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

Last post by Eirual - February 02, 2026, 02:44:00 AM

[Ens Mia Dunne | Deck 01 | Conference Lounge | USS Theurgy]
[Attn: @Brutus, @Pierce, @chXinya, @Ellen Fitz, @Nesota Kynnovan ]

Mia dragged herself to the meeting. She’d been cleaning up the Geology lab, and then her own quarters, which hadn’t fared much better. And that was after she’d spent time assisting in medical where she could. And to make matters worse, something, or someone, had been making weird noises all night. If she didn’t know any better, she would say something had been chewing on wires in the walls. But that was impossible, right?

All she wanted to do right now was to rest. But that was not going to happen any time soon. Not with this meeting called by the Chief of Science. “It should have been Tyreke in charge,” she said quietly to herself, the feeling of sorrow blooming in her chest at his loss. If she’d been in charge, she would have thought having a meeting right now was probably the last thing they needed. And maybe she was still upset about Tyreke’s death and just wasn’t in the mood to deal with her department chief. Not that the half android had done anything to assist during this whole disaster.

She sighed heavily as she tugged on her uniform slightly before entering the conference room. “It’s way to early,” she grumbled to herself tiredly. She allowed her gaze to go to the others and gave them a nod, almost giving Morali a smile, “Good to see you Sarresh.” She gave a quick nod to those already in the room and took a seat opposite a new face. She had to read his coat to see his name, Frost. He looked more like he should be in medical and not in science, since his while lab coat and Immunology embroidered on it. Her attention turned to the blue-eyed man in the white lab coat and she frowned, “Are you sure you are in the right place? This is supposed to be a science department meeting,” she asked, her eyes narrowing as she looked at his too pristine lab coat, “Medical is likely somewhere else.”

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

Last post by Nesota Kynnovan - February 02, 2026, 01:08:32 AM

[Lieutenant Dr. Nathan Frost, Ph.D. | Deck 01 | Conference Lounge | USS Theurgy]
[Attn: @Brutus, @Pierce, @chXinya, @Eirual, @Ellen Fitz]

When he heard the signature hydraulic hiss of the doors, Frost looked up from the display of his PADD and turned his blue-eyed attention in the direction of the door. His blue-eyed gaze came to rest upon a tired, maybe even somewhat scruffy looking man wearing the blue uniform of the Science Department and, in an attempt to build rapport, Frost had been about to rise from his seat to welcome the newly arrived scientist to the meeting.

And then the scientist spoke up. Frost found himself somewhat caught off-guard by the man’s words, half-expecting to be welcomed like the greatest event to befall sentient life since the invention of sliced bread, and he briefly turned his gaze to the other two scientists in the room to gauge their reactions. He found that Lieutenant Junior Grade Angharad had looked at the doors to see who had entered and now presented the scientist with a friendly wave. Lieutenant Junior Grade Zarqan hadn’t even bothered to look up but was idly stirring his coffee instead. It were the kind of reactions that made Frost realize that the scientist’s question maybe hadn’t been entirely out of place, especially given what the crew of the USS Theurgy had been through these last couple of months. Swallowing the indignation he’d initially felt boiling up inside him, Frost rose from his seat and presented the scientist with a smile. ”My name is Nathan Frost.” As he spoke, Frost’s Canadian-accented voice matched the smile on his face and both got more friendly as he went on. ”Thank you for joining us, help yourself to a cup of coffee and take a seat.” With those words, Frost gestured towards one of the many empty seats before sitting back down and reaching for his own cup of coffee.

Episode 02: Cosmic Imperative / Re: Epi S: [Day 03 | 0320] The Lab Assessment

Last post by Nesota Kynnovan - February 02, 2026, 12:24:44 AM

[Lieutenant Dr. Nathan Frost, Ph.D. | Deck 07 | Archeology & Geology Lab | USS Theurgy]
[Attn: @Eirual]

Thinking he was all by himself in the laboratory, Frost was startled when he was proven wrong by a blonde-haired woman who suddenly peeked around the corner. He could still feel the cold shiver of adrenaline racing down his spine as the woman spoke up and, pretending that her sudden appearance hadn’t made him jump, Frost rubbed his nose with his right hand and inhaled once more; attempting to mask the initial startled, sharp inhale as a bad case of the cold.

