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91
Episode 02: Cosmic Imperative / Re: Ep. 2: S [Day 02 | 1743 hrs] Lay Down Your Burdens
Last post by joshs1000 -
Cmdr. (3rd) Hassar al-Zaheer | Observation Lounge 4 | Deck 15 | Vector 03 | USS Theurgy] Attn: @chXinya
[Show/Hide]

“You haven’t been aboard our ships”, Hassar says with a chuckle as he puts his signature at the bottom of the page he is reading.

“Inventory reports and logs, we still don’t have a lot of computer storage yet…so paper it is.”

The amount of paper they had acquired in the over nearly 300 years in space was rather astounding, records upon records, upon records, but they could make paper, they couldn’t make hard drives, not many anyway.

“It’s a bit of a shame though, we had to delete many digital works from our drives over the years because we needed the storage for something else. There are whole books that have been written in our inventory to describe films, music, video games, and more, now lost, but it will never be the same as experiencing the original.”

Hassar finished his little lament, probably a bit more serious than the interaction called for but there was truth in it, for him at least. While no vaharrans from the Old World survived the journey, the generations that followed, like Hassar, did not pine for the Old World, they lamented what was lost as he did now, but their eyes turned to the new world the future that they struggled and suffered for for decades until one glorious day they stumbled upon the perfect planet to call home. Now they rebuild and strive for progress in this new world and in this new part of the galaxy, it would be many generations before their civilization was what it once was, but every vaharran was happy to plant trees they would never see the shade of.

He shook his head and sighed, “Ignore my rambling, I just have a lot on my mind since I arrived here.”

A broad genuine smile formed on his face to show he wasn’t totally in a dour mood, but the thoughts still lingered none the less.

His neck and shoulder muscles ached, all the strenuous activity from earlier in the day, and getting shot in the chest, kind of took it out of him. The Starfleet doctor, the muscular one, Leux if he remembered correctly, offered some sort of additional drugs but Hassar was uncertain if he should take them and instead took some pain killers from the ones his group had brought on board. Even so the aches and stiffness were still there.

“There, that should be the last of it”, Hassar said with a sigh, tossing the metal clipboard onto the table next to him.

Relieved of work, suddenly weariness that had been lurking in the background made itself known and with a groan Hassar rubbed his eyes to fight it off, at least for now. The urge to stretch took hold as much as he fought it, his arms lifted and he extended them out to pull the internal sinews, along the way he stretched his neck as well which also cracked, eliciting a groan of relief. More pertinent to Shall though, if he chose to look when this inadvertent display occurred, was the fact that Hassar’s muscles flexed and bulged beneath his thick green skin, a hint at his strength.

He sighed again, much better.

He hadn’t forgotten about his companion though, far from it, his mind, previously tabulating equipment that was older than he was, was now considering all the questions to ask the blue skinned creature before him. He didn’t want to come across though overly curious or perhaps get into territory that was private, he didn’t know the culture very well and also had been on the receiving end of some overly personal questions about his own species. Finally he spoke up after clearing his throat.

“So I can’t say I’ve ever really had a chance to speak to an andorian, beyond pleasantries that is”, he began as he got comfortable with his arms resting on the back of the couch, “when I was part of your Starfleet’s Officer Exchange, there was an Admiral…oh I forget her name, but she was sort of the liaison, but she told us where to go and all that.”

He scratched his beard for a moment as he tried to remember the woman’s name but he had referred to her as “Admiral” so much he could not.

“Anyway, we never got to talk much, but if you don’t mind I am curious about your people and reading a database entry on one of your computers doesn’t have that personal touch as they say.”

He smiles again, his green eyes briefly glinting with something, excitement perhaps, curiosity for sure, but something else.
92
Main OOC Board / Re: Main OOC Thread
Last post by rae -
... INCOMING TRANSMISSION ...

Greetings Theurgists!

Starting out with the good news!

WELCOME TO OUR NEW CHARACTER!

A new science officer!

  Lt. Nathan Frost                                      Asst. Chief Science Officer

- Writer: @Nesota Kynnovan

Dr. Nathan Frost, PhD, is an immunologist with a history of service in both Starfleet and the Federation Center for Disease Control. After a painful personal loss, he was approached by Admiral Anderson with an offer to make the trek to Klingon space to join the science department the USS Theurgy. Once here, he will be assigned to one of the open assistant chief science officer positions.

Welcome aboard!

SOME SAD FAREWELLS...

Unfortunately, we say goodbye to another writer. @Sqweloookle has decided to leave the sim. In accordance with his wishes, Elro Kobol and Adam Kingston will be placed into stasis, for if he decides to return one day.

  Lt. Elro Kobol                                       Former Chief Medical Officer

- Former Writer: @Sqweloookle

  Lt. JG Adam Kingston                                        Former Master-At-Arms

- Former Writer: @Sqweloookle

And finally, to end on a slightly better note, a temporary farewell! @Havenborn has asked for a leave of absence due to real life problems. We wish him the best and hope he will return soon! Daniel, his RIO Uriah (Knight), and other associated NPCs will be placed into stasis.

  Lt. Daniel Havenborn                                     Formerly Wolf-07 [Salvo]

- Former Writer: @Havenborn

As a reminder, please update the GMs with any real life events that keep you from posting on the sim so we can work something out!

ACTIVITY REQUIREMENTS


Good job on activity posts everyone, but now we have to keep it up! We are going to start being more strict on the rules again. Remember that all of your characters should be taking part in the action!

Per the General Rules:

Writers should always try to reply in all their current threads within ten (10) days.

To put it plainly, please abide by the General Rules and be an active presence on the forum boards, and communicate temporary absences. You do not have to be active on the Discord server, since it is entirely optional.

SPREADSHEETS MAKE THE WORLD GO ROUND

To keep better track of things, we have spreadsheets! To keep non-writers out of the spreadsheets, we’ve only posted them on discord.

If you haven’t yet, please check out the #reference-docs channel in discord and post your character(s)’s Episode 2 Battle locations in the spreadsheet called “Triangle Character Location and Thread”

If you want to kill off an NPC to sacrifice to the blood god, claim the NPC in “DEATH LIST”


Live long and be dramatic,

Brutus
Rae
Ellen Fitz
Game Moderators
93
Episode 02: Cosmic Imperative / Re: CH2: S [Day 2 | 2315 hrs] For all the blood-tainted stars...
Last post by joshs1000 -
[LT CMDR Thomas “Razor” Ravon | Wolf-05 | Cockpit | Valkyrie | Local Space] Attn: @rae  @Pierce  @Dumedion  @Stegro88  @Havenborn  @Eden  @Krajin  @P.C. Haring  @ob2lander961  @Dree @Nesota Kynnovan

The tub was still flying, that’s all he could say, but without impulse or primary thrusters it was like he had gone from driving a premium hover sportscar to a bicycle and now he had to ride that bicycle through though a busy intersection to a garage that was constantly moving away and jumping all over the place. He’s been in worse situations, or at least that is what he told himself.

The battle appeared to be shaping up to his port side and without his primary HUD he was forced to work on visual sightings of nearby ships and debris. The Theurgy fighters stood out with their tarnished but still smart white Starfleet color scheme, apart from Janus who he briefly glimpsed with his extensive nose art. The Romulans and Klingons however were a matter worse, dark browns and greens that seemed to pop in and out of existence, not due to any cloaks but simply the fact that the colors blended into the surrounding space. For the moment they seemed to be unaware of the limping fighter, but this was not a guarantee, especially as Razor got closer to Theurgy’s Ranger, herself under heavy fire.

