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Episode 02: Cosmic Imperative / Re: Epi: S [Day 03 | 0145] By these wounds...
Last post by Dumedion -
[LT Arven Leux | Main Sickbay | Deck 11 | Vector 02 | USS Theurgy] Attn: @RyeTanker @Ellen Fitz  @Eden @Krajin
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As soon as the door opened to cryo, Arven caught sight of the situation unfolding back near the intersection of reception and the ward – another bad case, by the sound of it. He hesitated mid-stride, violet eyes narrowed in a wince. Shit. His head turned back to cryo and assessed the situation: the Ferasan had half-hauled himself up out of the freezer, against all odds, and seemed to be mid-battle with a hairball. Non-critical.

“Stay there, don’t move,” Leux pointed at him as he turned back at a brisk pace, at full stride, long limbs rocketing him back towards Vi-Nine, wolf-lady, and the semi-conscious pilot. Arven snapped his fingers as he passed, interrupting their conversation without slowing down. “Get to cryo – big black cat will need a trauma blanket to get his temp up and 5cc’s of Somnam. Keep him calm till I get back,” was directed at wolf-lady. “Vi, work fast this looks bad,” he added to the android.

"Oh dear," he heard Vi exhale in an insanely human expression of worry.

Once he was in the thick of it, Arven moved to join the others already working on the patient. “Talk to me,” he spoke aloud, already gloving up as sections of her armor were pulled away.

“Andorian zhen, ALOC, multiple disruptor wounds. BP seventy-three over twenty-nine – pulse, eight-two BPM and falling,” a dark-freckled man reported from the other side of the biobed near the patient’s head. Arven’s eyes flicked to him then to the digital display on the bed to confirm, then darted up to the unknown redshirt that was pulling her armor off – the inside of which was coated in various shades of bluish vitae. “02 levels in decline. She’s tanking,” the nurse, Brown, Arven remembered, finished.

“Save the commentary,” the Doctor assessed as he dug into the worst of the wounds: a charred and bloody mess of a hole almost directly centerline of the patient’s chest. “Start a recirc IV, max 02, 15 cc’s of Follitropin, stat. Get the replicator spinning up her blood type we’ll need it once we stop these bleeds,” he spoke quickly – already working to seal up the damaged arteries he could see. Two other nurses worked at similar wounds, at a thigh and shoulder, respectively.

Long seconds passed. Arven was aware the patient was speaking, or trying to – fading in and out of consciousness. He tuned it out; tuned out everything but what he needed to do to save her life. “Zark – come back. Somebody talk to her. Keep her awake.” They’d already lost so many. He had lost so many. If they could only get her stable enough, Vi could easily handle the cosmetics. He just had to focus and work fast.

He wasn’t sure how much time had passed, but it wasn’t long before they all heard the last thing anyone in sickbay wanted to hear: the shrill tone of a flatline. Arven swore louder than he meant to while his bloody fingers tapped across the control interface. “Prepping defib – Brown – on the breather,” he growled, pulling up a full haptic interface of the patient’s vascular network. The control chimed, and he ordered everyone clear.

Zap.

The tone continued.

“20cc’s durolophrine, stat,” Arven ordered, charging the defib again. Once it was primed and the drugs administered, he hit her again. “Come on, damn it.”

Zap.

The Andorian’s heart thumped a few times, the beat weak and irregular.

“Plasma and recyc IV’s are in,” someone called out. "Pulse and BP marginal."

It's a start.

Arven watched the holographic display as her heart fought on, weakly at first – but then stronger as the drugs flooded in. His eyes darted to her vitals, then back to the wounds. “Get these bleeds under control, now. You,” he lifted his chin at the unknown Chief, the one that had pried the armor off, “stand by on that console in case she crashes again. Do exactly what I say when I say it.” The Doctor didn’t care to make polite with people on the best of days. He’d lost enough patients already; he wasn’t in the mood to lose another. "Zark's not dying today," he spoke aloud - as much a promise to himself as it was to her.
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Episode 02: Cosmic Imperative / Re: Epi 2 [ D02 | 2300 hrs.] All Squared up at the Triangle
Last post by Dumedion -
[Ens. Talia “Shadow” Al-Ibrahim | FAB | Deck 16 | Vector 2 | USS Theurgy] Attn: All
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She didn’t know what to expect during the approach – Talia knew it would be bad though. The reality of what they'd just lived through, that sense of victory, of pride…it all vanished as soon as her bird cleared the shimmering blue curtain of the bay. Once pristine white and grey, the FAB was pockmarked with damage – down to a single lane – with the smoking, ugly remnants of a wrecked Valkyrie dominating the scene. Shadow’s jaw clenched with a shake of her head, hoping the crew got out okay.

