue to rule the day?"

The battle—if the reports could be believed—had been significant. Fleet-level engagement, multiple powers, near the border that had defined generations of tension between the Federation and Romulan Star Empire. The implications were staggering. Had the Theurgy been destroyed? Had they somehow survived? Were they even now making their case to powers who might actually listen?

Or was this all just another elaborate trap, another manipulation by the Infested to consolidate their control?

The chime at his office door interrupted his spiraling thoughts. "Come in," he called out, straightening in his chair and wincing as his body reminded him he'd been sitting in the same position for too long.

One of his newer research aides—Keera, a young Denobulan woman who'd joined his team after the embassy incident—entered with a PADD clutched tightly in both hands. Her typically cheerful expression was replaced by something that looked like a mix of excitement and frustration.

"James, we just received something through our Orion channels. You need to see this."

Marlowe gestured for her to continue, already reaching for another coffee that had long since gone cold. "I'm listening."

"One of our Orion informants—the reliable one, Vexis—just sent through intelligence about a major gathering being organized." Keera's wide eyes betrayed her nervousness. "We're talking about representatives from the Orions, the Tzenkethi Coalition, the Holy Order of the Kinshaya, the Gorn Hegemony, the Tholian Assembly, and the Breen Confederacy."

The coffee cup froze halfway to Marlowe's lips. Slowly, deliberately, he set it back down on the desk, his full attention now locked on his aide. "All of them? Meeting together? That's... that's unprecedented. Those powers barely tolerate each other under normal circumstances."

"Exactly." Keera nodded vigorously, her enthusiasm for the discovery momentarily overriding her concern. "According to Vexis, the meeting is scheduled to take place in or near Breen space within the next few weeks. The stated purpose is 'mutual security concerns regarding recent destabilization in the Alpha and Beta Quadrants.'"

"Destabilization." Marlowe's laugh was sharp and bitter. "What a wonderfully sanitized way to describe whatever the hell is actually going on." He leaned forward, hands clasped on the desk. "Do we have coordinates? Specific location? Timeline?"

Keera's expression shifted, and there it was—the frustration he'd noticed when she first entered. "That's where it gets complicated."

"Of course it does." Marlowe sighed, already knowing what was coming.

"Vexis has the information. Precise coordinates, attendee list, security arrangements, even the agenda topics." Keera's voice took on an edge that was decidedly un-Denobulan-like in its sharpness. "But that information is behind what they're calling a 'premium access fee.'"

"How much?"

Keera met his eyes, and Marlowe saw genuine anger there. She rolled her eyes dramatically before answering. "Enough to buy six ships like the Liberum and fund full pensions for our entire crew, their children, and their grandchildren."

The silence that followed was thunderous. Marlowe felt his hands curl into fists on the desktop, his knuckles white with tension. When he spoke, his voice was dangerously quiet—the kind of quiet that made his crew know he was truly furious rather than merely frustrated.

"Let me see if I understand this correctly." Each word was precisely enunciated, controlled. "We have credible intelligence about a gathering of powers—powers that have historically been hostile to or at least deeply suspicious of the Federation—meeting in secret to discuss 'mutual security concerns' at precisely the moment when we've just exposed a massive infiltration conspiracy. A conspiracy that's almost certainly not limited to Federation and Klingon space." He paused, his jaw clenching. "This gathering could very well involve Infested representatives pushing their agenda to expand beyond their current scope. And the only thing preventing us from investigating this clear and present threat is..." He spat the words. "A paywall."

"That's exactly the situation." Keera's voice was tight with shared frustration.

Marlowe exploded from his chair, pacing the small office like a caged predator. "This is exactly what they count on! Information locked behind financial barriers, truth available only to those who can afford it, while the rest of the galaxy stumbles blindly toward catastrophe!" He spun to face Keera, his expression fierce. "This gathering—if it's real, and I suspect it is—could represent the next phase of whatever the hell the Infested are planning. If they've managed to infiltrate the Federation and Klingon Empire, what's stopping them from having agents among the Tzenkethi? The Breen? Any of these powers?"