Suddenly his systems started to flicker, and his comms went in and out, he momentarily could hear Shadow, but the signal was too broken up to discern what she was saying. He didn’t need his old Valkyrie to conk out on him, not now, so he reached down to a isolinear panel by his right leg and, through years of memorizing, pinched and pulled out the EPS-100K Overload chip. This was designed to regulate the power flow from the primary reactor, pulling it normally would fry his systems, but since the reactor was damaged and he was only on batteries it was acting more of a hindrance than a help. The power was in a sense “dirty” and the overload system kept opening and closing the circuit in response, now with the chip gone nothing was preventing the power, which still fluctuated, from reaching what he needed to fly and communicate.

The comms returned to normal, though still with some sort of sporadic issue, most likely caused by the radiation from the imposed singularity, but it was enough. His HUD even came back online to a limited degree, but thrust was still low and the fighter’s handling felt like a clapped out freighter, not a high-performance piece of precision engineering.

[Razor to squadron, I’m still here, she’s flying like a brick, but I’ll be fine, you bag a few extra for me and I’ll have some Raktajino waiting for you when you get back!]

He chuckled to himself, though this false bravado did not help untangle the knot that was forming in his stomach as he felt like he was no closer to Theurgy. As he continued his voyage, he suddenly heard a voice he was unfamiliar with come over the comms, indicated to be from Theurgy.

[This is Mission Ops to any available fighters in the area…be advised, we have a large number of hostile shuttlecraft inbound to our location and are in need of assistance.]

Damn, must be some sort of boarding action, Razor thought to himself. The thought had barely left his head when all the screens and panels in his Valkyrie went dark and everything went quiet.

“Shit”, he murmured as he tapped on several panels. He reached down and adjusted several other isolinear chips but nothing worked, his Valkyrie was dead. Inwardly he cursed himself for removing the overload prevention chip, no doubt the failing reactor spiked and fried everything. He wouldn’t know until he got tractored in and that kzinti deck chief took a look at it.

“Well guess it’s time to wait.”

Per procedure he checked his suit’s systems on his forearm display, all nominal with plenty of air for up to twenty hours, plenty of time for the Romulans to get whooped and Theurgy to pick him back up. Now all he could do was sit patiently and drift at his previous speed through the battlefield, other than a large piece of D’Deridex that he was about to pass under, there were no obstacles he needed to worry about. He stared patiently out the unshattered side of his canopy to see what little of the battle he could see, most of it was now blocked by wreckage. He hummed quietly to himself.

Then something caught the corner of his eye and he turned his head just in time to see a Romulan fighter, not just any Romulan fighter but one of the ones that were on their side, based on the distinctive marking they had painted on it. Maybe they can give me a tow, he thought to himself, and reached up to tap his suit’s communicator, only to freeze, his gut realizing before his brain that this supposed friend was in an attack run. That’s when he saw the green glint emerge from the bottom of the Romulan fighter, a torpedo!

His hands reacted immediately, he pulled the handle to blow the canopy away, but rather hit the ejection seat lever, he popped his harness off and pushed with all his might with his legs onto the cockpit floor to propel himself out. He instinctually knew thanks to his honed situational awareness that if he had used the ejector he would have been shot straight into the debris above him and had his neck broken. He watched in what felt like slow motion as the plasma torpedo streaked closer until it disappeared down below his visor. He slammed his eyes shut and moments later felt small bits of stuff hitting his suit then what felt like a shovel to the back that knocked the wind out of him.

[Bridge | Deck 1 | Vector 01 | USS Theurgy]

Jaya’s chaotic screen momentarily lit up with a new blip, Razor’s intermittent transponder signal had been on track bearing to Ranger but had gone dark, replaced now with a stationary search and rescue ping indicating that Razor had left his fighter. The ping however then just as quickly disappeared. Razor should have activated his personal transponder for the SAR teams to find him but instead there was nothing but an empty space on the screen.

[In Space]

Razor gasped for air as he worked to regain his senses, he was once again tumbling, briefly catching glimpses of the fiery debris that was his Valkyrie streaking off in every direction.

The looming shape of something jagged and metal caught his eye and he reached for it. His hand caught something, his momentum causing him to swing around and smack into a hard surface, stunning him. He had stopped though at least.

It took Razor a few seconds to catch his breath and figure out where he was. He was surrounded by jagged burned metal, bits of pipes, conduit, whisps of opti-cable waving like tentacles. It was debris from the destroyed Romulan D’Deridex. Looking to his left, Razor spotted remnants of a corridor, he didn’t want to be caught by the Romulans and captured, he’d keep his transponder off for now, so made his way along the wrecked hull until he reached the jagged opening of the corridor. He checked his forearm to activate the suit’s magnet boots but found that it was smashed and non-functional. Today is just not my day.

Carefully he climbed into the corridor and oriented himself so that his feet were facing the floor, the mangled interior was dimly lit by a couple of still functioning emergency lights, though they flickered as their power source slowly died. Gripping wall panels and whatever he could hold, Razor pulled himself through. It was eerie, and based on the smears of green blood, had been occupied at the time of the destruction, hopefully the poor bastards died quickly.

His breathing was labored but he didn’t pay it too much mind. A flash of light at the end of the corridor caught his attention and he made his way to it. It wasn’t long before he emerged into another gaping maw of jagged steel, but the sight that greeted him nearly stole his breath.

As if framed like a canvas, the entire battle that he was only able to get glimpses from while in his cramped cockpit was laid out before him in a grand display. Theurgy, her two vectors in the middle duking it out with Romulan warships, great Klingon birds-of-prey swooping about, green streaks of disruptor fire, orange beams of phasers arced hither and yawn. Razor could even see the occasional glimpse of his fellow Wolves running circles around their enemy counterparts. What was revealed was his fighter’s destruction was no accident as the ships he had thought were on their side were now taking turns pounding away at Theurgy and the Klingons in addition to their own countrymen.

The awe of the splendid sight of battle, gave way to worry, his friends were now outnumbered. But there was nothing he could do about it now. Out of breath he maneuvered himself into a position to keep his body propped up in such a way he wouldn’t have to physically keep his body still and not float off the debris.

Nothing to do but enjoy the view.


OOC:

-Razor is going to die but that won’t be until the end of the battle, for now he will just silently watch as his suit slowly loses oxygen. I will write his final post before we close it out.
94
Episode 02: Cosmic Imperative / Re: Epi 2 [ D02 | 2300 hrs.] All Squared up at the Triangle
Last post by rae -
[ Lt. Azrin Ryn | Main Engineering | Deck 25 | Vector 3 | USS Theurgy ] Attn:
[Show/Hide]
Azrin jerked awake, dragged back to consciousness by the soft but incessant beeping of a tricorder. She rubbed at her face, which felt like something had been pressing into it, blinking bleary eyes to bring the world back into focus. Something was wrong, but she couldn’t quite…

Oh. She was vertical. Why was she sitting up? Sleeping was a horizontal activit—there went the tricorder again, in all its distracting beeping glory. Her tricorder. It took way too long for her to find it, sitting on her knees, as it continued to audibly inform that the diode calibration it was tracking was way out of alignment. The diode. The diode she had been calibrating. The diode she had been calibrating in the—

Azrin groaned, finally focusing on the panel in front of her. The slipstream drive. Her beautiful, miraculous drive, damaged again after they’d used it to get out of Romulan space. She’d been kneeling on the ground beside it, working on repairs… and fallen asleep. Fingers trailed up to her cheek again, searching this time, and found a good size dent in the skin. That would be from the diode, pushed even further out of alignment by her face.