“Control, Wolf 4 – on the deck,” Talia reported through a shaky exhalation as she taxied home, knowing Atlas and Janus were right behind. The canopy popped open as the Valkyrie powered down, rising to flood her ears with the noise of the bay. Directly ahead, her eyes couldn’t leave the charred remains of Ghost’s ship, or…what was left of it. The entire side wall of the FAB was a blackened mess – buckled and broken by concussive detonation.

Eyes closed, Shadow pulled her helmet off with a curse. For several long seconds, she didn’t move. Everything hurt. Her body ached from being squeezed in the exosuit, and was likely covered in bruises from the insane maneuvers pulled in combat. It wasn’t the pain that kept her from moving, though; Talia opened her eyes to look down at her hands. They were shaking. Her knees trembled, too.

It’s just the adrenaline – it’ll pass.

“You good, pilot,” a voice called.

Talia looked, blank-eyed and weary. One of the LO’s had already pulled the ladder out for her, and was waiting with concern writ plain on his face. Shadow blinked, unable to place the Warrants name. He had an outrageous handlebar mustache.

Harley, I dub thee.

“Come on driver, we got shit to do,” mustache called up, not unkindly.

“R-right,” Talia stammered, handing off the helm before hauling herself up with a grunt of effort. The movement felt strange – stiff and too slow – sending a wave of nausea through her guts. With a wince, her boots hit the deck, then she managed three steps before dropping to her knees. Hot bile erupted from her mouth almost instantly, with no warning beyond the burning sensation at the back of her throat.

The LO at her side took a step back, then rested a hand on Talia’s shoulder. “Take it slow. First time,” Harley asked.

After another painful heave of nothing but air, Shadow burped, groaned, then spit the rest of the foulness from her mouth. “Yeah – s-sorry. Uh…I’ll clean it up.”

“It happens,” the LO shrugged. “Here,” he handed her helm over, “I’ll grab you some absorbs,” then disappeared from Talia’s peripheral vision.

The pilot nodded, then hauled herself to her feet before anyone else saw. She moved slower, eyes fixed on the hull of her bird, eyeing the miniscule impacts and streaks of soot blemishes that had tarnished the once pristine white. How the hell did I survive, Talia couldn’t help but wonder, when they were all better than me? Behind her, while Shadow stood dazed and transfixed, her mind sluggishly chewing on any rational explanation beyond dumb luck, her ears registered the noise of two separate landings – Atlas and Janus. Tired eyes closed at the rushing sound. She felt spent. Ready to collapse. It hurt too much to think.

“Best not to dwell,” Harley commented as he passed, handing off a few towels. “There’s time for that later. Come on, we could use a hand.”

Talia jerked at the intrusion, wiped her mouth, and nodded. “Right.” Somehow, she managed to find the endurance to stand straighter. The job wasn’t over. They weren’t done yet.

First things first.

Shadow knelt to clean up the mess she’d made on the deck, then eyed Janus’ dignified descent from his bird. In spite of everything – the loss, the bone deep weariness, and all that had yet to be processed – she couldn’t help but crack a smile, then stifled a laugh. The pain would pass. The clock would keep ticking. She was still alive, and there was work to do.

Talia stood with a grunt of effort, then set off to see where she could help.
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Episode 02: Cosmic Imperative / Re: Epi S: [Day 03 | 0615] A Man's Purpose
Last post by Ellen Fitz -
[ Lt. Cmdr. Cross | Recovery Ward | Deck 11 | USS Theurgy ] @Eden

Cross didn’t react outwardly when Cal said I accept. No nod of approval, no visible easing of tension. Just a quiet exhale through his nose, the kind that marked a decision locking into place rather than relief.

