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21
Episode 02: Cosmic Imperative / Re: Epi S: [Day 03 | 0320] The Lab Assessment
Last post by Eirual -
[Ens Mia Dunne | Archaeology & Geology Lab | Deck 07 | Vector 02 | USS Theurgy ]
[ATTN: @Nesota Kynnovan ]

Mia sighed as she picked up samples they had gathered. It would take a miracle to get them all back in their correct spots. She didn’t even want to think about what had been a living organism that was now nothing but a smoldering mess on the diagnostic table. She’d spent a lot of time in this particular lab and was furious that the Romulans and the Klingons had double crossed them. Well, mostly the Romulans, but still, there had been enough trouble also caused by Klingons as well. The lights were flickering, more off than on, which made it hard to pick up the scattered items. More than once she’d stepped on or tripped over what she had been looking to pick up.

Mia hadn’t even bothered to go back to her quarters after she’d helped in the medical bay. She was tired, sweaty, and her uniform covered in various stains she did not even want to think about. The lab added a layer of soot to all off that.  She certainly was not looking her best.

The whisper of the door alerted her that someone had entered, and she heard someone muttering from around the corner of the lab. Neither the voice nor the accent was familiar. Her arms still filled with samples as she leaned around the corner to see whoever had entered, “Nope, not Klingon. Just another parasite that’s now destroyed beyond recognition. At least it was already dead.” She paused a moment “Who might you be? I’ve never seen you before, have I?”
22
Episode 02: Cosmic Imperative / Epi S: [Day 3 | 0459 hrs.] Whose Room Is It, Anyway? (Redux)
Last post by rae -
A while ago…

[ Lt. Azrin Ryn has no idea where she is | Corridor | USS Theurgy (probably) ] Attn: @Dumedion
[Show/Hide]
She awoke with a start, jumping to her feet right out of a dead sleep. She would have kept walking, fueled by that sudden burst of adrenaline that begged for her to do something – anything really – had someone not grabbed her arm, drawing Azrin to a halt before she even got started.

“Take a breath Lieutenant,” a calm voice said. Azrin turned to find the source, an unremarkable looking human man, sitting against the wall. He was wearing a gold uniform like hers, but he couldn’t be an engineer, since she didn’t recognize him. Though the uniform was of less interest than his leg, which she belatedly noticed was twisted at an unnatural angle. Broken. Ouch. So why were they in a hallway?

They weren’t the only ones either. There was a whole line of people quietly waiting, broken only by an empty space next to the man with a broken leg – presumably where Azrin had just gotten up from. Her initial burst of energy fading, Azrin swayed a bit as she tried to retain her balance, eyes focusing and unfocusing on that empty spot.

“Don’t worry, the battle’s over,” the non-engineer gold shirt continued, still speaking in that overly calm, smoothing tone used for battle-shocked ensigns. Apparently he thought she had some form of post-traumatic stress. Her! A joined trill of nearly 400 years who had been through who knew how many space battles. She’d even…

She’d…

Well, she couldn’t quite remember at the moment, but surely it was impressive.

“This is the low priority triage zone. We’re waiting while medical deals with the critical cases, then they’ll patch us up,” he explained, still talking. Though Azrin was only half listening.

“I think I’m good,” Azrin muttered, the words coming out sluggish and slurred as she gave herself a quick once over. Moving her limbs, wiggling her fingers and toes, patting her chest, abdomen, and head, giggling slightly as she lightly tapped on her nose. “Yep. All good. Needed a quick nap. Back to work now.” Even through her daze, she brightened at the thought. Frank would be happy to, she knew, once she told him she’d slept. Then they could get back to fixing the ship.

“No- No. You need to stay here. Wait for—” They were drawing attention from the rest of the line now, gazes turning their way and conversation starting up as the human’s hand tightened on her arm. He was actually trying to get up, words cutting out with a grunt of pain at even the slightest shift of his leg. It was just the distraction Azrin needed to break free.

“50ccs of Terakine, set and stabilize, then ten minutes under the bone knitter and you’ll be back to running races!” If Azrin had been in her right mind, she would have noticed how her entire voice changed around the unfamiliar medical terminology. Cadence, tone, even the accent switching to something entirely different than normal.

Then again, if she’d been in her right mind, she would have had the self control to not slip so completely into the persona of a different host, something she had not done since those initial confusing days after her joining.