She really was losing her mind.

The whole room shuddered, an impact on another part of the ship reverberating through to her location. Someone behind her called out a list of minor damages, but beyond that the controlled background noise of main engineering continued at the same tempo. Oh yeah, they were in the middle of a battle, weren’t they? For some reason, that fact didn’t bother Azrin as much as it should. Her job was the same no matter what. Keep the ship working. Fix whatever broke.

If she’d been feeling more like herself, Azrin probably could have given a reasonably accurate guess as to where they’d been hit, her nocturnal obsession with tracking the warp cores’ vibrations through the hull had given her an excellent sense of how sound traveled through the ship. But Azrin was not feeling like herself right now, though she had no idea why, and no one else seemed to notice.

She’d been sleep deprived for weeks and drinking copious amounts of coffee for years, but Azrin had never had a reaction like this. One minute she was awake, filled with so much energy that she couldn’t stay still, couldn’t focus, erratic. The next she crashed hard, so much so that she – well – fell asleep with her head sticking inside a panel. Her fingers trembled, messing up precision repairs. The room spun at random intervals. She flipped between hyperfocused and a drifting fog. Azrin, who valued her work beyond most anything else, would have seeked help long ago had her issues affected her job, as they were doing today.

And she planned to do so, just as soon as the battle was over. She’d said that about the last battle too, but that had been a few hours ago and now there was another one. Theurgy was having that sort of day. This was an all-hands situation. No one could take a break unless they were actively dying.

There was an explanation. Dezra Ryn, the doctor who had held the symbiont before her, knew the answer. It was right on the tip of her tongue, born of an experience of a different lifetime. But she couldn’t seem to drag it out, weirdly distant from the wealth of memories she normally had easy access to. Like that part of her brain was behind a fog, drifting away.

If Azrin had been more aware, that final fact would have worried her more than anything. Instead, she kept working.

OOC: To be continued in the Ranger thread.
95
Episode 02: Cosmic Imperative / EP2 BTS | D03 | 0003 hrs] Flammis Acribus Addictis
Last post by joshs1000 -
[Centurion Torak | Corridor | Deck 15 | Vector 3 | USS Theurgy]  Attn: @chXinya   and anyone else on Ranger who wants to take part.

Commander Borroso’s orders were clear, take the Starfleet ship identified as Theurgy intact. Easier said than done, but after nearly an hour of bombarding the larger of the two vessels its defenses had started to crumble and Centurion Torak’s assault team, part of the boarding force led by Subcommander Sarata, was able to beam aboard from their cloaked shuttle when the Federation vessel’s shields briefly collapsed. Multiple teams were on board, the main group under Sarata was to attack the fighter bay to prevent anymore of the wasps from escaping their nest and to allow a greater force to land and take control of the ship. The rest of the teams like Torak’s were to attack other areas of the ship, shield generators, security checkpoints, the engineering and command spaces, all to sew chaos and whither the vessel’s resolve. These aliens would pay for the murder of the Praetor.

“Have they detected us?”, Torak asked one of his underlings.

“No Centurion, not yet, I believe the internal sensors of this section of the ship have been damaged.”

“Good, scan for the nearest target and prep demolition charges.”

The underling scanned with his tricorder for a moment then responded, “I am detecting a large shield generator down the corridor and a primary EPS conduit.”

“We will sever the conduit first and then destroy the generator for good measure, I want to regroup with the Subcommander for her attack on the Fighter Bay.”

The underling along with the eight others with Torak acknowledged verbally or with a nod. The group cautiously stalked down the corridor. There was a surprising lack of Starfleet personnel, the Romulan scanning devices could detect lifesigns but they seemed to be in other areas of the ship, perhaps defending more vital ones. This could be easier than we thought, Torak thought to himself with a small smile.

“Lifesigns detected ahead”, whispered one of the underlings.

“Where.”

“Distant ones that I can’t discern their exact location, but there is a human in the next corridor, and an andorian in what appears to be a lab.”

“Disruptors ready, La’anek you're with me, we will take out the human, the rest of you hold here.”

The two carefully stepped down the hall, weapons raised. As they approached the corner into the next corridor they heard the sound of boots walking on the metal deck. Tomak prepared to lunge out and shoot the human but the footsteps suddenly stopped and there was silence apart from the noises of the ship and rumble of weapon impacts.

Do they detect us?

Then came a sound, almost like a bird’s chirp, and a low voice, [Crewman Styles to Security, I think I have something on deck 15 section- AAAGGGGHHHH!!!]

The poor man didn’t get to finish his report, Tomak, wheeled around the corner with his disruptor raised. The human, a Starfleet scientist, had only just started raising his phaser, his eyes full of fear, when Tomak fired, striking the terrified man in chest then neck, silencing his scream of pain. He fell back in a heap on the deck.

Moments later the ship suddenly lurched and shook with a momentous crash that sent the entire group of Romulans off their feet and onto one knee, dust rained down from the ventilation and the lights flickered. What was that?

“They know we are here now, troop with me, move out! Quick!”, Tomak shouted to his cohorts who joined him in a rush down the corridor.

They rounded a corner and came face to face with a pair of Starfleet security officers, no doubt on their way to investigate, but the two were not prepared and were quickly gunned down before they could get off but a few shots. They had to be quick now, he knew from his training that Starfleet security was dangerous once they were aware of a threat, the key was to hit them hard enough they can’t respond effectively.

The group followed the corridor further when suddenly one of the doors opened and a blast of smoke poured out of it. Somebody was in the smoke, gasping for air and clearly not aware of their presence. The smoke cleared revealing a andorian, the one that they must have seen on their scanner, with long white hair and missing an antenna.

One of the Romulans raised his weapon to shoot but Tomak stopped him.

“We’ll take him prisoner, we can get information out of him or use him as a hostage.”

The gunmen nodded and lowered his weapon then approached, along with another comrade, the coughing gasping andorian, a smirk on his face. Weakness, typical Starfleet.


OOC:

-This thread can be used to deal with any boarding parties on Ranger or any other action on Ranger's interior for that matter.

-Currently there are 40 Romulans on board but more may get on depending on if the shields fall again.

-Title translates to "Doomed to flames of woe."
96
Episode 02: Cosmic Imperative / Re: CH2: S [Day 2 | 2315 hrs] For all the blood-tainted stars...
Last post by Dumedion -
*OOC - be advised, the following dialogue occurs in Klingon, but I'm just too lazy to translate
[Colonel Hauq | IKS Bortas | Triangle Battlezone] Attn: @Ellen Fitz @rae @RyeTanker @Havenborn @Stegro88 @P.C. Haring @Eden @ob2lander961 @Pierce @Krajin @joshs1000 @Hans Applegate @Dree @anyone else I missed (sorry)

The void was aflame.