It was an attempt that lasted only mere moments though, because Frost’s attention was immediately drawn to the smouldering remains on the diagnostics table when the unknown woman mentioned that it had been a parasite. ”Really? A parasite?” As he spoke up, Frost leaned in closer to the charred remains that had once apparently been a parasite and his Canadian-accented tone matched the fascinated expression on his face. While it was burned beyond recognition, Frost had read up about these parasites while aboard the IKS Vask’et and it amazed him to find himself so close to one within an hour after boarding the USS Theurgy. ”That’s amazing.”

After staring at the smouldering remains for another couple of seconds, Frost then turned his blue-eyed attention towards the blonde-haired woman. He had already forgotten about his initial embarrassment over being startled and shifted his attention back to the charred parasite before turning to look at the blonde again. ”Tell me that wasn’t your only parasite sample.” When he spoke up, his fascination briefly faltered as Frost mentally prepared himself for the kind of bad news he expected to get. It was only at that moment that he realized that she was holding something in her arms; while she wasn’t peeking out from behind the corner far enough for Frost to properly see what it was, it nevertheless prompted him to start walking towards the woman in an attempt to help her. ”Oh, let me help you with that.” Frost presented the woman with a smile as he approached her, realizing he’d completely forgotten to introduce himself in his initial fascination with the parasite sample. ”I’m Nathan Frost, by the way. Who are you?”

Episode 02: Cosmic Imperative / Re: Epilogue: Ashes to Build a New Order [Day 03 | 0300 ]

Last post by Ellen Fitz - February 01, 2026, 03:29:01 AM

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

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

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

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

That, more than anything, had cracked the veneer.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tovan allowed himself a thin, tired smile. “That,” he said quietly, “is usually a sign we don’t yet know who the sides really are.”

[ K’Temak, Klingon High Council Member| First City | Qo’Nos | 0800 ]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Qapla’,” he murmured, not as a salute—but as a promise.

[ Lira t’Vess, Romulan Citizen | Site of Former Tal’Shiar Citadel | Romulus| 0830 ]

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

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

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

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

Change was coming. That much was undeniable. The only question—spoken softly, again and again—was whether it would arrive through votes… or blood.

[ Captain Brik | Golden Ledger | Federation Space | 0900 ]

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

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

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

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

He opened a private ledger and began quietly adjusting routes. Because whatever was coming, Brik had no intention of being caught on the wrong side of it—or worse, the honest side.

[ Lucan Nicander Brig | Security Center | Deck 07 | USS Theurgy 0930 ]

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

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

They are listening now.

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

Confusion ripens the field.

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

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

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

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

A whisper, then—almost fond.

It never is.

And somewhere, deep within him, something listened.

FIN

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

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

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

Last post by Dumedion - January 31, 2026, 05:01:05 PM

[Ens. Talia “Shadow” Al-Ibrahim | Main Sickbay | Deck 11 | Vector 2 | USS Theurgy] Attn: @ob2lander961
[Show/Hide]

As the hours passed since her return to the ship, Shadow hadn’t stopped moving; the FAB was still a hive of activity – work had begun to clear the launch lanes and restore critical systems without pause. The repairs were still ongoing, the same as nearly everywhere she looked: everyone pushed through the exhaustion, if only by sheer inertia. In her mind, Talia knew she should be sleeping; if hostilities broke out again, they’d need every pilot up and ready to fight again – but she couldn’t rest in good conscience with so much work to do.

Chief Lok had put a stop to her attempted assistance (which had mostly consisted of removing debris and the like) by informing Talia (in blunt but not unkind words) that there was a reason pilots flew the ships and the crews worked on them. In short – although the help was appreciated – there were better efforts spent elsewhere: namely, checking in on her fellow pilots confined to Sickbay. Shadow wasn’t so tired not to understand that the Chief was essentially kicking her out of the FAB so his people could work without her fumbling around in the way, but she took the hint well enough.

The main entrance to sickbay opened a short time later to reveal the reception area. The desk was vacant, covered with stacks of open bandage packaging, PADDS, and various devices she couldn’t easily identify. The place looked like it had been through hell, compared to what she remembered from a few weeks ago; stains covered the carpet, scorch marks dotted the walls – the air itself smelled of burnt wire and desperation.