“Good,” he said simply.

He stepped closer to the biobed, lowering his voice—not out of secrecy, but courtesy. Sickbay was a place where dignity mattered, even when time didn’t.

“There’s something you need to understand up front, Lieutenant,” Cross continued, pale eyes steady on Cal’s. “I can’t give you the luxury of waiting until you’re discharged to start.” A beat, letting that register. “I wouldn’t be here if I could.” He shifted his weight slightly, hands clasped behind his back again—controlled, but not cold.

“With the President's arrival and the situation we’re in, I need help now,” Cross said. “Real help. Reports, readiness assessments, departmental status updates. Tactical, medical, engineering, operations—everything has to be current, clean, and internally consistent. We can’t afford fuckups.” A pause. “Not to impress the President—though it doesn’t hurt that, for the moment, she appears to be on Team Theurgy—but because the margin for error is gone.”

Cross glanced briefly around the ward, then back to Cal.

“I’ll have a series of PADDs brought to you later today,” he said. “You’ll start from here. From the biobed if that’s what it takes. You’ll review, flag inconsistencies, chase down missing data, and prep summaries for me. I’ll handle command decisions. You’ll help make sure I’m not making them blind.”

There was a faint tightening around his eyes then—not quite an apology, but close enough that it counted.

“I don’t like doing this,” Cross admitted quietly. “You should have time to heal. All of you should.” A fraction of a pause. “But none of us are getting what we want right now. Including something as basic as time to take a dump in peace.” He straightened slightly, professionalism reasserting itself—but his tone remained human. “So I need to ask,” Cross said. “Not as your superior, but as the man you just agreed to work with.” His gaze held. “Can you handle that?”

He waited, unhurried but intent, knowing full well the answer—and respecting Cal enough to ask anyway.
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Episode 02: Cosmic Imperative / Re: Epi: S [Day 03 | 0145] By these wounds...
Last post by Ellen Fitz -
[ Ehfva Feynri | Main Sickbay | Deck 11 | Vector 02 | USS Theurgy] @Eden  @Dumedion  @Krajin  @RyeTanker

Ehfva didn’t bristle at Arven’s words. If anything, there was a flicker of dry acceptance in her eyes—humorless, exhausted, but not offended. She inclined her head once, a short bow of acknowledgment, tail giving a faint, weary swish behind her.

“I’ll… try,” she said quietly, voice roughened by pain and dried blood. “No promises.”

She turned when dismissed, padding away down the corridor toward the CMO’s washroom. Each step sent a reminder through her body that something fundamental was wrong—muscles lagging behind intent, nerves lighting too slowly, too brightly. The cleanup helped only in the most technical sense. The worst of the blood was gone. The chunks of Romulan flesh embedded beneath her half-clawed nails were carefully pried free and discarded. Her fur, once silver-white, now lay matted and dull despite her efforts, and the damage beneath her skin still twisted her posture into something that looked… wrong. Less horrific, perhaps. Marginally. But still unmistakably broken.

On her way back out, she slowed.

A transporter shimmer resolved ahead—security, medics, panic—and a badly injured Andorian woman appeared on the deck in a flash of blue light and pain. Ehfva’s ears flattened instantly, body angling toward them on instinct alone. Someone was dying. She could *feel* it, a raw spike of agony and fear that tugged at her chest like a hook.

She took two steps forward—then stopped.

A human male was already there, hands steady despite the chaos, voice cutting through the noise with purpose. He knew what he was doing. He was helping. For a heartbeat, Ehfva wrestled with the urge to insert herself anyway, to *do something*, anything—but the corridor behind her was filled with others just as broken, just as urgent.

She forced herself to turn away.

Later, she told herself. If needed.

Cryogenics.

The air grew colder as she approached, the hum of systems layered with alarms and raised voices. She was just stepping into the periphery when she heard it—pain-strained, sharp with frustration and confusion.