From the command deck of the mighty Bortas, flagship of the armada brought to bear against the Praetor's madness, Hauq looked upon the tactical display rendered in ever-shifting screeds of data beside the man he had sworn a blood oath to defend: Chancellor Martok. In the crimson light of combat, the three-dimensional display cast Martok's features in contrasting shadows; the lines of age and war upon his bearded face set in grim determination, almost sinister in appearance. Around them, the cacophony of war never abated: the hull shook under fire, orders were growled and shouted, answered in kind. Warriors of all stations relayed status, damage reports, engagements and curses upon the enemy.

Martok shook his head at what they were witnessing, his eye narrowed in contempt. "This is taking too long," a meaty hand waved at the display, then punched down into the frame as a fist. "I want these cowards wiped from the stars, now! No quarter! This ends today, by Kahless' balls, I swear it!"

Hauq frowned at the display, resting his own knuckled fists against the console to lean closer to the Chancellor; his words spoken carefully, for no other. He had consistently served as the Chancellor's blood-ward and conscience over the years, and had argued restraint against the more instinctual nature of their blood-thirsty ruthlessness. "Listen to yourself, and the path you advocate," the Colonel began, but was silenced by a hissed growl of dismissal as Martok met his eyes.

"I will not relent. Too long have we suffered these fools' influence - too many times the bastards have threatened our people with their idiotic arrogance and delusions of superiority. Look at them! Look! Witness the damnation they brought upon themselves, with their endless schemes. Bah - it ends today, Colonel."

Hauq was unbowed. "What we do today will be felt and endured by our children's children, Chancellor."

Martok grunted, then shook his head again after a brief moment. "Victory is all that matters, my friend," he replied, his tone subdued and reflective. "Never without regret, or shame, but the victor may have a chance to atone for the atrocities committed to achieve that end. The vanquished hold no such opportunity."

Hauq nodded at the words, then lowered his eyes back to the display. "What I see tells me the Romulan's unity is fractured, its faith in its leaders eroding by the minute," they both braced then, as the flagship shook around them under a particularly heavy assault. "Cut the head from the snake, and the body dies," he continued with a gesture. "End this, before it truly becomes a massacre the entire quadrant will lay before our feet." 

Martok bared his fangs, as his one eye glared at the man he both valued and trusted among one of his finest officers. "You really are a pain in my balls, Colonel," the Chancellor grunted then, before turning to speak over his shoulder to the command crew. "General - new priority tasking - find that arrogant cunt Donatra. I want her head mounted in the Hall of Trophies on the Homeworld before supper."

[Meanwhile...]

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

Thirty minutes into the fight.

Shadow acknowledged Atlas with an audible blip over comms, too busy straining under a high-g turn to speak. The massive D’Deridex highlighted on her HUD, twisting off to starboard in the vast melee of capitol ship engagements, trading fire with several Klingon cruisers and other Romulan warships simultaneously. None of that was really relevant in the moment, however, as Talia shook her head at Tessa’s audacious plan, while she struggled to keep up with her eccentric wingman.

“That’s the craziest shit I’ve ever –“ the pilot hissed to herself but abandoned the sentiment altogether when she was forced to evade a barrage of emerald fire from behind: another flight of Stalkers, or perhaps the same ones, were still chasing her tail. Nimble little bastards, she grunted, then rolled hard to port and followed as Goldie dove between the upper and dorsal hull of a disabled D’Deridex, skimming the emerald hull as it erupted in blasts of green fire around her, while her own fire lanced out from the angled strips along the rear of the Valkyrie.

“Alert: rear weapons array energy reserve at forty percent,” Anahi droned.

Talia’s left hand darted from the throttle assembly to her Ops console and keyed in a rapid energy transfer, pulling power from the auxiliary capacitors to boost weapons without taking her eyes off the HUD; too little, too late, however. The weapons lock flickered grey, which meant the Stalkers had cloaked.

Shadow didn’t really have time to complain, though, as the pair of fighters soared through the other end of the wreck, then corkscrewed up and over to starboard. A blue-green tendril of energy materialized from Goldie’s bird: a tractor-beam, latched onto the hulk behind them. Lacking adequate energy, Shadow shook her head and keyed the channel to open. “Look Goldie, I’m all for unconventional tactics, but you do realize the odds of actually aiming that thing in the right direction are incredibly –“

A series of bone-jarring explosions interrupted the lecture. Sparks flew throughout Talia’s cockpit as she was thrown to the side. Every control interface snapped with glitched, incoherent data streams as she struggled to regain control. “Four, defending,” she called out and slammed her fist into the ecm/flare command and punched the throttle up to full. The void around Talia’s fighter filled with flares and chaff while the bird itself twisted into a loose corkscrew then arched into a tight turn; a standard evasive tactic - muscle memory for any pilot. Despite her reaction speed, a second torpedo detonated just outside Talia's shield envelope – close enough to hurt, but not enough to finish the job. Still, the impact rocked the pilot’s body with enough force to nearly knock the wind from her lungs.

Panting with effort, Talia craned her neck over a shoulder, searching for a visual. Tessa was gone; either engaged with Atlas’ run or dealing with her own battles. All she could see was the shadowed hull behind her, backlit by a storm of green fire, all of it aimed at her.

You and me then, asshole.

Talia snapped the stick back to port, dropped speed and banked for three seconds, then reversed the turn and accelerated. The Stalker followed, firing in a ceaseless torrent – but it flipped itself over mid-turn and held range, easily out-maneuvering Shadow’s evasive. Talia’s shields screamed under the assault but held, as instinct and survival forced her hand. For the first time in her life, everything in her mind blanked; every standard procedure, every maneuver, every limitation placed on pilot and machine based on design and research...

The Valkyrie’s hull groaned as its engines burned white-hot and flipped itself vertically. Talia fired her primary weapons on a cyclic manual pattern as she killed thrust and drifted on inertia, transferring energy from her drives to reinforce shields. “Open wide, baby,” the pilot grunted and loosed two pairs of micro-torps, then opened up with her railgun-turrets and pulse phasers. The Stalker attempted to evade at nearly the same time, pulling up and over the barrage, but wasn’t fast enough to evade the torps. Both sets struck it’s belly in a dual explosion of blue-white fire, leaving it wreathed in semi-transparent wisps of emerald lightning; with its shields shredded to tattered dreams of cohesion, less than a second later, the twin-streamed onslaught of 30mm Osmiridium shells raked across its naked hull from nose to stern and shredded it apart.
 
Talia didn’t waste time to glory in her kill, or even cognitively recognize it; her attention turned to the hundreds of other engagements in the AO – then punched her throttle back up to full to re-engage. A blinding flash stole her sight, even as her helm display dimmed to compensate. Above her, at some range but well within visual, a headless D’Deridex split open, its hull still enduring a merciless barrage of fire. Talia watched as a cascade of explosions rent it’s hull from within, then flinched her eyes away as the core of the crippled cruiser flared. Her helm filled with static-flushed voices, several overlapping each other…

But she recognized one.

Razor, Talia’s eyes narrowed. They hadn’t met under the best circumstances, but none of that mattered now.
 
“Anahi, vector on Razor’s ident, main HUD,” Shadow paused, then opened the squadron channel to answer Janus. “Lead, Four – moving to intercept,” then she tagged Goldie to regroup as her eyes searched for her signal in the madness. No joy. “Four to Three, I’m going after Razor – try not to do anything too crazy in the meantime,” Talia smirked, despite it all.