But Azrin didn’t even register the change, practically skipping down the hallway, buoyed by another sudden rush of energy. Aside from the one human, no one else tried to stop her. They hadn’t spoken to her, she didn’t look injured, and anyone who didn’t need medical attention should be on duty anyway.

—

A little bit after that, but not quite now…

[ Another Corridor | Another Deck | USS Theurgy ]

It took her a while to find a PADD. It was taking even longer to get back to engineering. That had been starting to bother her. Azrin knew the ship like the back of her hand – better really, because she’d had twelve hands and only one Theurgy – and no amount of damage and detours should have been able to keep her from getting where she needed to go. Where was she? What deck was this? How could she not…

Then she found the PADD, waiting helpfully in a supply locker that someone had improperly left wide open, and her doubts vanished like smoke. All she needed to do was sign in, and her assigned repair list would direct her to wherever she had to go.

It took her a few tries to get it working. Another sudden onset of wooziness forced her to the floor, sitting in the middle of the corridor as she mistakenly entered her security codes. Once… twice… finally!

There was only one task in her queue, something so unheard of that it might have made Azrin pause if she wasn’t so happy to see it. “Class 6… Class… Over… Class 6 Overhaul.” A maintenance task, not damage repair. She blinked at it a few times, then shrugged. Azrin trusted Frank implicitly. If the only thing he wanted her to do was this overhaul, then it must be important. “Besides,” she spoke aloud for some reason, the words broken by a yawn as she crawled back up to her feet. “Class 6’s are fuuuuuuunnnnnn.”

She was halfway down the corridor before remembering that she needed a location, squinting down at the PADD through vision that had gone blurry. The compartment numbers were dancing, the lines twisting and waving. But she figured it out. “Ok. Off we go.”

—

Now…

[ Personal Quarters (not hers) | Another Deck | USS Theurgy ]

“A class 6 overhaul,” she said to herself in a snooty voice, mimicking an old professor, “is a complete part by part inspection and replacement of suboptimal equipment. Used when systems are far overdue for replacement and have been considered red lined for an unacceptable length of time.” That professor had been such a bore. Never once during his monotone quoting of the manual had he ever mentioned the pure joy of a class 6. The infectious joy of taking everything apart, the meditative process of neatly organizing the pieces, and the single-minded laser focus of carefully inspecting each part. Preventative maintenance was a hallmark of a well kept ship. Leaving something better than she’d found it before any damage had taken place. The task of an easy, yet deeply fulfilling day of work – something that rarely happened in the constant on the edge chaos of Theurgy.

This was… not her cleanest work. Despite her best efforts, everything seemed to be falling apart between Step 1 (take everything apart) and Step 2 (organize the pieces). She had not made it to Step 3 (inspect) for any component, must less Step 4 (put back together).

Everything was laying in piles, becoming more and more mixed together as she continued to repeat that first step over and over. Bits and bobs rolled into other piles. Pieces were accidentally kicked as she stumbled across the room. It probably would have been cleaner if there’d been an actual firefight in the room. Her thoughts seemed to turn on and off in fits and starts, manic energy hitting her like a jolt of pure caffeine, always followed by the return of that horrible, slow, emptiness. She wanted the energy to stay forever, and nothing brought it back like Step 1. Joy.

So she kept taking things apart, humming along to the vibrations of the warp core. It was out of tune, her humming, but the part of her that had once been a musician was oddly absent, so it didn’t bother her like it should have.

Azrin looked at the mess on the floor and found it fitting. She had created on the outside what her brain felt like on the inside.

OOC: Shoutout to @RyeTanker for a truly great idea.

All of her actual repairs were reassigned when she was sent to sickbay, but Azrin doesn’t know that. She should, but she doesn’t. This is a non-priority task that wasn’t reassigned because it could wait.
23
Episode 02: Cosmic Imperative / Re: Epilogue: Ashes to Build a New Order [Day 03 | 0300 ]
Last post by Ellen Fitz -
[Chancellor Martok & President Bacco | IKC Rotarran | The Triangle | 0330 ] attn: @Brutus  @Nolan  @chXinya  @Griff  @Stegro88  @RyeTanker  @Pierce  @Nesota Kynnovan  @P.C. Haring  @Eden  @ob2lander961  @Dumedion  @rae  @Eirual  @tongieboi  @Tae  @Hans Applegate  @joshs1000  @Krajin  @TWilkins

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

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

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

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

Martok’s expression did not soften.

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

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

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

Silence stretched between them, thick with unspoken disagreement.

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

“I know,” Bacco replied.

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

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

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

“You ask much,” he said.