“Doctor… what’s up with the wolf-man lady?”

Ehfva stopped.

She turned slowly, meeting the pilot’s gaze. Whatever humor might once have lived in her expression was gone, replaced by a calm, steady stillness. She approached the biobed at an unhurried pace, clearly favoring one side.

“My name is Ehfva,” she said evenly. No bite. No anger. Just fact.

She rested one clawed hand lightly against the edge of the bed before continuing. “I was abducted by the Savi Scions. When they discovered I possess four distinct physiological forms—a natural Vulpinian bipedal form like this one, a fully feral form resembling a Terran timber wolf, and two Vulcine humanoid forms, male and female—they became… interested.”

Her ears flicked back briefly, a tell she didn’t quite suppress.

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

She paused then, eyes drifting—unintentionally—to his legs, the way his body held itself, the subtle cues of someone who knew exactly what he might have lost.

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

Her gaze lingered a moment longer—acknowledging, not pitying—before she waited for his answer.
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Episode 02: Cosmic Imperative / Re: Epi S: [Day 03 | 0615] A Man's Purpose
Last post by Eden -
Lt. JG Callax Valin | Recovery Ward | Deck 11 | Vector 02 | USS Theurgy] @Ellen Fitz
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Convalescence was a bitch.

Cal was bored. He knew, of course, that this laying around and doing nothing was a normal part of the healing process. A necessary step in allowing his body to recovery after the traumatic injuries he had sustained. He was not going to complain but damn it was annoying not being able to do anything. Cal was about to play what felt like his 312th game of three-dimensional chess on his PADD when the doors to the room slid open.

When Cal made out who it was that entered, he said upright a bit more stiffly, not quite able to stand or sit at attention.

"Sir."

“Lieutenant Junior Grade Valin,” Commander Cross said evenly, stopping at the foot of his bed. “I’m Lieutenant Commander Cross. I’ve reviewed Doctor Leux’s reports.”

Oh great, here comes more good news, he thought to himself, expecting another hammer to fall. What would it be this time? Honorable discharge?

Cross continued.

“As well as the physical therapy projections. You will not be fit for flight operations for the foreseeable future. Even with aggressive treatment, returning to a fighter cockpit would be… distant.”

The Ardanan exhaled softly and closed his eyes as he processed the news. He had been grounded. Not for any conduct of his own, but because his body was broken. It was a fate worse than discharge for the pilot whose entire childhood had been spent flying amongst the cloud. Suddenly, it felt like he was tumbling down to the planet surface.

When Cal reopened his eyes he simply nodded, offering no commentary as he stared ahead of him as if seeing something beyond the walls and bulkhead of the ship.

“I’m not here to deliver bad news,” Cross continued calmly. “I’m here to offer you a choice.” Cross activated the PADD, though he barely glanced at it. “You’re eligible for a medically induced leave of absence. Full benefits. Time to recover without pressure. When—and if—you regain flight readiness, that path would almost certainly require a transfer off the __Theurgy__.” A beat. Then: “Alternatively, there is a position opening that requires a different kind of precision.”

Cal's attention shifted to the Commander, meeting his gaze with his own. He was intrigued.

“Command Adjutant.”

They wanted him to be a damned secretary?!

Cross clasped his hands behind his back, posture formal but not rigid. “You would be assigned directly to me. Tactical planning support, coordination, personnel oversight. You would also serve as an auxiliary aide to the acting captain and—when assigned—the next permanent captain. It is not a consolation role. It is a command-track position with visibility and responsibility.”

It sure felt like a consolation role. A glorified PADD-pusher creating schedules and writing personnel reports. But what was the alternative? Catch an STD on Risa as he waits for reassignment? He did not want to leave the Theurgy. Not after everything that had happened.

“Regardless of which option you choose,” Cross said, “your record supports a promotion to Lieutenant. That will proceed.” He inclined his head slightly. “You are not a man without purpose, Lieutenant Valin. The question is whether you wish to redefine it now—or step away until you can reclaim the old one.”