That amusement ended when she saw the shape of Razor’s fighter, however, as it struggled to clear a massive debris cloud, limping outbound for safety. Talia checked her navigation telemetry and power systems, thumping her hand against the side of her helm to try to clear the constant static screeching across coms. She strained to understand but couldn’t make out much.  “Fuck me, not again,” she grunted, then abandoned the effort all together as even more fire forced her to evade.

A glance behind revealed the source: two Romulan warbirds, Mogai-class, were trying to bracket her in place with sustained volleys of disruptor fire. Behind them, Talia watched as three flights of Stalkers shimmied out of visual.

Oh, hell no. If she was going out, she’d go out fighting – not running. By this point, it would take a miracle for them to make it out of this alive, anyway. Shadow grit her teeth in a grimace and banked hard into an attack angle, just as the flanking Warbird came under direct assault by a trio of Klingon bird-of-prey. Once her HUD flashed from red to yellow, then green, Talia added her fire to the Klingons; streaks of percussive fireballs, followed by a barrage of micro-torps. Her fighter raked across the lead Warbird’s shields as her assault blistered it’s skin in hazes of white-green crackling energy, weaving between emerald arcs of fire.

That’s the first pass. Let’s see how many I can get, she grunted, then opened comms to the rest of the squadron, after a glance at the fighter’s remaining munitions. She’d have to re-arm soon, unless someone, somehow, managed to end this insanity.  “Wolf Four in the blind: coms are intermittent, and I am heavily engaged. I can’t get to Razor – repeat – I can’t get to Razor.”

Suddenly a duo of Valravn fighters streaked vertically through her flight path, followed by a trio of Stalkers. Talia couldn’t pursue, but fired off a snapshot of phaser fire at the Romulan fighters anyway in the hope that it would force them off-pursuit. She couldn’t hang around to verify either, as the stars wheeled and she began another attack run.It didn’t matter who was flying the Ravyn’s – they were all Wolves – but in the back of her mind, Shadow hoped it was Dixiebee, just to give the loudmouth shit about saving her big ass later.

In the meantime, Talia flew her heart out - and held to hope that somehow soon that miracle would arrive to save them all.

OOC - excellent additions so far. To the wider extent, beyond the individual fighter engagements, in order to add some outside context: at this point, the capital ship engagements are not going well for the Romulans. The Klingons are now actively hunting for Donatra's flagship, too. What response this provokes from the green-bloods I leave to another to decide, but I'm sure it wont be good for any of us.

97
Episode 02: Cosmic Imperative / Re: Topic: EP 2 S: [D3 | 0020hrs] Heavy is the Head
Last post by Nesota Kynnovan -
[Ensign Jaya Thorne | Main Bridge | Deck 01 | Vector 1 | USS Theurgy]
Attn: @Brutus, @Stegro88, @Dree, @TWilkins

Getting onto the Main Bridge of the USS Theurgy was almost as challenging for Starfleet personnel as it was supposed to be for enemy combatants, or at least it was for Ensign Jaya Thorne. The Security checkpoints on either side of the Bridge were hastily being fortified in preparation for a potential enemy assault, and the Denevan Assistant Chief CONN Officer actually had to climb over an erected barricade in order to get past the checkpoint. When she finally made it onto the Main Bridge, Jaya happened to walk through the doors at the exact moment when someone called for them to brace for impact.

To Jaya, that warning initially fell on deaf ears and she instead kept walking forwards onto the back area of the Main Bridge. She could feel the tension in the room, albeit restrained through sheer discipline and downright professionalism, and she was intent to reach her duty station to relieve the current Flight Control Officer. When the deck suddenly rocked beneath her, accompanied by a thunderous growl that chilled Jaya’s blood and the sounds of thunderous explosions as conduits overloaded around them, the Ensign lost her footing and fell against the large holographic table in the very center of the back room. Jaya felt how a large hand grabbed her shoulder and pulled her back up to her feet and, as she looked up, the brunette saw the burly frame of Chief Petty Officer Sh’ow towering above her.

As the noise of the exploding conduits died down, a man spoke up about a debris field and Jaya turned her attention away from the Chief Petty Officer and towards the CONN station. Her large auburn-coloured eyes immediately registered the sight of a flustered young man sitting behind her duty station. The unknown man looked like a mess, albeit a highly focused one, and as he mentioned how he planned to put a debris field between them and a Warbird, Jaya heard how calm and collected his voice actually was. This man seemed to know what he was doing and, as she looked back up to Chief Petty Officer Sh’ow, the pair in red exchanged knowing nods; this was a man who knew what he was doing.

Knowing that she wouldn’t have to relieve the Starfleet officer currently at the CONN station, Jaya took a deep breath to steady herself. No one would be helped if she were to storm onto the Bridge in a panic, so the brunette Denevan forced herself to remain calm and collected before stepping towards the chair where Commander Stark was currently seated. It allowed Jaya a good view of the Main Bridge and she noticed that someone was already scrambling to man the Tactical station. She also noticed that the Mission Ops console to her immediate left was also vacant and, without a second thought, Jaya scrambled to take over the vacant seat.

When she sat down in the swivel chair behind the Mission Ops console, Jaya quickly brushed her right sleeve over the console to clean off the debris that littered it before quickly analysing the various sensor readings on the displays in front of her. This was the very first time that she actually found herself at the Mission Ops console in a combat engagement, something which was usually handled by Ensign Cameron Henshaw instead, but Jaya often practiced at the Mission Ops console whenever the USS Theurgy was in Docked Mode and only one CONN Officer was required. That was mere practice however and, now she was actually forced to do the real thing, Jaya briefly closed her eyes and took a deep breath before she put on the headset that allowed her access to the specialized channel to communicate with the Lone Wolves and any other allied ships out there.

In the chaos of battle, especially given the fact that she took over Mission Ops right in the middle of it all, Jaya was unable to determine which fighters she currently had at her disposal and which were otherwise occupied. What she did manage the discern however, was that a large group of hostile shuttlecraft were currently screaming towards Helmet and she needed someone, anyone, to assist. ”This is Mission Ops to any available fighters in the area,” As she spoke, Jaya attempted to sound as calm and collected as possible. There would still be time to intercept the approaching shuttlecraft, but she also knew that they were likely packed to the brim with stuff they would have a hard time dealing with.  ”Be advised, we have a large number of hostile shuttlecraft inbound to our location and are in need of assistance.”
98
Director's Cut / [2380] - Running Hot to Rho Aurigae V
Last post by Ellen Fitz -
[Lt. Enyd Isolde Madsen | Shuttle Delvok]

En route to the diplomatic station at Rho Aurigae V

Enyd reclined in the co-pilot seat of the Delvok, her boots crossed neatly at the ankles, a PADD resting in her lap. She was acutely aware of the sliver of skin between her boots and bottom of her uniform skirt, but she wasn’t about to drop her feet or tug the skirt down. She was midway through translating a particularly thorny segment of Rho Aurigae protocol into layman's terms and had only so much more time before they arrived. Worrying about propriety was for diplomats who had the time to do so.