"Which would explain why they're suddenly willing to meet together," Keera finished softly. "Someone's coordinating this. Someone's feeding them information, probably painting the Federation and Klingons as aggressive threats that require a unified response."

"Exactly." Marlowe resumed his pacing, his mind racing through scenarios and possibilities. "But we can't prove any of this without evidence. We can't investigate without the coordinates. And we can't get the coordinates without credits we don't have and couldn't justify spending if we did, all based on the word of one Orion informant—however reliable—selling intelligence to the highest bidder."

He stopped at the viewport, staring out at the stars streaking past in their limping warp trajectory. Somewhere out there, the Theurgy was fighting—or had fought—a battle that might determine everything. Enyd was out there somewhere, alive or dead, he didn't know which. And somewhere else, in or near Breen space, another threat was coalescing, one that could determine the long-term survival of everything worth protecting.

And he was stuck on a damaged ship, too poor to buy the information needed to investigate, too controversial to be taken seriously by most official channels even if he tried to share what little he knew.

"James?" Keera's voice was hesitant. "What do you want me to do?"

Marlowe turned from the viewport, his expression settling into something grimly determined. "Put together everything we have. Cross-reference the known intelligence with historical data on similar gatherings—if there have been any. Pull up everything we know about recent Breen, Tzenkethi, Kinshaya, Gorn, Tholian, and Orion movements. Trade patterns, diplomatic communiqués, military deployments—anything that might give us a clue about where this meeting could be taking place."

"You want me to try to triangulate the location?" Understanding dawned in Keera's eyes. "Use circumstantial evidence to narrow down the possibilities?"

"Exactly. We may not be able to pinpoint it precisely, but we might be able to identify likely candidates. Breen space is vast, but there are only so many locations that would be suitable for a gathering of this magnitude and political sensitivity." Marlowe moved back to his desk, already pulling up star charts and strategic analyses. "Look for locations with strategic significance, defendable positions, places with existing infrastructure that could support multiple diplomatic parties, somewhere remote enough to maintain secrecy but accessible enough for representatives from six different powers to reach without arousing suspicion."

Keera nodded, her fingers already flying across her PADD as she made notes. "I'll have a preliminary analysis ready within six hours. Maybe twelve for anything comprehensive."

"Good. And Keera?" Marlowe caught her attention as she turned to leave. "Keep this quiet. I don't want anyone outside our immediate research team knowing what we're working on. If word gets back to Vexis that we're trying to circumvent the paywall, we might lose access to the channel entirely."

"Understood." She paused at the door, her expression troubled. "James, even if we do narrow down the location... what then? We're not a military vessel. We can't investigate a meeting of potentially hostile powers on our own, and we don't have the resources to pay for the intelligence that would let us pass it to someone who could."

"I know." Marlowe's voice was heavy with frustration. "But we do what we can with what we have. Maybe we get lucky and piece together enough information to make a credible case. Maybe we don't, but at least we tried. And maybe..." He trailed off, thinking of a certain Starfleet lieutenant who'd proven herself trustworthy. "Maybe there's someone who can act on it if we can verify enough of it."

After Keera left, Marlowe sank back into his chair, the weight of exhaustion and responsibility settling over him like a physical force. The office felt smaller now, the walls closing in as the magnitude of what they faced became clearer. Two potential flashpoints—the situation near the Neutral Zone and this gathering in Breen space—and he was effectively powerless to impact either directly.

His gaze fell on his communications console, and a thought began to crystallize. There was someone he could try to contact. Someone who had proven herself uncompromised. Someone who was, theoretically, right in the middle of whatever was happening near the Neutral Zone.

Enyd Madsen.

If she was still alive. If the Theurgy had survived. If any of them had made it through whatever engagement had taken place. Those were a lot of ifs, but Enyd had always been resourceful, brilliant, and stubborn enough to survive impossible situations. He had to believe she was still out there.