There were some Gandalf vibes there that Cal could not ignore. He met the man's eyes again. Cal was not going to let an injury define him, nor take him away from the work they needed to complete. The mission was not over and he was not about to call it quits. Not after the sacrifices of the crew and his fellow pilots.

"I accept."
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Episode 02: Cosmic Imperative / Re: Epi: S [Day 03 | 0145] By these wounds...
Last post by Eden -
Lt. JG Callax Valin | Main Sickbay | Deck 11 | Vector 02 | USS Theurgy] @Ellen Fitz @Dumedion @Krajin 
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Another wave of pain hit the injured pilot as nerve endings were healed and restored. He clenched his jaw, not wanting to give the others to satisfaction of hearing him shout in pain. He was far too proud for that.

Perhaps it was pride that did him in. The details of the battle were still fuzzy, returning only in fragments that had yet to fill in the entire puzzle. He could remember the disruptors, flashing green across his canopy as he maneuvered between explosions and debris.

He hoped that debris had not come from one of their own. Statistically he knew it was possible, even likely, but he did not want to stomach the thought of it now. The Wolves were a tight-knit pack. Few in number, each was known to Cal in a way far more personally than other members of the crew. Each and every single one would be missed -- a loss in their 'family' that could not be replaced.

Cal glanced around the room through pain-filled eyes. How many had made it? Sickbay was full of the wounded, uniforms indicating each of their departments. Of those in his own 'color', he could make out none. Was that good news or an ill omen?

The Ardanan settled back on the biobed, every slight movement creating waves of pain that threatened to knock him into unconsciousness again. He closed his eyes, the lights now causing his head to ache.

"Doctor," Cal managed to groan. What's up with the wolf-man lady?"
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Episode 02: Cosmic Imperative / Re: Epi: S [Day 03 | 0145] By these wounds...
Last post by Krajin -
[ Lt.Thane Va’rek ] | Cryobay | Deck 11 | Vector 02 | USS Theurgy ] Attn: @Ellen Fitz @Dumedion @Eden

(Warning for folks: May contain references of something akin to sleep paralysis. Cryo-Paralysis?)

Flashes of impulse, of emotion that wafted by his mind like a faint dream, almost like smoke carried across the wind. Raw, base emotions of rage, terror, sadness, and hope. His mind tried to latch onto these passing strands at first, but it was too weak. Then came the quiet feeling of a chill crawling through his body as his mind began to awaken from a frozen sleep. He was met with darkness for his eyes could not open, and his body would not respond. More raw emotions were picked up as he tried to focus on what was going on around him and not fall into the panic of being as far as he could feel, buried alive.

His mind latched onto those powerful emotions around him that echoed throughout the ship during the battle, trying to interpret what was going on around his frozen cell. As he did latch onto these emotions, he struggled to interpret them all beyond those base feelings. It's like moving through fog with earmuffs on while trying to listen for animals, and it felt like an eternity trying to navigate this fog. Over time, the fog began to turn into an ocean of despair and exhaustion, and Thane struggled to find his way through. Then the biting cold hit and the sound of something off in the distance. His body was starting to respond, and those minuscule moments of cold and noise were enough for him to latch hold of mentally and draw himself out of the well of emotion and back to the moment at hand.

"...gency thaw in progress... An alarm sounded distant to him as Thane's eyes began to open. Everything was blurry, his breath was cold, and a certain feeling of sickness welled up in his stomach. He was greeted by the interior view of the cryo chamber that was thoroughly fogged over. Thane's heart rate spiked as a sense of worry came over him as he tested his body to try and move. Nothing responded, not even his tail, and that had a mind of its own! His right arm began to respond with jerky movements and made impact with the glass cover. It was a chore to try to reach for the emergency release inside, and eventually he grabbed hold of it and yanked hard on it. With a sudden pop, the lid disengaged, and a thick, frozen fog began to waft out.