Her furrowed brow relaxed into an expression of amusement when, over her shoulder, she heard another hum. She was curious if Ensign Banks even knew of his habit. He hummed or whistled under his breath as he worked. Far from being annoying, though it was a bit distracting, Enyd found it endearing and almost a comfort. They’d begun working together more closely almost ten months back, and in that time, he’d seen her go from being a royal mess just coming out of her pilgrimage through the Forge and all her drunken shenanigans prior to that to what she was now: still a hot mess but a damn good diplomat.

The overhead panel gave a sharp pop, pulling Enyd’s attention away from internal musings.

Edmund's voice came casually from the helm, rich and warm like aged whiskey. "Did you hear that?"

"I heard that," Enyd confirmed, sitting up straighter.

The lights flickered once—then twice. Then the humming background of the shuttle's environmental controls coughed... and died. Silence reigned for three seconds before the heat crept in.

"Ah, perfect," Edmund muttered, running diagnostics as a thin sheen of moisture began to form along his temple. Enyd was surprised at how quickly he’d worked up a sweat, even just by sitting at the helm. He was one of those “walking doors” types, who could also double as a door if need be. "Environmental failure. The temperature regulator just decided to take shore leave."

Enyd leaned forward. "Can you reroute power to the cooling system?" She wasn’t the most well-versed in shuttle circuitry, but she at least knew a little.

"I could," Edmund replied, his usually composed tone tinged with annoyance, "if half the circuitry hadn't shorted. Looks like we'll have to do this manually. Access panel's beneath the port-side conduit bay."

"Manual labor?" Enyd joked, rising from her seat with a smirk. "How quaint."

They knelt together near the access panel, Enyd acutely aware of every inch of space between them—and the smaller it got, the more the heat became an accomplice to her racing pulse.

"I know we're stranded," she muttered, her voice breathier than intended, her undershirt already beginning to cling to her curves, "but I didn't think this would double as a sauna escape room."

Edmund chuckled, a low rumble that sent shivers down her spine despite the heat, and unfastened the collar of his shirt with practiced ease. His fingers worked the fastenings slowly, deliberately, as if he knew she was watching. "Well, if you pass out from heatstroke, I promise to rescue you dramatically."

The shirt came off in one fluid motion, revealing golden skin that seemed to glow in the emergency lighting. Enyd's mouth went dry for reasons that had nothing to do with the heat. Edmund's uniform jacket was abandoned entirely, revealing a similar sleeveless undershirt that molded to his torso like liquid, showcasing the muscles that flexed with each movement. Enyd found herself stealing glances at the way his shoulders moved, the strong line of his neck glistening with perspiration.

"With mouth-to-mouth, I assume?" she managed, her fingers trembling slightly as she loosened her own outer tunic, aware of how his eyes tracked the movement.

"Standard protocol," Edmund said, his voice dropping to a husky whisper as his gaze lingered appreciatively on the newly exposed skin at her throat. "And I do follow procedure... thoroughly."

She blinked up at him, pausing in her motion as something electric passed between them. His eyes met hers and held with an intensity that made her feel like she was melting from the inside out. The silence between them changed, stretched.

But then she remembered. She’d worked so hard to pull herself out of the hole she’d dug for herself when first getting stationed on Vulcan. She was on the upward swing of recovering her reputation. Giving into the temptation to lean into this, whatever it was, sizzling between them would only make it harder to continue on the up and up.

"Panel's open," she murmured, swallowing hard. Her voice felt thick, honey-sweet in the sultry air.

"Right." Edmund leaned in, close enough that she could smell his skin—clean sweat and something uniquely masculine that made her want to press her face against his neck. Their shoulders brushed, sending sparks racing along her nerves. Her arm bumped his. Their hands moved simultaneously toward the same coil, fingers grazing in a touch that lingered longer than necessary. They froze, the moment suspended like amber.

"So... you always end up half-dressed in broken shuttles with diplomats?" she teased, her voice barely above a whisper.

His smile was slow, predatory. "Only the irresistibly clumsy ones."

She laughed, but her fingers trembled as she passed him the plasma torch, their skin brushing again in a touch that sent heat spiraling through her core. "Flatterer."

They worked in tandem, sweat beading at their temples, breath growing shallow with the heat and proximity. At one point, Edmund leaned across her to adjust a fuse, his chest brushing her shoulder, his body caging her in. His scent enveloped her—masculine and intoxicating. Her breath caught, and she felt rather than saw him pause, felt the moment stretch as he lingered there, his warmth surrounding her.

"Careful," he murmured near her ear, his voice like velvet wrapped around steel, his breath hot against her neck.

"Careful is relative," she whispered back, tilting her head slightly so that her lips almost—almost—brushed his jaw.

The moment held—longer than it should have, dangerous and sweet. Their faces inches apart, their breathing in sync, hearts hammering a rhythm that had nothing to do with the heat and everything to do with the fire building between them.

Then—

The panel sparked. The console chirped. Cooling systems flickered back to life with a welcome whoosh, but the heat between them remained.

"Look at that," Enyd said lightly, though her cheeks burned with more than temperature, her body still humming from his proximity.

Edmund leaned back on his heels, his smile slow, knowing, hungry. "Next time, I'm filing a request for two environmental suits. Just in case."

She arched an eyebrow, reaching for her now-crumpled blouse with hands that still trembled slightly. "Where would be the fun in that?"

They dressed in companionable silence, but the charged air lingered between them. Whatever had sparked between them wasn't finished. And both of them knew it.

Half an hour later, the cool air hummed pleasantly now, cycling evenly through the restored system. Enyd had returned to her seat, hair pulled into a loose knot that exposed the elegant curve of her neck, tendrils still damp from the heat framing her face. Edmund remained at the helm, one arm draped along the back of her chair in a gesture that seemed casual but felt possessive, his fingers occasionally brushing her shoulder as he rechecked navigational vectors.

The tension between them hadn't disappeared. If anything, it simmered now beneath every shared glance and unspoken smile.

"Approaching the diplomatic station," Edmund said smoothly, his voice still carrying that hint of roughness that made her stomach flutter. His fingers danced across the console with practiced grace. "Prep for docking—"

Whump.

A shudder ran through the shuttle. The console dimmed.

Brrrrp.

The lights flickered again—and then the inertial dampeners failed.

Enyd yelped as the shuttle tilted sharply to port. She fell against Edmund, landing squarely in his lap as the seat restraints failed to engage, her body molding against his in a perfect fit that sent heat racing through both of them.

"Oof—sorry!" she exclaimed, but her protest died on her lips as she found herself pressed intimately against him, her hands braced on his chest, feeling the rapid beat of his heart beneath her palms. "That wasn't me! I mean, not entirely me—"

Edmund's arms instinctively wrapped around her waist, his hands spanning her ribs, fingers splaying possessively across her back. His laugh was breathless, strained. "You really know how to crash a party."

"Or a shuttle," she muttered, acutely aware of every point where their bodies touched—her thighs straddling his, her breasts pressed against his chest, the heat of him seeping through their clothes. She tried to rise, but the sudden lurch of the floor threw her off balance again—and she ended up nose-to-nose with him, so close she could count his eyelashes, could feel his breath warm against her lips.

"Maybe just... stay there," Edmund said softly, his voice rough with something that had nothing to do with the shuttle malfunction. His eyes were dark, pupils dilated as they locked on hers.”In case there’s another problem.”

Enyd froze, every nerve ending on fire. Her heart thudded so hard she was sure he could feel it where her chest pressed against his. His breath mingled with hers, his hands still gentle but firm at her waist, thumbs tracing small circles that sent shivers of sensation racing through her.