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

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

“I will,” Bacco said without hesitation.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He ended the transmission without waiting for a response.

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

Internally—
—tighten the noose.

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

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

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

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

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

Sankolov’s jaw tightened—just a fraction.

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

A pause. Then, colder still:

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

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

Sankolov turned slightly as a junior officer approached.

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

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

Inside, the Infested mind smiled—patient, predatory.

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

The cockpit smelled wrong.

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

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

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

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

INERTIAL DAMPER GRID: DEGRADED (63%)

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

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

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

Another alert scrolled.
THERMAL BLEED FAILURE — PORT NACELLE

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Remember to use EPI S [Day 03 | Time Stamp ] Thread Title for your threads. We should have the memorial thread up soon. The Epilogue technically lasts for one day in-game, with the Interregnum starting on Day 04 at midnight (see the Cosmic Calendar for reminders).
24
Episode 02: Cosmic Imperative / Epi S: [Day 03 | 0800] Meeting of the Minds
Last post by Nesota Kynnovan -
[Lieutenant Dr. Nathan Frost, Ph.D. | Deck 01 | Conference Lounge | USS Theurgy]
[Attn: @Brutus, @Pierce, @chXinya, @Eirual, @Ellen Fitz]

Doctor Nathan Frost covered his mouth with the back of his right hand as a yawn escaped his lips. After his arrival earlier that morning, which had been followed by his visual assessment of Theurgy’s various laboratories, he’d only gotten two, maybe two and a half hours of sleep at most. Or rather, Frost spent that time in bed to ponder over his findings, because it turned out that Commander Cross had been right. The situation was pretty bleak, with laboratories in varying states of damage, specialists either dead or wounded and no clear plans for either the short- or the long term. It was part of the reason why he’d called for this briefing; partly to meet his Science Officers so he could assess them, but also to coordinate their efforts to get the department running again.

Despite his lack of sleep, Frost had made an effort to look his best though. He’d managed to take a quick shower before heading off to the Conference Lounge for this briefing, he was wearing a clean uniform that didn’t reek of Klingon and, on top of that, a white lab coat. The lab coat featured the patch of the Federation Centre for Disease Control and Prevention, along with the text “Dr. Nathan Frost, Immunology” stitched onto the right breast in black embroidery.

When he finished yawning, Frost rubbed his blue eyes with the thumb and index finger of his right hand. As he did so, he leaned back into the seat that was normally reserved for the Chief Counselor and heard a kind voice speaking up to his right. ”Short night?” Frost opened his eyes and turned his gaze towards the Chief Engineer’s seat, where Lieutenant Junior Grade Morwen Angharad was currently seated. The woman was looking at him with a kind smile that matched the tone of her voice, and Frost shrugged in reply before answering. ”I wish.” He reached for the white mug in front of him, which had the Theurgy logo printed onto it, and as he brought it to his lips to take a sip of hot coffee, Angharad raised her own mug to toast him with a dry ”Here here.” While he took a sip and savoured the bitter taste of the hot drink, Frost dourly thought that Angharad at least had a night, albeit short.

Several more minutes passed, which both Frost and Lieutenant Junior Grade Angharad spent in uncomfortable silence, before a door on the far end of the Conference Lounge opened with its signature hydraulic hiss and a male Benzite walked in. Frost noticed a gash in the man’s face that had only recently begun to heal and the Benzite, who had apparently caught the surprised stare, spoke up to answer the unspoken question. ”Vole hunting.” While he spoke, the man gestured at his face as if that explained the injury, and at the same time made a somewhat uncomfortable impression; almost as if he didn’t entirely felt at ease in the Conference Lounge. Frost nodded and replied with a somewhat unconvinced ”Ah.” before rising from his seat and gesturing at the seats around the table. ”I’m Doctor Nathan Frost, Immunology. Take a seat.” The man answered with a curt nod and, as he made his way towards the Chief CONN Officer’s seat to Angharad’s right-hand side, introduced himself. ”Thank you. I’m Lieutenant Junior Grade Zarqan, Xenozoology.” At least that explained to Frost why the man had been Vole hunting, prompting the Canadian to reply with a somewhat fascinated ”Ah!” while Angharad poured Zarqan a cup of coffee.