His frosted hand gripped the edge of the lid and with some serious struggle, began to pry the thing open like some kind of frosty monster. "Gonna be.. G-gonna be..sick..Need-Need out.." He stammered out from a mix of cold and raspy tones. The critter that chewed the lines had unfortunately triggered an emergency decant of the poor guy and he's probably going to need help.
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Episode 02: Cosmic Imperative / Re: Epi: S [Day 03 | 0145] By these wounds...
Last post by RyeTanker -
[Lt (JG) XamotZark zh’Ptrell (Lt. Zark) | Somewhere in the vicinity of the USS Theurgy. Maybe Donatra's ship?] @Ellen Fitz @Eden @Dumedion

Her body hurt.  That was all she knew.  It was a strange distant sort of pain.  Something was blocking it.  Her mind worked with a sluggish slowness as she tried to analyze the effect.  Lights passed quickly the hallway.  Maybe Anestazine? Her mind tried to ponder.  She let out an involuntary moan as the pain bypassed the chemical signal block.  Her body wracked with an involuntary cough.  Why is my mouth wet?

Voices penetrated the haze and she looked up and saw a pair of unfamiliar faces.  I think they're worried.  Oh yeah. That's Helena.  She remembered as her head lolled.  The armored security woman wiped away the blue liquid. "Shit!  Hang in there Lieutenant!  We're going home!  You hang in there!"  The raven haired chief looked at a battered and bloodied Asian woman.  A battered human man joined them.  The man looked at her desperately as he grabbed her arm and examined the LCARS readout.  It's readings were fluctuating madly.  He looked up somewhere. "Lieutenant Madsen!  We're leaving! Lieutenant Zark is critical!"  He yelled with full authority far beyond whatever rank he was.

He's talking about me?  What about the Enyd?  The man looked to Chief Helena Prince.  "You stay with the Lieutenant." 

The Asian woman spoke up next without waiting. "Theurgy, emergency transport to sickbay, Lieutenant Zark is critically injured!"

There wasn't even an acknowledgement as the world shimmered out of existence then reappeared in a Starfleet sickbay.  Someone rushed over to her.  "I've got you Zark.  Focus on my voice!" He yelled. That's.....Brown. the Andorian thought as he quickly ran a tricorder over her prone form.  "Not good, we need to get her in to surgery.  But..."  Nurse Brown hesitated. "What?"  The man demanded sharply.  "I don't know how to remove the armour."  The nurse admitted as he tried to keep the desperation out of his voice.  "I can get her out, help me get her on the bio bed."  He can? That's nice. Wait, I'm on the deck.  Zark thought for just one moment before she let out a shriek of pure agony as she was roughly lifted off the deck and deposited on to the biobed.  The Andorian passed out before she hit the mattress and Chief Petty Officer Dominic Lau began to undo the critical bits of armour that would allow the medics to save her life.
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Episode 02: Cosmic Imperative / Epilogue: Ashes to Build a New Order [Day 03 | 0300 ]
Last post by Ellen Fitz -
[Chancellor Martok & Colonel Hauq | Klingon Flagship | The Triangle]
@Brutus @Nolan @chXinya @Griff @Stegro88 @RyeTanker @Pierce @Nesota Kynnovan @P.C. Haring @Eden @ob2lander961 @Dumedion @rae @Eirual @tongieboi @Tae @Hans Applegate @joshs1000 @Krajin @TWilkins



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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Silence stretched—heavy, dangerous.

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

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


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



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

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

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

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

Ch’Ress shifted. “And if we refuse?”

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

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

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

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

A long pause.

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

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

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

They departed separately—but with the same orders.


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



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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes, Captain,” Cross replied without hesitation.

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

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

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

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


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



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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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



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

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

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

The Triangle.

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

She didn’t waste time speculating.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes, sir.”

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

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

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

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

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




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

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

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

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

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

If she survived the next few minutes.

She felt the impact before the alarms reached her ears.

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

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

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

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

Dewitt didn’t hesitate.

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

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

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

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

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

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


GM Notes: Part 1.