But could he risk it? Reaching out to someone aboard the Theurgy meant potentially exposing his location, his operations, his crew. They'd just barely survived one assassination attempt. How many more would come if he made himself that visible?

And yet... if he didn't try, if this threat went uninvestigated simply because of financial barriers and his own caution, how many people would die? How much territory would fall to the Infested's expanding influence?

Marlowe stared at the console for a long moment, weighing the risks against the potential cost of inaction. Finally, with a heavy sigh, he activated a secondary encryption protocol—one of the secure channels Jaal had provided for emergencies—and began composing a message. Not to send immediately, but to have ready if Keera's analysis yielded anything substantive enough to justify the risk.

To: Lieutenant Enyd Isolde Madsen, USS Theurgy From: James

Enyd,

I don't even know if you're still alive to read this. I don't know if the Theurgy survived whatever happened near the Neutral Zone—reports are fragmented at best, contradictory at worst. But I have to hope you made it through. You always were too stubborn to let something like a fleet engagement slow you down.
I'm writing because I've stumbled onto something that has my instincts screaming that it's important, but I'm stuck behind the usual barriers of credits and access. You know how this works—truth is expensive, and I'm apparently not rich enough to afford it at the moment.

Here's what I know: There's going to be a meeting. A big one. Orions, Tzenkethi, Kinshaya, Gorn, Tholians, and Breen—all of them gathering somewhere in or near Breen space in the next few weeks to discuss "mutual security concerns regarding recent destabilization." Which, let's be honest, is a euphemism if I've ever heard one.

Now, I can't prove this, but my gut says the Infested have their fingers in this somehow. We know they've infiltrated the Federation and the Klingon Empire—what's to stop them from having agents among these other powers? And if they do, this gathering could be exactly the kind of coordination effort that turns bad into catastrophic. A multi-front coalition against the Federation, all based on paranoia and manipulation fed to them by parasites wearing familiar faces.

The problem is, I can't get the specific coordinates or details without paying an amount that would bankrupt me six times over. So my team and I are trying to triangulate possible locations using circumstantial evidence and historical patterns. It's a long shot, but it's what we've got.

If we manage to narrow it down to something actionable—and that's a big if—I wanted you to know about it. Or whoever in Starfleet isn't compromised and might actually be able to investigate. You proved yourself uncompromised when you helped get me out of that brig on Qo'noS. I trust you, Enyd. Which is saying something given how few people I trust these days.

My crew took heavy casualties recently. Lost my assistants, Amy and Sil, along with too many others. We were attacked by droids—someone really wanted us silenced. But we're still here, still broadcasting when we can, still digging for truth in all the uncomfortable places.

Happy hunting,

James

P.S. — If you're not alive to read this and someone else is going through your messages, please don't immediately arrest me. I'm one of the good guys, I swear. Probably.

He saved the draft message, encrypted it with multiple layers of security, and leaned back in his chair. The tone was far less formal than anything he'd normally send to someone in Starfleet, but Enyd had never been just another officer to him. She'd been his student, his friend, almost something more if either of them had ever slowed down enough to move beyond initial flirtation, someone who shared his passion for understanding truth even when it was complicated and uncomfortable. If anyone would understand what he was trying to do, it would be her.

When Keera's analysis was complete, when they had something more concrete than an Orion informant's expensive offer, he would decide whether to send it. Until then, they would do what they'd always done: dig for truth with whatever tools they had, refusing to let barriers—financial or otherwise—stop them from exposing threats to the people who deserved to know they existed.

Even if those people still weren't entirely ready to believe.

GM Note: This concludes the battle sequence and, technically, the main portion of the episode. We will be moving into the Epilogue next, which will feature the arrival of the Starfleet vessels and the subsequent meetings with the Remans, Klingons, Romulans, and the President.

Everyone should make one last post in this thread of your characters (where they are, how they receive this information Stark just shared, etc).