A solitary nurse shuffled into view, burdened with a huge bundle of what appeared to be balled up uniforms. He looked ragged, but alert, blinking at her in confusion. “Do you need help?”

Talia shook her head quickly, moving to assist him. “No, no – I’m okay,” she explained, taking some of the load from his arms. “I’m just here to look in on some people?”

The nurse nodded, thankful. “To recycle. There wasn’t time during…y’know,” he explained with a shrug. “Anyway, if they’re here, I doubt you’ll be able to see them. Folks in here are pretty tore up, and its way past visiting hours.” The pair deposited the piles of clothes into the recycler while the nurse talked, then he turned to Talia with a weary expression of sympathy. “What are their names?”

Shadow sighed quietly but understood the situation. “Valin, Wix, and Wellington?”

The nurse frowned in recognition but moved to the terminal at reception, his hands opening in a gesture of let me see what I can do. Talia waited patiently, feeling awkwardly out of place. The place seemed eerily quiet and devoid of activity; the lights were dimmed, like someone had forced the place into a state of calm after a calamity.

“Valin is in the Ward, recovering from surgery – out cold by the looks of it – uhm…Wix and Wellington, are…,” the man’s brows rose as he made an odd face, like a silent expression of unfortunate revelation.

“What is it,” Talia frowned at the man, concern mixed with impatience. “Are they okay?”

“Well, yes – but also no. I mean,” he shook his head, “you see, we lost the decon suite in the fight, so they’re in iso-suits. Stable but, y’know, in suits.”

Talia blinked and shook her head at him. “I don’t know – what are you saying?”

The nurse stood, worked the kink out of his neck, then gestured to his right where a large, blackened mess of what looked like two melted rooms used to be. “That is the decontamination suite – it’s used to isolate and treat all manner of contaminants before they spread to the rest of the ship.”

Talia nodded.

“Without it, Wix and Wellington – due to the nature of some contaminant, which in this case appears to be a viral infection, have been treated and placed into isolation suits. We’re having them stay in one of the storage closets.”

Wait, what, Talia frowned, eyes narrowed. “If they’re in suits, why keep them in a closet?”

“Because they’re loud and obnoxious and Dr. Leux told us to sedate them and throw them in a closet,” the nurse mumbled under his breath rapidly without pause or breath.

Yeah, that tracks, Shadow snorted. “Where are they?”

The nurse hooked a thumb over his shoulder. “I’ll give you ten minutes.”

[“Temporary Iso Ward” – Storage Closet | Main Sickbay]

Talia opened the door, which revealed her fellow Wolves, each of them sealed into what looked like a bubble-suit of clear plastic. She wasn’t sure how long they’d been stuck in there, but as soon as the door entered, the nurse pushed her in and closed the door – which prompted a grunt of disapproval before giving the pair of them a once over in the tight confines of the storage room.

“Hello then,” Shadow greeted, managing to keep the amusement from her face and voice, “you two alright?”

Episode 02: Cosmic Imperative / Re: EPI S [Day 03 | 1200 ] Out Of Their Depths

Last post by Brutus - January 30, 2026, 11:07:57 PM

[ Ens. Faye Lintah Eloi-Danvers | Non-Comissioned officers quarters | Deck 15 | Vector 02 | USS Theurgy ] Attn: @Stegro88 [Show/Hide]

To say that the young Betazoid woman trudging down the corridor was exhausted would be an understatement to end all understatements. Her body ached, she needed to replicate a new uniform, get her hair cut, and soak in water for hours. She needed a week of sleep. She needed everyone around her to be quiet and reign their thoughts in. She needed a week of heavy counseling, at the minimum. She probably needed more than the cursory scan with a medical tricorder she'd received in the immediate aftermath of her return from the Hobus star system and the battle at the Triangle. That marked the what.... 10th battle since she'd woken up months back, pulled out of stasis with a new arm, and a new job, after the flight from Jupiter Station where here entire department had been wiped out?

Okay, I need a few years of counseling. Lets not shit ourselves. But hey, you met the President of the Federation today. Not many folk can say that! And what a fucking wild day it had been. Faye half thought she was in a coma, and this was a fever dream. But she hurt too much for that to be the case. And everyone was too dirty. And too clothed.