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

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

We encourage writers to look at the story prompts to see what prompts they might be interested in (and there are actually still prompts from years’ ago that can be completed in the Director’s Cut area for tokens still).
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Episode 02: Cosmic Imperative / Re: Epi 2 [ D02 | 2300 hrs.] All Squared up at the Triangle
Last post by rae -
[ Lt Cmdr. Jaru “Janus” Rel | Wolf-01 | Valkyrie | On approach to the FAB and the sweet release of naptime ]
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Of the pilots who still had functioning fighters, Janus was the last to land. He’d kept Atlas out with him, clearing the way and providing cover for the more damaged ships to land. The AO was cleared, but better safe than sorry, especially after a day fighting cloaked ships. He was jumpy, fingers twitchy and ready for action at every flicker, but experienced enough to know that it was probably fueled by exhaustion and not a new instinctive fear of Romulans decloaking in front of him.

Then he sent Atlas in. Janus was impressed that the Ferasan had managed so well with only a few days on the Mark III under his belt. He was talented – or incredibly lucky. Time would tell which one.

Then Janus was alone in the dark, with only debris and the dead for company. Of his missing pilots, two had been recovered. Archon had regained enough control to bring his damaged fighter in for a landing. Janus had watched from his position, then tuned into the Theurgy’s comms to hear the calls for fire suppression and medical. One of the rescue shuttles had found Salvo and his RIO Knight, barely alive, and called for emergency transports to sickbay. They hadn’t found Razor yet.

It had only been a little over a week since Ghost had concocted her little leadership coup, convincing V-Nine to move Janus up the surgery queue in the hopes that he would replace Razor. Now they were both gone. If there was a life after death – be it the Celestial Temple of his mother’s whispered stories, the Klingon’s great shouts of Sto-vo-kor, or some other place he hadn’t heard about – he wondered if Ghost was watching. If she thought it was all worth it.

The news from Theurgy didn’t help his mood. The captain he’d served under for years was bound for a stasis chamber, almost like they were switching places. Wraith was dead, Hunter had landed their ship in his place. They’d pulled Athen’s body from the back of Wolf-13. Janus remembered how thoroughly disconcerted he’d been in that seat when Gemini told him how the two communicated in combat. How would it feel to lose him? Dix and Beachhead were both rushed to sickbay. There were more, reports of people he’d never met or barely knew coming through as he flicked through the comm channels. He’d get a full report eventually. Detailed injury and recovery times for his people, and a list of names for the rest.

[Wolf-One, Flight Ops.] The direct communication cut through the noise. [You’re cleared for landing. Watch out for debris Commander, it’s a mess in here.]

“Acknowledged. On approach.” Where wasn’t it a mess?

Admittedly, he didn’t quite understand what they meant until he was through the doors into the bay, which had clearly seen combat before the Wolves’ mangled ships returned. “Ah…” he muttered, gathering a last burst of concentration to maneuver his Valkyrie back to its landing pad. The ship had been a bit finicky since losing main power earlier, but he managed it with only a few wobbles, landing a bit crooked to avoid something – was that a bulkhead or a piece of a ship? – in the way.

He powered the ship down as he popped the canopy. Pulling his helmet off should have been a relief, but it turned out that replacing the smell of his sweat with the smell of smokey, burnt, not totally processed by the atmospheric recyclers air was just switching one bad thing for another. Janus spotted a group of deckhands running towards him, a medical kit and fire suppressors at the ready, and waved them off. “You all have better things to do, I’m good.”

Janus dropped his helmet to the ground first, suddenly too tired to carry it. Now that he was back in the bay, the residual adrenaline that had been keeping him going was fading away. Even the ladder seemed impossibly long. He didn’t consciously decide to use the chairlift so much as fall into it, a tangle of limbs in a bulky exosuit. It worked as designed, ferrying him smoothly to the deck even though he didn’t quite fit in it.

Janus laughed. “Someone tell Shadow that this was a great idea. You should all get one.”

Fuck it, he really was getting old, wasn’t he?

[ Lt. JG Nysarisiza “Nysari” zh’Eziarath | Battle Bridge AKA a front row seat to nightmare fuel | Deck 8 | Vector 2 | USS Theurgy ]
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[Donatra herself… is no longer a threat.]

The words were innocent enough, but the implication behind them hit her like a disruptor shot, a sensation she was unfortunately now familiar with. Another diplomatic foray ended in death.