And with that, the uncomfortable silence returned while the three officers waited for the other Science Officers to make their appearance. Aside from the officers, Frost had also invited Crewman Holly Kane of the Hydroponics Lab and the librarian, Crewman Luther Ford, to attend the briefing but they had yet to show up as well.
25
Director's Cut / Re: [Stardate 57714.5: May 12th, 2381] - Boldly they rode...
Last post by RyeTanker -
[Lt (JG) XamotZark zh’Ptrell (Lt. Zark) | Security Centre | Deck 7 | Vector 02 | USS Theurgy] @Ellen Fitz @P.C. Haring @Pierce @Hans Applegate

Lieutenant Zark stood in front of the main display in the security lounge as she gave the briefing on the situation. It made for a grim briefing.  Her armour was an after thought though she did leave her helmet on a table while her rifle was anchored to her back.  Several armoured figures were sitting at tables in the lounge, drinking coffee or eating while they had the chance.  Being pulled in for a private briefing was a sure indication that the shit was going to hit the fan.  Many were sure that it involved the well known Chief Diplomat who now sported an away mission uniform and body armour.

The Andorian continued the briefing. "Most of the ship is free of Romulan boarders at this point.  The majority throughout the ship are surrendering since the fleet action has decisively swung in the Klingon's favour.  Lieutenant zh'Wann is leading the cleaning out of the main penetration on Vector 3."  She paused for a moment to bring up the schematic of the Scimitar class ship based off the information that had been gleaned from the Enterprise's encounter with the ship a while ago. The Andorian's eyes flitted to the only non-security person sitting at the side.  The bruised and bloodied brunette looked exhausted as she continued to look at a data chip that seemed to contain the weight of the quadrant's future in it.

"We're on standby till there's a break in Donatra's shields and we can beam in.  Our mission is to bring Lieutenant Madsen to Donatra so she can present her information and hopefully bring an end to the fighting.  We'll beam in on a perimeter and when we've determined the TZ is secure, Chief Prince and Crewman Lewis will take the lead.  I'll remain close to Lieutenant Madsen as we make our way to a terminal to locate Donatra."

Zark paused as she took a moment pull up an incomplete internal map of the Scimitar class ship.  "Before I go on to loadout and priorities, Lieutenant Madsen, can you give us an overview of your intentions and the rules of engagement?"

[CPO Dominic Lau | Romulan Runabout | Battle in the Triangle]

There was a long pause that simply involved more waiting as all the sides slugged it out.  There was a silent horrified fascination with the spectacle that defied description or conversation explosions torn people and ships apart.  And all they could do was wait. The operative stared out stoically and thought about asking if there was any news yet, but he knew that his tech would tell him as soon as something showed up, and one did not survive Intel operations by being impatient.  The only real anomaly had been the appearance of an antiquated constitution class ship that was probably deemed too weak to be a real threat, so was ignored.  That had brought a mental scoff since the technology in the ship might be old, but a photon torpedo was still a photon torpedo, and last he checked, those ships had at least two launchers.

It was still more waiting though as he waited for his opportunity.  Chief Lau had rotated everyone through the gear prep.  Everyone was out of their standard uniforms, and now in field gear with body armour, rifles, and the other sundry equipment that went with their particular departments away missions.  They had portable computers, med packs, grenades, and rifles.  It wasn't what these people had signed up, but it was going to be what they got.  There were few protests about something not being their specialty.  The demand to keep Thalaron weapons as part of the Romulan arsenal was a horror to terrible to contemplate.  All that was needed was someone made like Shinzon and no where in the galaxy would be safe.  It was decided, they were either going to destroy the Thalaron weapon themselves, or do something that would allow the Klingons to destroy the ship.

The moment did arrive eventually as the battle shifted about.  The old Connie had decided it had enough of life and made a beeline for Donatra's ship.  The explosion was spectacular and a glowing debris could was soon expanding from the impact.  The Intel Chief grasped at instinct. "Bess, head for the Romulan flagship, max speed!  Cheung, stand by to transmit friendly IFF."  The two acknowledged the command and Chief Lau strapped himself into the co-pilots seat as Bessir red lined the impulse engine.  The half Cardassian, half Bajoran's heritage came into play as he'd taken in odd bits about his homeworld, such as what chilies to use in a particular style of hasparat.  Other useful bits included how Deep Space 9 had managed to move itself from Bajor's orbit to the wormhole, and the mechanics of it out of sheer morbid curiosity. The internal hum of the runabout's systems took on a distinctly odd persistent twang as the pilot/sniper manipulated the subspace field and the intertial compensator began to whine as the acceleration curve kicked past what it was normally designed to handle.  Everyone felt themselves pressed back into their seats as inertia pressed them back into their seats.