The ships are not reintegrated YET, but they will be by the time the Epilogue starts. You can do supplementary threads during the 3 hr in between to your heart's delight using S: D03 0100 hrs onward till 0300, understanding that the Ranger will be reintegrating with the Helmet during that time, and the Allegiant and Apache will be returning to the hangar as well. Starting at D03 0400 hrs, it will change to Epilogue.
47
Main OOC Board / Re: Main OOC Thread
Last post by rae -
... INCOMING TRANSMISSION ...

Greetings Theurgists!

IT'S ALIVVVVVVVE!

As you might have noticed, our website has been down for a few days. But don’t worry, we’re not going anywhere! We’re back, here to stay, and now free of the scalping AI’s that were taking up all of our server space.

Shoutout to our fearless leader @Brutus for working with our webhost to get all the new code up!

To past members, fans, and anyone else who can’t get notifications from our discord, sorry for the scare!

48
Interregnum 01-02 S2 / Re: Day 08 [0830 hrs.] Can you take me higher?
Last post by Nesota Kynnovan -
[Ensign Jaya Thorne | Holodeck 05 | Deck 21 | Vector 03 | USS Theurgy]
Attn: @Pierce @Brutus

From where she was standing, leaning against the Mission Ops console with her arms folded across her chest, Jaya presented the holographic representation of the ship with a smile when the woman appeared. She listened how Thea cleared her throat and spoke up on a stern tone, which instantly prompted Jaya to unfold her arms and lower them in surprise over being addressed like that. It was completely unwarranted, at least from Jaya’s perspective, and it immediately annoyed her that Thea talked to her like that. Before she could think of a way to reply however, Strawberry Shortcake chose to speak up and explain their reasons for training new combat manoeuvres.

And when Lauren did, Jaya immediately understood why Thea had been so stern. Upon hearing how Ensign Pierce explained that they were supposed to lose an article of clothing for each failed attempt, Jaya realized that there’d been a serious misunderstanding between them. It became even worse when Jaya saw that Lauren turned around ever so slightly in her seat to look at her, and she could clearly see the hurt look of surprise and downright betrayal on Shortcake’s face as the other woman realized the severity of their miscommunication. To Jaya, it was probably that particular look on Lauren’s face that hurt her the most and, now completely at a loss of words, she turned her own attention to the Mission Ops console in front of her while she tried to think of something to say.

By the time Jaya looked up again, her attention drawn by movement coming from Lauren’s CONN station, she still wasn’t entirely sure how she felt about this entire situation, let alone what to say. When she saw how Lauren stood up, allowing most of her clothes to fall to the floor and leaving her standing in just a pair of panties and an unzipped uniform jacket, Jaya knew that she had to say something. Anything.

Clearing her throat and putting on one of her signature smirks, Jaya began to walk away from the Mission Ops console and approached the front of the bridge where Lauren and Thea were currently standing. ”Don’t be sorry, Shortcake!” While she spoke, Jaya’s voice was cheerful as ever and it managed to only further accentuate the smirk on her face while she kneeled down to pick up the clothes that Lauren dropped. ”In all fairness I meant that we’d lose replicator rations for each time that we’d crash, not clothes.” As she stood up, Jaya placed the discarded clothes on top of the adjacent Ops console and grinned as if she’d told a joke. ”Had I meant clothes, I’d probably be just as naked right now.” While she’d addressed both Lauren and Thea, Jaya now turned her attention to the red-haired Martian in particular. Or rather, to the part of Lauren’s large breasts that were on full display. ”And only then would you’ve had any reason to apologize, Shortcake! Those Martian boobs of yours would have completely outcompeted mine.”

As Jaya looked at Lauren’s breasts, she genuinely tried to figure out how every Martian she’d ever known was so incredibly top-heavy. She’d always figured that it had something to do with gravity or just something in the water. Regardless, it wasn’t a bad sight at all; she had known Ensign Pierce -Strawberry Shortcake- to be busty, but now she was confronted with this particular sight Jaya realized that she’d underestimated her fellow CONN Officer. She cleared her throat once again before turning her attention to Thea. ”Shortcake is right though, we were trying to pull off a new multi-vector manoeuvre, something like a backup. It’s not going terrible, at least if we forget about the fact that it cost Shortcake here all of her clothes,” Jaya grinned at Lauren for a moment while she said those words. ”But the safety protocols get confused and always end up making us crash. I figured that we could either fight you on it and keep fighting an uphill battle, or work with you to see if we can solve this problem together.”