Nysari had seen battles before. No one old enough to serve in the Dominion War was exempt from that. But she had never experienced one from the bridge. She had found the experience thoroughly nauseating, and had no desire to repeat it.

She left at the earliest opportunity. The Theurgy’s two halves would be reconnecting soon and command transferred back to the main bridge, and she hadn’t been essential to operations here in the first place. Instead, she hurried to the first empty office she could find, since her own space in the diplomatic council was in Vector 1, close by but currently inaccessible to her. In an empty Deck 9 counseling office, she set herself to the familiar trappings of protocol.

The President was on route. Nysari, who had worked many levels below President Bacco in the Palais de la Concorde until fate and circumstance brought her to the Theurgy and Starfleet, knew exactly what was expected when the President went anywhere. So she was writing a protocol memo to senior staff, who were surely too busy to read it in time.

At some point she started laughing, an insane, desperate outburst devoid of any humor. When the sound in her ears finally made it through to her brain, Nysari slapped a hand over her mouth to stifle the sound. She closed her eyes, forcing herself to take deep breaths until her antennae stopped jerking in random directions and she was calm again.

It was with slightly clearer eyes that she looked at the finished memo on the console. “This is a waste of time,” she decided, then left to volunteer for a cleanup crew.

[ Lt. Azrin Ryn doesn’t even remember what sleep is at this point | Jefferies Tube | Deck 25 | Vector 3 | USS Theurgy ]
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The whole day was passing with the quality of a dream. Azrin was not entirely sure when the dream had started. It seemed to cut in and out, moments of blissful nothingness cut between periods of startling clarity. She didn’t think she was falling asleep, because surely someone would have told her. But she wasn’t worried about it either, even though a nagging voice came and went telling her that she should be. Sometimes it was Dezra, smooth and comforting. Sometimes it was Zarin, deep and loud. Sometimes she didn’t recognize it at all, and that scared her, a momentary flash of deep, primal fear. But the fear couldn’t stick with her anymore than the voice could, slipping away in the flashes of a dream.

She remembered Romulans coming into engineering. If she’d had to pick something that wasn’t real, Azrin would have picked that. But she also remembered sabotaging the artificial gravity with the singular clarity of focus she had for everything work related, so that must have been real. Then someone pulled her up, then the world seemed to pause for a bit and she was on the ground again, then Frank and Zark were there, anxiously asking if she was ok.

Azrin had assured them that she was, choosing to focus on interesting ways to boobytrap engineering against invaders than whatever they were worried about. Frank said no, but Azrin didn’t mind. Thinking through the technical aspects had brought the clarity back.

As security and medical lingered around, Azrin went back to the one thing that made logical sense. Work.

That was – to the best of her recollection – what had brought her here. Where everything seemed to start for her, laying on her stomach in a Jefferies Tube, fiddling with wires below a panel.

If anyone was with her, they would have noticed that the task was taking far longer than it normally would. They also might have questioned why Azrin was about five centimeters away from the panel, since normally engineers didn’t need to be that close to rewire anything. But she was alone, the Theurgy’s understaffed and overworked engineers spread thin, so there was no one there to question her. As for Azrin, she liked that the wires filled her entire vision, this one little job became her whole world. Thinking about anything else was… difficult, but she could do this in her sleep.

Maybe she was.

It wasn’t long until another engineer found her. Her repair was a small piece of the larger puzzle of power relays, but that little red dot on the board was holding the entire department back. The bajoran woman rolled her eyes upon finding Azrin asleep, head lolling over the open floor panel, a bit of drool falling on the wires still gripped in her fingers. The Lieutenant’s antics were well known by now, eccentricities that would have been a problem on a normal ship never quite making it to the top of the list on the Theurgy.

“Good of you to take a nap Lieutenant,” Tenja said, reaching out to shake Azrin’s shoulder gently, “but we have to finish—” Getting no response, she pushed with more force. “Lieutenant?” Then again. Nothing.

“Crewman Tenja to transporter room, lock onto Lieutenant Ryn’s combadge and beam her to sickbay.”

OOC: Tagging @Dumedion so Talia can laugh
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