The brunette paused and took a moment to get her bearings. She'd been to this part of the ship a time or three over the months that she had served aboard, but it wasn't where she normally lay her head at night. Even after she got shifted out of the department head's billet, once Lt. Commander Rutherford had come aboard to turn her one woman diplomatic team back into an actual department, Ens. Eloi-Danvers had been granted her own private quarters, as befitting her rank as an officer and her position within the ships crew and diplomatic department. Not that she often slept alone of course. But with the recent detached duty to Hobus, and the state of the ship when she returned, Faye was without her normal accommodations. It would take Operations and Engineering some time to repair the damage to that section of the ship. And while she might have sought out her lover, PO Riley Patterson, but the petty officer shared an abode with another medic and both were working around the clock at the moment down in the medbay. The last thing either needed was Faye dropping in. Nor did she go after Lt. Zark, for similar reasons.

But the ships quartermaster had been on the ball and promptly assigned Faye a billet while the Betazoid had been meeting with colleauges from some of the other Federation ships that had arrived at the Triangle. Sure, it was a shared accommodation in non-com country, but it was temporary, and Faye was a social creature. A very tired one with nothing to take with her save what she'd packed in her bag for the Hobus expedition, and had lugged around the ship since she returned. Had she been less tired she might have recognized where she was headed, but her head was swimming and her thoughts were muddled. Thus she took no notice of the address of the door she stumbled to a stop in front of, save to check it matched what she had been given. And didn't bother to note who else it was assigned to. Instead she just pressed the call button.

Sure, the ship had already granted her access to the room as she was assigned there for now, but she wasn't rude, and this person was having to put up with a new roommate. She could at least be polite about it, even if she was exhausted. Diplomatic, even.

A blast of warm, moist air billowed out of the unit and Faye blinked in surprise as it seemed to coil around her ankles as she looked up at the woman in the doorway. "Holy shit," she blurted out. "Oh thank the gods, you're alive. And I don't have to break someone new in," she added rapidly, before throwing her arms around the short (for a KIingon) woman and hugging her tight.

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

Last post by Brutus - January 30, 2026, 10:41:26 PM

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

[Show/Hide]

In desperate need of a shave, sleep, and a month off, not to mention a hypospray full of a heavy analgesic to numb the throbbing pain in the back of his head, Sarresh Morali, Jr. Lieutenant, Temporal Affairs Officer, displaced time traveler and unwilling (former) cult leader, shambled down the corridor from the turbolift that ran around the outside of the Theurgy's bridge module, wondering what idiot had summoned him to a conference at 8 in the bloody morning after a battle that had raged into the early morning. Never mind that he hadn't had a real break since the run across the Neutral Zone, and the attempt to prevent the assassination of a future temporal asset, and keep the timeline from further destabilizing.

Not that the future I left is likely to be there when this is done. Ives...you weren't supposed to be injured like this. Is that a fair trade for all those lives we saved at the Azure Nebula? Lt. Morali shook his head with a bitter snarl across his face. He had come from where the captain was now secluded in stasis. Not that he was supposed to have access to that section of the ship. But he had access all the same. There was a lot he had access to that he wasn't supposed to, based on his rank. But then again, there was much he wanted to know that he couldn't, until the last minute. His head was a mess, to say the least. He kept waiting for Ducane to show up around the corner, but he'd not heard a peep from his handler since he returned to the Triangle.

"Its only a matter of time. Everything is only a matter of time," he muttered to himself, before allowing a small laugh to escape his lips. Speaking of time, Sarresh knew he was making good time and almost paused, debating if he wanted to wait to arrive until he would be noticeably late, to get a point across. He was feeling fairly petty at the moment. Why the hell had Lt. Vanya booked the main Confernece room? he wondered as he let out a huff and pushed onward. Had something happened to the room the science team usually used down near the labs? His own lab was fine, but then Sarresh expected nothing less, for all the reasons that no one really had access to the place without his say. To call it reinforced was an understatement. Not even he fully knew, understood, or remembered everything that had been done when the Relativity had retrofitted the previous version of the lab. And unlike much of what he didn't remember, he was fine with this.

Pausing to scratch at the beard that now covered his face, Sarresh summoned up a bit of righteous indignation and strode into the conference room, looking for the Romulan Android in charge to question her logic subroutines, only to blink in surprise at a new face sitting about where he would have thought the Lieutenant. would be, instead.