Jaya turned her attention to Lauren again, smirking as if this was the most normal situation ever, before turning her attention to Thea once more. ”So, how about it? Do you want to help us with these manoeuvres? If you stick around and we show you what we’ve got, maybe us mere mortals can teach you a thing or two about combat piloting.”
49
Episode 02: Cosmic Imperative / Re: CH2: S [Day 2 | 2315 hrs] For all the blood-tainted stars...
Last post by Krajin -
[ Dominic Winters | Wolf 10 | Local Space | U.S.S Theurgy ATTN: @Dumedion @rae @Pierce @Stegro88 @P.C. Haring - All Wolves.

Atlas tracked the various operations and surveyed the events surrounding them all. He could see that the Klingons were continuing to fight, and the Romulans began to turn on each other, which truly made things curious and difficult. He pulled out from hiding amidst the wreckage and shifted speed to half impulse while Atlas monitored the communication lines while he traversed the chaotic void. A warning from another Romulan faction, Klingons cheering with every take down, comms from Theurgy directing them. His ears flicked in annoyance at the comms towards another Wolf, giving her the good girl treatment which honestly provoked anger from the Pilot. He hoped Janus or other ranking individuals would deliver a shredding for that.

Then came the comm from Wolf 13 and 14 going for an RTB with failing systems. "Wolf 13 and 14. This is Wolf 10. Coming up on your Six to provide cover and a tow if needed to get you home safe." Glory in battle is one thing, but making sure that other Pilots got home safe is more important. Punching it to full impulse, Atlas weaved around chunks of debris and pinged the two fighters on his scanners. Shifting to intercept, Atlas shadowed the duo and, if any systems failed, would provide a tow with the short range Tractor Beam the fighters were equipped with. Sure, it might make him a target, but he is capable of fighting and fending off anything that came for them. "If you have your ETS functioning and things get hairy, use it."

He felt he didn't need to remind them but you never know, stress and having allot to deal with could affect a pilot who may forget about the emergency system built into the fighter. As soon as they were safe, though, Atlas peeled off from the group. As it stood, the Romulans were fighting each other, the Klingons and other Wolves to really bother with the trio returning to the Theurgy.

While on escort, Atlas noted the lack of boarding shuttles approaching the Theurgy. Klingon Interceptors had thinned them out, and with the Romulans turning on each other fewer and fewer shuttles had been launched. Donatra's forces were getting pinned down and penned in with the Flagship looking quite open now. What did catch his eye was the sudden and rather alarming alert of a Thalaron build-up onboard her ship. Fuck Not keen to be a puddle when that goes off, Atlas opened a comm to the other Wolves. "Wolf-10 to Wolf 1. I got a Hellbore and a Hellhound left. If we can get an attack run on the Emitter, I got the delivery of a lifetime."

With that, he diverted on an intercept course to the Valdore.
50
Episode 02: Cosmic Imperative / Re: CH2: S [Day 2 | 2315 hrs] For all the blood-tainted stars...
Last post by P.C. Haring -
[Lt. Reggie "Gemini" Suder | Wolf-13 | Cockpit | Valkyrie | Local Space] Attn:  @Dumedion‍ @Stegro88‍ @Havenborn‍  @Eden‍ @Krajin‍ @ob2lander961‍  @Dree‍ @joshs1000‍ 


Reggie's ship rocked in the wake of a nearby explosion and her consoles momentarily blinked out before coming back online.  By the time she'd regained herself, Wraith had already formed up on her wing.

"How're you doing over there, Wraith?"

[Never better, Gemini.]