The Chief could hear his tech struggling behind him as her muscles pushed against force itself to activate the IFF. With final grunt, a key chimed and the code was sent.  Hopefully the code she'd managed to dig out would cause the systems to look the other away while giving them priority access.  At the very least, it should avoid having them blown up right away.  The Tal'Shair code could be decidedly fataly worse.  Lau watched the ship grow preposterously large in the viewport very quickly and he held his breath as they reached the shield perimeter.  The sensors said they were down, but they could snap back into being and the runabout would pancake itself against the energy barrier and that would be it for his life, to say nothing of his career.

Then the moment passed and Bessir metaphorically slammed on the brakes as he killed the war engine modification. Everyone was thrown forward and a few people yelled in surprise as they were tossed from their chairs.  There wasn't time for an ass chewing though as the pilot engaged the magnetic clamps to lock the runabout to the hull of the warship under them.  Bessir didn't wait as he began to shut down all the unnecessary systems looking to avoid any more sensor contact and slip under the radar.  The team chief looked at the pilot as he continued pressing buttons. "That was insane.  You know that right?"  Bessir stopped what he was doing to look up and smirk. "Yeah, but it was done with style." It had worked, so it was hard to argue with.  Bessir decided to press his luck. "No harm no foul eh?"  Chief Lau stood up and smacked the sniper in the back of the head the way an elder smacked a young'un to show he was getting uppity.  The sniper obediently owed his acceptance of the rebuke.  Cheung broke in with a timely update. "I've got a low level dampening field up around us, so we should be well hidden."  The Chief stopped his ass chewing to look at Cheung and nod.  "Good. See if there's a transporter you can hack to get us inside.  Hate for us to have to move this crate or go EVA to find an airlock.  Cheung nodded her agreement and got to work finding the group a way in.


TZ = Transporter Zone
26
Episode 02: Cosmic Imperative / Epi S: [Day 03 | 0320] The Lab Assessment
Last post by Nesota Kynnovan -
[Lieutenant Dr. Nathan Frost, Ph.D. | Deck 07 | Archeology & Geology Lab | USS Theurgy]
[Attn: @Eirual]

When he transferred to the USS Theurgy, Nathan had read up on the information provided to him by Admiral Anderson. The Canadian Immunologist had figured that most of the information would be outdated by the time he made it aboard, but at the very least it allowed him to get his bearings. That, and it provided him with something to do aboard the IKS Vask’et while the small B’rel-class Bird of Prey stealthily made her way towards the rendezvous with the USS Theurgy. Amongst the things Nathan had studied was the Multivector Dreadnought’s deck layout and to say that the USS Theurgy was a big ship would be an understatement; to Nathan, who had never served aboard a starship before, the sheer size of the ship was completely overwhelming.

Up until he’d met with Commander Cross, the Canadian had actually managed pretty well in his own opinion. While the ship was damaged, it had been a pretty straightforward trip from Deck 05, where he’d beamed aboard in Transporter Room 2, to Deck 01 where Commander Cross’ office was located. The real problems began when Nathan tried to make his way to the Upper Science Labs on Deck 07 though. Hindered by battle damage, emergency force fields, repair crews who sealed off entire sections of hallway and general confusion over navigating a multi-vector ship, Nathan eventually found himself on Deck 11, where he promptly got lost until a team of Engineers sent him in the right direction.

Now, a little over twenty minutes since Doctor Nathan Frost made his way out of Commander Cross’ office, he finally found himself in front of the Archeology & Geology Lab. The arrogant expression that had initially been on Nathan’s face had since turned increasingly dour, especially because the sheer size of the ship began to dawn on him. With it came the realization that it was impossible for him to do everything by himself and he, albeit somewhat begrudgingly, tried to come to terms with the fact that he’d have to rely on his fellow Science Officers.

With a deep sigh, the Canadian walked through the doors of the Archeology & Geology Lab. The doors opened with their signature hydraulic hiss and Nathan found himself staring at a seemingly empty laboratory. He could smell a sharp stench and his blue eyes were immediately drawn to the diagnostics table, where something was smouldering and still slightly smoking. It wasn’t what he’d expected when Commander Cross mentioned miniature internal detonations earlier, but whatever had been on that diagnostic table smelled rather foul nonetheless and it prompted Nathan to make a face. Given the fact that the lights of the laboratory were flickering and some of the equipment was thrown all across the room, Nathan took careful steps as he slowly approached the diagnostics table. ”It reeks of Klingon in here…” Thinking that he was all alone in the laboratory, Nathan spoke up on a dour tone that matched his facial expression. When he reached the diagnostics table, he covered his nose with his right sleeve and continued to complain. ”Oh! with my luck, that really is a Klingon and his fellow Warriors are about to walk in here to check up on their friend.”
27
Episode 02: Cosmic Imperative / Re: Epi S: [Day 03 | 0255] The Cost of Continuity
Last post by Ellen Fitz -
[ Lt. Cmdr. Cross | Deck 01 | Executive Officer’s Office | USS Theurgy ] @joshs1000

Cross watched Lok go with a thoughtful frown, fingers idly tightening around the edge of the PADD in his prosthetic hand.