"Who the hell are you?"

Interregnum 01-02 S2 / Re: Day 08 [0830 hrs.] Can you take me higher?

Last post by Brutus - January 30, 2026, 10:19:09 PM

[ Theurgy "Thea" NX-79854 | Holodeck 05 | Deck 21 | Vector 03 | USS Theurgy] Attn: @Pierce @Nesota Kynnovan ]
[Show/Hide]

There was much to process in that moment, as Thea devoted more of her consciousness to the task at hand and the scene unfolding before her in the holodeck. A series of regulations floated across her thoughts, subroutines cataloging those that were violated compared to those that were merely exploited and circumvented. Weighing against that was the contrition she saw in the face of one Ensign, and the guilt in the expression of the other. Though even the holographic ships avatar could tell that the latter had far less to do with any breaking or bypassing of rules, however well intended, and more so with the state of the other Ensigns dress and emotional well being. Nor could the photonic woman ignore the physical aspects of the situation. Ens. Pierce was, by any definition of the word, attractive, and on display. Something that Thea both got to see more than she might personally expect to, but not nearly as much as she might wish to. Physical beauty that is.

From a perspective of personal growth, as well as a bit of cultural anthropology and socially interactive studies, this moment was utterly fascinating. Thea could feel various logical, physical, emotional, and even hormonal subroutines and responses firing off in nanosecond bursts as she processed the moment, keeping mostly quiet while the two young women pleaded their case and tried to convince Thea into acting in their favor. These subroutines all blended into one another, forming a greater 'reaction' that, unless she focused on the code behind the sensation, did not 'feel' like a programmed response, but genuine expressions.

Life finds a way, as the old saying went.

Perhaps a recommendation of consoling for Ens. Pierce, Thea mused softly, noting the emotional distress, and heightened physical and autonomic responses that her programing was able to detect by tapping into the holodeck sensors. And some gentle guidance from the CFCO for both women as to why certain protocols exist? Given the nature of the average pilot, that might need to be taken up by the First or Second officer instead, she mused.

Unable to help herself, Thea's eyes flicked once more to Ens. Pierce's now covered bosom, at the mention of "Martian boobs," a phrase she had heard uttered, often in respect to the ships First Officer. She had devoted some small time to researching the supposed phenomenon, and there did appear to be some evidence to the stereotype. Not that Thea had been given the opportunity to observe such in person - until now. Still, the statement seemed to toe the wrong side of the line of what was and was not appropriate. Then again, the two were off duty. Somewhat.

Ens. Thorne is correct though, she would lose that competition with Ens. Pierce. This thought was not stated aloud however. Thea kept her arms crossed over her own bust, her expression neutral as she observed the two interacting with each other, and her. To all of which she initially answered with a long sigh, and a shake of her head (an expression she had witnessed Lt. Frank Arnold employ more than once, and had worked hard to mimic to be employed in just such a moment).

"Those protocols exist for a reason, Ensign," Thea began her response, channeling some of the engineer from before, with a mix of Lt. Cmdr. Cross as well, in her stance, and continued crossed arms. "Did it occur to you that they are causing the crash because that is not a maneuver you should be doing manually?" She recalled a case regarding a team of cadets at the Academy some years back, involving an attempted execution of the infamous Kolvoord Starburst Maneuver. The instances were not exact copies of each other, of course. In this case the ensigns were practicing in the holodeck, and not in actual training fighters. And no one had actually died. Though their simulations had failed to the point that, had she not hastily donned her jacket once more, Ens. Pierce would be in naught but her panties.

However...as much as she wished to think otherwise, the Martian ensign had brought up one cogent point of order.

"Reintegration of the hulls, and maneuvers of that level of precision, are not designed to be manually executed. Few species could managed to do such at the speeds the multi-vector assault mode is often engaged in. That is part of my core programing, after all," at some point Thea's hands had moved from under her bust to become planted on her hips, and she had subtly added a few centimeters to her height, to give the affect of looming over both pilots, her countenance stern, held for a long moment of silence, before easing back.

"Ens. Peirce brings up a point I cannot dismiss, however," she allowed, clasping her hands behind her back now and pacing back and forth in front of the other women. "MAV is not meant to be engaged without assistance from the ships central processor, and with regards to this ship specifically, without me. And there should be no circumstance in which I would not be absent. And yet, that has happened before."