That was bravado, she knew.  The two of them had been through the rough of it and there were more than a few scorches that would need to be cleaned off both of their damaged hulls as an already intense fight had simply turned chaotic in the blink of an eye.  Still the wounded wolves fought on. 

Status main power is at thirty percent.  Ordinance has been expended and phaser power is at half.  Warp drive is shut down and power diverted to shields.

Even through the worst of it, Reggie took comfort in the telepathic link she and Athen kept. Even in the worst moments, she drew her strength from it, knowing they were in each other's head.

[This is the IKS Fuq'Tup requesting fire support!]

The Neg'var class battleship was just ahead of them and Reggie had already made the decision when Wraith spoke up. 

[Was that a Klingon distress call?]

"As close as you'll ever hear.  Form up.  We're going in."

The two closed in on the Fuq'Tup.  It's hull had been breached, fires from inside raging as it squared off against two D'Deridex class warbirds.  For as old as they were, the Warbirds still packed a punch if for no other reason than their sheer size. 

[I'm reading an energy build up in the Fuk'Tup's ventral cannons.  Looks like they're preparing to fire.]

"Lets give them the cover they need."

Without further word, Wolves 13 and 14 turned for the ship to Starboard and began laying down cover fire. The Target warbird's shield were already down and their phasers struck hard against solid hull scoring non critical hits, but being just enough a nuisence that power systems began to flicker.  The Valravyn's passed harmelssly through the gap in the Warbirds bifrucated hull, each sending pot shots at the Warbird's inner warp Nacelles before exiting and adjusting their heading to the second warbird.

The explosion caught them both, whether between the warbird's demise, or the Klingon ship firing without warning, Reggie would never know.  Consoles shorted out as both her and Wrath's ship were pelted with debris.  Shields failed, alerts and sirens sounded  as she struggled to reign in her bird and avoid colliding with anything that would spell instant doom for her wing of Valravyn flight.  Jerking the ship hard to port and then to starboard the already taxed intertial dampeners could not keep up and her helmet smacked against the side of the cockpit, sending her into a daze she had to shake off in order to regain her focus.  After what seemed like a few seconds slowed by time dialtion into an eternity, she leveled out. 

Damage assessment.

The link was silent.  She reached out for Athen, but found nothing.  Biomonitors had not gone off.  Either they were damaged too, or Athen was still alive albeit unconcious.

"Fuck..."

Out of the corner of her eye, her peripheral vision caught sight of Wolf-14 forming up again.

"Wolf 13 to 14, my Rio's down.  You in one piece over there, Wraith?"

There was silence and Reggie felt a sense of dread creep over her.

"Wraith?"

Another moment before the comm crackled

[This is Alith, Gemini.  I regret to inform you Wraith is dead.]

Reflexively, she turned and looked, truly looked at Wolf-14 as she flew.  The wing was on fire, smoke blowing out into the vacuum, obscuring the cockpit.  As they maneuvered, Wolf-14 rolled to avoid debris and giving Reggie the angle she needed to see the cockpit.  The forward canopy was smashed, and soemthign metalic  jutted out from Wraith's chest.  She could not see much detail, but given the size of the shrapnel relative to his body, she could only imagine that it had crushed is chest and she hoped his death had been instant so as to spare him the suffering.

"Understood, Alith," she finally said, her voice feeling as dead as her wingman.  "State your status."

[Untennable.  I have flight controls but no weapons or shields.]

A quick systems check indicated her ship was not in any better shape.

"Roger.  Form up and follow me in."

Alith gave no reply as the two ships turned to disengage from the fight.

"Wolf 13 to Wolf 1.  Janus, Wolf 14 and I are pretty torn up out here.  All ordinance is expended, main power is failing.  Between the four of us we have one confirmed one possible fatality.  We're disengaging and heading back to the den for repair, but realistically we're out of this fight.  Apologies and good hunting."

She did not wait for a reply.  Between the losses, the effort of flying, and the concern that a wayward Stalker might try to shoot them out of the sky, it was all Reggie could do to keep her composure, as the two wounded Wolves limped back to the den.
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