“There’s an idea,” he said aloud, just enough to carry after the bulk of the CPO. “Though I doubt the higher-ups would take too kindly to AI-run ships without human failsafes. Not after the Calamity.” A pause, then, more deliberately, “For what it’s worth, Chief—based on the preliminary reports, you performed exceptionally under pressure. I’ll be submitting a recommendation for promotion.”

Lok’s departing nod was brief, professional. Cross respected that.

The doors slid shut, and Cross exhaled, turning his attention back to the clutter of PADDs on his desk. Damage assessments. Personnel reallocations. Casualty lists he hadn’t quite built the stomach to read through again. Somewhere in the stack was the Vaharran after-action report Stark had flagged for him, and he was in the middle of sorting for it when movement at the edge of his vision registered.

Two figures stepped in, crisp, precise—too precise. They snapped to attention and saluted. For half a heartbeat, Cross was genuinely caught off guard. His prosthetic hand lifted instinctively, fingers flexing as if to return the gesture, then stilled mid-air. Logic caught up to reflex. Starfleet didn’t salute like that. He let the hand settle back against the PADD instead, posture straightening as he rose to his feet.

“Commander Cross,” he said evenly, introducing himself as much for their benefit as protocol’s. His pale eyes flicked briefly from one to the other, taking in the symmetry, the discipline, the controlled stillness. “Lieutenant Commander Cross. Acting Executive Officer." He inclined his head—respectful, measured. “I’ve received multiple reports regarding Vaharran actions during the engagement,” he continued. “Your units’ work aboard this ship was cohesive, disciplined, and thorough under extremely chaotic conditions. Professionally, you have my respect.” He allowed a half smile. “Personally, you have my appreciation for stepping in to support us when you had no obligation to do so.”

Cross tapped the edge of the PADD once, as if punctuating the thought.

“Acting Captain Stark has already forwarded a full report of your conduct to the President of the Federation. Given the circumstances, I expect it will only be a matter of time before she seeks a personal meeting with you.” His tone remained neutral, but there was an undercurrent of candor. “When that happens, should you or your people have requests of the Federation, that would be the time to make them. From where I stand, you’re on a strong footing—and your requests would likely be received favorably.” He held their gaze, then added, carefully, “That said, I cannot speak for the Acting Captain, nor for the President. I can only tell you that, were the decision mine, I would welcome more Vaharrans aboard this ship. Especially now.” A slight pause. “We’re still waiting for the fallout from this battle, and with the President’s arrival pending, there are more unknowns than certainties.”

Cross let the silence breathe for a moment before shifting gears.

“If you already have requests,” he said, voice steady, “I’m willing to hear them and seek to do what I can to grant those which we can. And if there is anything you or your people can do to assist us further—within the limits of the resources you can reasonably spare—I would appreciate knowing that as well.” He angled the PADD slightly toward himself again, posture composed, attentive. “The floor is yours, Commander al-Zaheer.”
28
Episode 02: Cosmic Imperative / Re: Epi 2 [ D02 | 2300 hrs.] All Squared up at the Triangle
Last post by tongieboi -
[Ens. Joseph Adams | Tertiary Computer Core | Deck 12 | Vector 02 USS Theurgy |

Smoke and the hiss of exposed wiring spitting at the air filled the core chamber. The combat, to Joe's surprise , had flown by in what felt like only a handful of minutes. He suspected the constant battle and the spurring of his new Klingon friend was why. The Klingons had boasted that they were Martok's best and now? It was easy to see why.

Joe was by no means a tactical officer, still for every one or two Romulans he dealt with, each Klingon seemed to have defeated twice that in the same space of time. Romulans either dead or taken prisoner were already in the process of being ferried away. He was pulled out of the thought by a sudden impact to his back. Droz, had clapped him on the back and he was almost certain that something snapped.