"If this shuttle malfunctions again," she murmured, her voice breathy and unsteady, "I'm going to assume it's the universe conspiring."

"I'd believe that," he said, his voice dropping to a husky whisper that made her toes curl, "if I wasn't the one who ran pre-flight diagnostics. And triple-checked the maintenance logs."

She blinked, sudden understanding dawning. "Are you saying you let the shuttle break down?"

"I'm saying," he replied with a slow, wicked grin that made her stomach flip, "that I may have trusted the system to work just well enough to keep us almost out of trouble."

The power hiccupped again. Another jolt. The lights dimmed, this time replaced by a soft, emergency amber glow that cloaked the cabin in a warm, intimate hue that made everything feel like a fever dream of desire.

"Oh come on," Enyd whispered, glancing around at the failing systems before meeting his gaze again, drowning in the heat she found there. "Even the lighting's trying to seduce us now?"

Edmund chuckled, the sound rumbling through his chest and into hers. "The universe is unsubtle."

Still half in his lap, still pressed against him in ways that made coherent thought impossible, Enyd let herself breathe, really breathe, watching him—watching the way his jaw flexed when he smiled, drinking in the faint scent of ozone and heat still clinging to his skin. Her hands were still on his chest, and his fingers continued their maddening circles against her lower back—touches so small and seemingly innocent they felt dangerous, each one sending sparks racing along her spine.

"You know," she said slowly, her voice thick with desire, "you are disturbingly calm for a man repeatedly sabotaged by Starfleet's least reliable transport class."

His smile was pure sin. "I've been in worse situations."

"Oh?"

"None of them were half as interesting." His hands tightened fractionally on her waist. "Or half as tempting."

That did it. The tension, the sparks, the near-misses—everything pulled tight between them like a taut line waiting for a single breath to snap it. And then—

BZZT.

A panel above them crackled, showering sparks onto the floor. Enyd instinctively flinched, pressing against him again, every curve of her body aligning perfectly with his. Their foreheads touched, their lips a whisper apart.

Edmund's voice was low, barely audible over the blood rushing in her ears. "We should probably fix that."

"We probably should," she echoed, but neither of them moved.

Another pause. The space between them so charged it felt alive, electric. With visible effort, they parted. Just slightly.

Enyd stood first, her legs unsteady, straightening her uniform with trembling hands. "Let's see if we can stabilize this thing before we end up docking inside the diplomatic station via the roof."

Edmund rose beside her, his movements fluid despite the obvious tension coiled in his body. "Agreed. Though if we crash again, I call dibs on you landing in my lap."

She shot him a sideways glance, her pulse still racing. "You're assuming I wouldn't aim for it next time."

His answering grin was slow, warm, and full of wicked promise.

As they moved to repair the next fault—this time a secondary power relay behind a narrow maintenance shaft—the cabin, the emergency lighting, the lingering heat from the environmental failure, all worked together to create an intimacy impossible to ignore.
And even as they passed tools and shared smoldering looks and leaned far too close in a space far too small, it was clear: the shuttle wasn't the only thing running hot.


[Shuttle Delvok -- Drift Orbit, Rho Aurigae V]

1.7 hours post-systems failure

The console blinked slowly, finally reestablishing a static-laced connection.

"Shuttle Delvok to Rho Aurigae Diplomatic Control. Come in."

A moment's pause. Then a voice, crisp and crackling: "Acknowledged, Delvok. You're on visual. We've tracked your orbit, but the tractor array is undergoing recalibration. Estimated retrieval window: three hours, give or take."

Edmund leaned back in his chair, letting out a long breath as he muted the channel, the sound carrying a hint of satisfaction that made Enyd's pulse skip. "Three hours. Guess we're not docking anytime soon."

Enyd sighed, trying to ignore how the prospect of more time alone with him made her body hum with anticipation. "Should've brought a novel. Or a holographic harp."

Edmund turned toward her with that crooked smile that never failed to make her knees weak. "We do have food stores."

"And a shuttle too warm to be comfortable, too small to pace, and with the perfect mood lighting," she teased, her voice carrying more heat than the words warranted.

He tapped a finger to his chin in mock contemplation, the gesture drawing her attention to the strong line of his jaw. "Sounds like date night on Vulcan."

She laughed, pushing herself up from the co-pilot seat, hyperaware of how his eyes followed the movement of her body. "Let's at least pretend we're civilized while we slowly bake. I'll check the food stores."

Moments later, they were seated cross-legged on the shuttle's floor, close enough that their knees almost touched. The emergency lighting still cast that warm amber glow across the metal panels, turning everything golden and intimate. Between them, a spread of rationed luxuries: smoked nutri-cheese, preserved tartfruit, a loaf of synth-wheat bread, and—Edmund's prized discovery—a small bottle of replicated Orion plum wine that caught the light like liquid fire.

"Well," Enyd said, raising her cup, "to heatstroke and unexpected company."

Edmund clinked his own cup against hers, the sound crystalline in the intimate space. "May the former be merciful and the latter persistent."

They ate slowly, trading stories, but the undercurrent of desire never faded. Every shared laugh, every accidental brush of fingers as they reached for food, every time their eyes met and held a beat too long—it all added to the mounting tension that seemed to thicken the very air around them.

Edmund shared a tale of a misadventure in the training simulators that involved a warp core overload and a mistakenly replicated velociraptor, his voice rich and animated. Enyd found herself watching his mouth as he spoke, the way his lips curved around words, imagining what they might feel like against hers.

Enyd countered with a diplomatic negotiation gone awry when she accidentally complimented a Miradorn chieftain's "mating horns," her own storytelling becoming more animated under his appreciative gaze, feeling beautiful and desired in a way that had nothing to do with the wine. It was synthol after all.

"So," Edmund said after a moment, finishing the last of the tartfruit with deliberate slowness that somehow seemed sensual, "since we're stuck here, want to play something?"

Enyd arched a brow, her pulse quickening at the dark promise in his tone. "Define 'something.'"

He grinned, predatory and playful. "Nothing scandalous. Just... something I played with my squad once. It's called Push the Line."

"Oh, that sounds promising." Her voice was breathier than she intended.

He chuckled, the sound sending heat spiraling through her. "It's a 'get-to-know-you' game. You ask a question—anything. The other person has to answer honestly. But if they don't want to answer, they can 'push the line'—and ask a question in return that's even more personal. The further the line is pushed, the riskier the questions get."

Enyd's eyes sparkled with intrigue—and danger.. "I'm in. But if you ask me how many people I've kissed, I'm pushing hard."

"Duly noted." His smile was pure temptation.

They leaned back against the shuttle wall, knees brushing.

Edmund started, his voice low and intimate in the golden light. "Alright. First question: What's one thing about you most people get completely wrong?"

Enyd smirked. "That I'm reckless. I'm actually extremely calculated—I just hide it under an unfortunate layer of clumsiness and impulse." She pointed her cup at him. "Your turn. Most irrational fear?"

"Quantum entanglement spiders."

"That's... not real."

"You didn't say it had to be real. Just irrational."

She snorted, clearly delighted, feeling warm and loose and dangerous. "Okay. Your most scandalous Academy rumor?"
Edmund took a beat, his gaze holding hers with an intensity that made her breath catch. "There was a brief but persistent theory that I had a secret lover in the Vulcan science division."