She had been taken from her space-frame, crippling many of the more advanced abilities of the Theurgy when her consciousness, her positronic brain....her soul had been removed. In the end she was so much...more than she had been prior, but that did nothing for the safety of the crew. "There are better ways to have gone about this, instead of trying to bypass the protocols multiple times. And certainly, resources could have been better applied. Did you really need to book two separate holodecks for this endeavor? One would have sufficed," she chided pedantically. That really wasn't the issue and all three knew so.

She came to a stop and faced both the women, fixing first Lauren, then Jaya, with a firm stare. "For the duration of this...experiment, I will disable the protocols preventing this simulation from executing the maneuvers you are attempting. Should you satisfy me that what you wish to attempt can be repeated, in multiple scenarios, we will take this to the department head of flight operations, and the second officer, for their review. Only after I am satisfied that your intentions will not cause significant harm to my vectors if executed in actuality."

She walked past both of the Ensigns, and allowed her from to shift slightly again, taking on the skirted-variant command uniform in place of the bodysuit she usually wore, and settled herself into the command chair. Not presuming the rank of captain, even in this little game, she allowed herself a trio of golden pips. She might as well have fun after all, and reiterate that the two Ensigns had much to prove to her.

Thea curled her fingers over the control stubs of the armrests of the center seat, and delicately crossed one leg over the other, easing her back into the cushions. Her head tilted sharply at an angle for a moment, then righted itself again. "The protocols causing your initial failures have been temporarily disabled," she informed the two, as a warning flashed across the main viewer, echoing the same. The simulation reset it self around the trio, as subtle shifting within the bridge, and the simulated space displayed ahead on the screen.

Knowing they would not succeed the first attempt at this maneuver - after all those protocols took care of other navigational niceties the two Ensigns would now have to account for on their own, Thea allowed herself a ghost of a smile. "Take your stations, please. Oh, and Ens. Thorne?" She turned to face the woman who had been slightly less repentant in the holograms judgment, "As Ens. Pierce has already suffered noted embarrassment for the failed attempts to this point, I think you are quite over dressed. It is only fair, after all. Unless you would prefer I suggest extra duty shifts instead? I hear operations needs helps with buildup in the plasma conduits." .

Episode 02: Cosmic Imperative / EPI S [Day 03 | 1200 ] Out Of Their Depths

Last post by Stegro88 - January 30, 2026, 03:00:09 PM

Mickayla sighed in relief as the hot water cascaded down her body. She had showered in the Security Centre after the battle; she needed to after removing her armour. She had wanted, needed food and sleep as well but had barely gotten either before the work to repair the ship and get it ready for the arrival of the Federation President began. That had meant another ten hours of work moving bodies and checking for hidden dangers. Then had come the calls from various Klingons in their fleet wanting to discuss matters with the head of House Mo’Kai. She had politely, or as politely as she had been able advised them to contact her father, Mac’mon, as he was the head of the house. She had killed Gorka during a challenge in her father’s name. Kind of.

Stopping the water, Mickayla stood there a moment, letting the water run off her muscular frame before she stepped out and picked up the towel. Despite an exhaustive search, she had yet to find a towel material that didn’t annoy her as she dried herself. Her skin was just too sensitive. Focusing exercises helped, and the material of her exosuit luckily didn’t rub when she wore it. But uniforms, and especially towels, they made her skin crawl from overstimulation.

Throwing the towel on the basin, Mickayla stepped back into her bedroom and gazed out the window at the space beyond, one populated by Klingon, Romulan, Reman, and now, Federation starships. Shaking her head, she went to lie down, when the chime for door sounded. Growling and wanting to ignore it, the Scottish born Klingon grabbed the robe she kept ready and quickly donned it, tying it loosely. Whoever it was, she was going to dismiss them swiftly so that she could return to her bed and get some rest.

Striding out into the space she had once shared with the Gorn, Sithick, she waved her hand across the door controls, opening them.

“Yes, what is it?”