"The day is ours, Joe, Son of Adam."

Joe hadn't bothered to correct Droz, the fight had taken up too much of his attention, and now it felt strange to correct the Klingon now,. So he kept his mouth shut as the Klingon slung an arm around his shoulder, clearly high from the euphoria of victory.

"You fight well for an Arpethian Mud Snake! Perhaps we will have the opportunity to do so again."

Joe nodded dumbly. Mostly tuning the Klingon out now as he turned to one of the screens. The air recycling systems in the computer core were working overtime to try and vent out the burning stench of ozone from ruptured circuits and the pale smoke that clung to the air. The other crew already working on repairs and the security standing over them were little more than half obscured shadows, illuminated by the throbbing red lights.

He turned to a panel, pressing a few buttons to turn flow of power from a particularly angry block of servers that both he and Droz had been using as cover from disruptor fire. The constant sparking of electrical discharge fell silent almost immediately.

The ship had stopped rocking by now. He was certain that this engagement had been one of the last to fizzle out, such was the bizarrely fortified nature of this room, that flushing the enemy out had been both time consuming and difficult. Already though, the results of the battle began to circulate as new officers cycled in and out of the section to perform repairs, pick up prisoners and rescue the wounded. Two things were consistent among the stories told between groups as they worked on repairs.

Captain Ives was interred in Cryo. The Presidential Flagship was on its way.

Neither was very believable, The Presidential Flagship travelling all the way out here? As far as he knew, the President rarely if ever found themselves off world, such was the mountain of bureaucracy that followed them.  Why come out here? Wasn't Theurgy still a fugitive vessel? No, if any Starfleet asset was bearing down on them, it would be a Task Force of some kind, like the kind that the U.S.S. Archeron had led which had hounded them early on. 

The things he'd slept through whilst in Cryo himself.

Captain Ives being incapacitated was equally unbelievable. To most crew, their captain seemed untouchable and unflappable. Such a reputation was encouraged to maintain discipline. And whilst Joe tried not to succumb to such naïve thoughts, nobody was invincible after all, he did feel a distinct disbelief at the idea.

Gossip had to wait. At least for now. If either was true, things were grim indeed. If the President had come to personally blast them out of the sky with an entire fleet, or Captain Ives had fallen, they were royally fucked.

No, no point in dwelling on any of that.

Again, Droz caught his attention, this time by shouting his name from the centre of the room. It was likely that he was withdrawing with his fellow warriors.

"We leave you now, Joseph, son of Adam. Until we meet again."

Brief and to the point. He was starting to get that impression of Droz. In fact most of the enjoyment had left his face now that battle was over. Perhaps, like Starfleet Officers, Droz too had to file after action reports and all kinds of documentation. Hardly as interesting as songs and stories that would likely also be shared.

"Until we meet again."

Joe reciprocated, allowing himself a small smile for the first time since the battle had started. He made the mistake of offering a handshake to the Klingon. A lesson he somehow hadn't learnt after years of having one in the family.

Droz caught his hand and pulled him into a semi-embrace, a display of both respect and brotherhood. One that crushed his hand and dealt a second blow to his back. That was going to leave a bruise. Droz rejoined his company and nodded, the smile wide again.

"Ha! They will sing songs of this day! The day a Human hurled himself down the jaws of Romulans like a blind-"

Joe never did get to find out exactly what animal he was compared to this time. Droz's words were cut short by the hiss of Klingon transporters and the dematerialisation of both him and his entire squad.
29
Episode 02: Cosmic Imperative / Re: Epi S: [Day 03 | 0255] The Cost of Continuity
Last post by joshs1000 -
[CPO Avandar Lok | Executive Officer’s Office | Deck 1 | Vector 01 | USS Theurgy] Attn: @Ellen Fitz @Nesota Kynnovan
[Show/Hide]

He had pulled himself away from his work begrudgingly, perhaps it was the fact that he had met Commander Cross only a few days prior and had formed an…adequate…opinion of him that made him even consider taking the time away for something that could just been done over a viewscreen, he certainly had a better head on his shoulders than most officers. Maybe it was the baldness, Cross couldn’t just skate by on his looks like some of the supermodels in uniforms that this ship had in spades, not that Cross wasn't good looking, far from it. The thought made Lok smirk as he exited the turbolift on autopilot and strolled down the wrecked corridor of Deck 1 bound for the new Acting XO’s office. His tired eyes took in every molecule of damage, the scorch marks, the missing panels, the hanging bundles of opti-cable, and the myriad of small holes from those vaharrans and their projectile weapons, plenty of those bullet holes now lined the walls of the FAB thanks to those Marines. They made a mess but at least they helped.