Episode 02: Cosmic Imperative / Re: Epi S: [Day 3 | 0459 hrs.] Whose Room Is It, Anyway? (Redux)

Last post by Dumedion - January 29, 2026, 10:42:18 PM

[LT Arven Leux | Turbolift | Between Decks | USS Theurgy] Attn: @rae
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Dr. Leux felt like he could sleep for a week. Once things had calmed down enough for a skeleton crew of nurses to handle, the majority of the staff were dismissed to rest up. Given everything they'd seen and done during the battle, six hours respite wasn’t much – but it was all he could give them with their depleted personnel.

Arven had readied himself to take the first shift solo; he was already there, and there was a couch in the CMO's office. Vi-Nine wouldn’t have it, however. The Savi droid threatened to “observe his sleeping activity”, which the Doctor promptly refused. He made a note to look into Vi’s uniquely disturbing but harmless quirks; they had been manifesting more and more lately. That was for another day, though.

And so the good Doctor spent the entire ride down to deck 15 slumped against the absurdly curved angle of the wall – silently berating whoever designed the lift. It was impossible to doze without a corner to slump into; and all Arven wanted in that moment was a few hours of blissful oblivion. The day had been endless; it had turned into a blur of almost ceaseless action, case after case after case – and it had all begun with Azrin Ryn's attempt at manslaughter.

Arven’s bloodshot eyes snapped open at the memory. He couldn’t recall the last time the engineer had messaged him, or sent her vitals, which prompted a grunted curse. Leux reached for the tricorder at his side – but it wasn’t there. He’d left it, along with the bloodied mess of a lab coat, upstairs in Medical.

The doors of the lift opened then, revealing Deck 15. Arven pushed himself off the curved wall, right eye twitching. He didn’t leave the lift; duty warred with exhaustion, rooting him to the spot. The lift chimed a tone to clarify that this was, indeed, the time to exit. Arven frowned at the sound, eyes narrowed in annoyance. After a few seconds debate, he concluded with weary confidence that despite recent events, he wasn’t the only medical officer on board; if Ryn was in trouble, she’d be seen and taken care of. He’d just get woken up and deal with it.

Her, he corrected himself. Balls, whatever, the Doctor sighed, and began his shuffled march to the shower and bed that awaited. A half dozen steps into the walk down the corridor, face covered to rub his aching eyes and stifle a yawn, Arven’s foot slipped out from under him suddenly. A PADD cracked into the wall as the Doctor stumbled and barely caught himself with a curse.

Then he looked up, and noticed something odd: the door to his quarters was opened – only a few inches – as if by malfunction or power loss. There was also a strip of glowing holographic text scrolling upon it. Caution, it read, Work Area.

“Wonderful,” Arven deadpanned.

After double checking the numbers to make sure he had the right room, what few remaining brain cells Arven possessed urged him to just turn around and sleep in the CMO’s office. He didn’t listen.

Wary, he approached. One half of the door was pushed aside with a grunt of effort; Arven stuck his head and shoulders in, revealing a dimly lit interior filled with erratic power fluctuations and a few strobes of light. Leux frowned, deeply, at the chaotic mess within: someone had systematically dismantled nearly everything in his quarters – only to dump the component prices about in seemingly random locations, each accumulated pile linked together with flickering strands of power conduits, loose wire, and data cables. The desk chair was flipped over at angle, three of the five roller balls missing along with one armrest. The desk itself had been emptied, the drawers half opened, their contents piled up on the floor. The monitor was gone, but the data connection port was still active, spitting torch-bright sparks into the air at random intervals. Some of the wall paneling had been removed, which made the entire room appear like a parody of some electro-cyber punk chess board.

Arven’s brow knitted in further annoyance when he saw what was left of his prized bicycle (that he designed and built personally). Someone had literally cut it in half, in order to remove the wall paneling behind.

“This is intolerable,” the Doctor grumbled, then stepped into the room – his ears instantly caught an odd sound: like a sick feline trying to clear its throat, or a horribly tone deaf person trying to hum a tune. Whoever was responsible for the sad state of his living quarters was still present, occupied within the bedroom.

“Don’t mind me, I’m just here for some clean drawers,” Arven called out, dripping with sarcasm. When no one answered, and the noise continued, he grumbled a curse and made his way to the bedroom, kicking debris out of his way. The door swished half open at his approach, revealing the sum of all his fears: “Azrin Ryn,” Leux spoke the engineers name like a curse against fate itself, then blinked at her with a grimace. “You look bloody awful – you're supposed to be sleeping, why are you in here destroying my room?”