As he rounded the corner, Lok passed a science officer he did not recognize, granted he didn’t really know any of the officers on the ship and with Deck 1 being major officers’ country he was likely to run into a few; the man had an almost haunted expression on his face and paid the ferasan little mind as he passed. The door to the office immediately swished open as Lok approached, either Cross was expecting him or the door sensor was malfunctioning, the rather large bullet hole in the manual opener panel was probably a clue, either way Lok politely waited until the bald vulcan noticed his presence and invited him in.

“Commander huh, must be pretty bad”, Lok said in jest, as he took a seat across from the acting XO, the chair groaning under his weight.

After the typical brief exchange of pleasantries, Cross got into it, he laid it on Lok that he was now Chief of the Deck in such a way that the ferasan didn’t really seem to notice, though that was probably due to exhaustion and the fact that since Ensign Herrold was killed in action, Lok had already been pulling double duty. More responsibility but conspicuously no promotion, but considering the relatively small size of the deck gang, a senior chief wasn’t exactly required. Lok nodded as Cross finished with mention of potential but unlikely replacements then went on to the real business, why the big guy was here in the first place.

Cross went with the usual spiel, laying out his orders and expectations; Lok was largely aware of most of this or was in the process of getting it taken care of himself so he just continued to politely nod while Cross had his moment of command. Finally Cross finished with a request for input from Lok. The ferasan thought for a moment, though he had nothing really important to ask, sure there was plenty he could ask but the answer was rather obvious, either a “no” or “maybe”.

“No sir, I’ll get it done, just you had better get more pilots if you want more planes, I can fix up all the fighters you want but you have less then ten fighter jocks down there…unless we are installing Thea in the new birds?”

He let the question hang for a moment, it was mostly rhetorical anyway, then stood.

“Don’t worry I’ll figure something out”, he said with a weary smile as he turned to leave, passing a pair of the vaharrans as he left with a pilot nod. Before long he was back in the turbolift and on his way down to the flight deck. Plenty of work to be done and no time to do it, nothing changes in Starfleet.

Cmdr. (3rd) Hassar al-Zaheer | Executive Officer’s Office | Deck 1 | Vector 01 | USS Theurgy]
[Show/Hide]

“Are you really sure you want to stay with these people, Commander”, the young Lieutenant Ahzed al-Sahiin inquired with an obvious hint of confusion in his voice.

“Yes Ahzed”, Hassar responded, “I think they are the only ones that can help find our missing people.”

“They can barely help themselves, and speaking freely Commander, they did not seem to appreciate our help. You haven’t even spoken to the commander of this vessel and their political leader hasn’t reached out either.”

“Your point?”

“Commander, this is just how these Federation and Starfleet types have treated our people for years, friendly sure, but they are unreliable. You know the Klingons, you’ve met their leader, Martok in the past, why not go to them?”

“I don’t think they would be as helpful as you think, and these people are different.”

“But Commander-”

“-Enough, Lieutenant”, Hassar said sharply. Ahzed was quick to stiffen up at attention just as the turbolift doors opened onto a familiar corridor, “If you have further concerns, think on them then politely bring them up to this Commander Cross, perhaps they will know.”

“Yes Commander.”

The two vaharrans exited the turbolift and briskly walked down the corridor, following the directions that the ship’s computer consciousness had given them, to the XO’s office. As they approached, the doors slid open revealing the one they presumed was Cross, based on him being behind the desk, and one of the furry feline aliens. Before long the feline stood up and left, he gave a nod and some curious looks as he passed the two vaharrans but before long was off the down corridor they had come from. The two waited a bit longer until Cross invited them in. They both entered the office then walked side-by-side in step up to the desk, as crisp as if on parade, then simultaneously saluted. It was perhaps just a beat too long the two held their salute before a certain awkward atmosphere started to creep in and Hassar remembered that Starfleet didn’t exactly salute in this manner or have really any military decorum at all. Clearing his throat to stifle any embarrassment, Hassar let his hand fall to its side casually, followed a moment later by Ahzed as he realized what was going on.

“Commander Cross, I’m Commander-Third-Rank Hassar al-Zaheer, of the Arosan Marines, and this is Lieutenant-2nd-Rank Ahzed al-Sahiin, commander of the 8th Marine Troop; you wished to see us?”
30
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
[Show/Hide]
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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