Her jaw dropped. "Was it true?"

"Push the line," he said with a smirk that promised trouble.

Enyd narrowed her eyes, feeling the heat and his proximity making her bold. "Alright, fine. When's the last time you really wanted to kiss someone?"

Edmund didn't speak for a moment. His eyes met hers, steady, burning. He didn't smile this time.

"About an hour ago," he said quietly, his voice rough with honesty.

Enyd's pulse stuttered. "During the panel fix?"

He nodded, gaze unwavering, hungry. "And... possibly again right now."

A silence wrapped around them—thicker than before, charged with possibilities. Her pulse danced somewhere between her ears and her fingertips, and she felt herself leaning forward without conscious thought.

She licked her lips slowly, watching how his eyes tracked the movement, her voice softer now, intimate. "Well, then I suppose it's my turn."

Edmund tilted his head, his whole body focused on her with predatory intensity. "Ask anything."

She breathed in, slow and careful, tasting desire on her tongue. "If we weren't stuck on this shuttle, and there weren't diplomatic missions and expectations and protocols hanging over our heads... would you kiss me?"

He didn't hesitate.

"Yes." The word was rough, certain, full of barely leashed want.

Another beat of silence. The kind that stretches forever and feels like falling.

Their faces moved—slowly, magnetically—closer. Her breath hitched as his hand came up to cup her face, thumb brushing across her cheekbone with reverent tenderness. She could feel the heat radiating from his skin, could smell his scent, masculine and intoxicating.

Just before their lips touched, the console blared to life with a BEEP BEEP BEEP.

"Delvok, this is Control. We're prepping a tow. Hold your orbit and brace for clamp."

They froze, foreheads nearly touching, both caught breathless in the almost, in the sweet agony of interrupted desire.

Enyd exhaled a shaky laugh, her hand somehow having found its way to his chest, feeling his heart racing beneath her palm. "The universe has no chill."

Edmund leaned back with a rueful smile, but his hand lingered on her face, thumb still tracing maddening circles on her skin. "It's fine. I'm patient. I fly in warp-time."

She gave him a look, playful but charged with promise. "Well then, pilot... you might just have to circle the orbit a little longer."

The shuttle thrummed as the tractor beam locked on. The steady pull toward the diplomatic station jolted Enyd and Edmund slightly in their seats. Enyd fiddled with the seam of her sleeve, her mind anything but calm. The moment had been so close—so intimate—it left her buzzing, skin still tingling where Edmund's thumb had caressed her cheek, her lips aching for a touch that hadn't come.
She chanced a glance toward him.

Edmund sat with his usual composure, one hand resting casually on the edge of the seat, but his eyes met hers the moment she looked. And in them—beneath the confident calm—was heat. Raw, unspoken, and impossible to miss. His gaze lingered on her mouth before meeting her eyes again, the look so intense it made her breath catch. The silence was no longer comfortable. It was loaded with hunger.

"Looks like the diplomatic corps won't have to send out a recovery team for their flustered liaison," he said, his voice lower than before, rougher, edged with something that made her stomach flutter with want.

Enyd offered a wry smile, trying to ignore how his voice seemed to caress every nerve ending. "Speak for yourself. I might still need a counselor after this shuttle ride."

The comm crackled.

"Delvok, prepare for docking. Welcome to Rho Aurigae V."

The shuttle dipped as the docking clamps began to engage. Edmund stood first, fluid and graceful, offering her a hand. She took it—slowly—and the moment her fingers wrapped around his, it was there again: the electricity. The magnetic pull. The thing they hadn't acted on but couldn't ignore. His thumb stroked across her knuckles in a touch that seemed innocent but felt sinful.

"You know," he said, voice quiet now, intimate, "if we had five more minutes..."

She looked up at him, heart thudding, drowning in the dark promise of his eyes.

"I'd have kissed you," he finished, his voice rough with want. "Properly. Thoroughly. Until you forgot your own name."

Her throat tightened, heat pooling low in her belly at the images his words conjured.

And for a moment, she nearly said do it anyway. But she didn't.

Instead, she let out a slow breath and gave him a smile that was full of all the things she wouldn't say aloud—yet. "Then I guess it's good we didn't have five more minutes."

Edmund chuckled softly, the sound dark and promising, finally releasing her hand but not her gaze. "Your definition of good needs serious work."

Before she could reply, the outer hatch unlocked with a sharp hiss, and the pressurized docking corridor extended toward them.
Voices outside. Protocols reasserting themselves. Reality intruding. Duty returned—reluctantly.

Enyd smoothed her hair and squared her shoulders, trying to ignore how her body still hummed with unfulfilled want. Edmund did the same, slipping back into his charmingly composed persona, every inch the competent pilot—though she could see the fire still burning in his eyes.

At the hatch, just before it opened, she turned to him one last time.

"Thank you for the wine. And the company. And... not kissing me." The last words carried a hint of regret that made his eyes darken further.

"For now," he said simply, the promise in those two words making her knees weak.

The door slid open. Light from the station spilled into the shuttle, harsh after the intimate amber glow, and with it came the reality of their respective roles. Enyd stepped out first, her diplomatic mask slipping into place even as her body still thrummed with awareness of the man behind her. Edmund followed—his gait easy, his face unreadable to anyone who didn't know to look for the tension in his shoulders, the slight tightness around his eyes. But just before they parted ways in the corridor, he leaned in near her ear, so close his breath stirred the edge of her hair and sent shivers racing down her spine.

"You're not getting out of that kiss, Madsen. Just... delayed flight plan." His voice was low, dark with promise.

She turned slightly, just enough for him to see the flicker of hunger in her eyes, the way her lips parted at his proximity. "I look forward to the turbulence."

Then she walked away—head held high, pulse racing, every step an exercise in restraint.

And Edmund watched her go, that same smile lingering on his lips, hands clenched at his sides to keep from reaching for her. They were officers. Professionals. Their paths might not cross again for days. But when they did? That line they kept pushing would snap. And they both knew it.
99
Episode 02: Cosmic Imperative / Re: CH2: S [Day 2 | 2315 hrs] For all the blood-tainted stars...
Last post by rae -
[ Lt Cmdr. Jaru “Janus” Rel | Wolf-01 | Valkyrie | Somewhere in this giant fucking space battle ] Attn: @P.C. Haring @Pierce @Dumedion @Stegro88 @Eden @Krajin @ob2lander961 @joshs1000 @RyeTanker @Ellen Fitz
[Show/Hide]
If any of the Romulan fighters bothered to look out their windows, they would have noticed that one of the Valkyries looked different than the others, the hull marked in vibrant colors. In the rare seconds when the ship stood still before leaping back into the action, the painting would have become clear. A beautiful dark-haired woman climbing out of a coffin.

Like death herself was coming out to enter the fray.

That had not been the artists’ intentions. But they’d painted it on his ship, so Janus could make up whatever fantasy suited him at the moment. Besides, he’d just gotten dinged by a piece of debris that had slipped through right as he’d remodulated his shields, and the painting was probably damaged anyway. For some reason, that bothered him more than any potential damage to his Valkyrie.

Like everything else that wasn’t relevant to the battle at hand, he pushed the worry away, placing the thought in the back of his mind with everything else that was relegated to after.

After the alert of a target lock, and the quick pulse of the starboard thrusters that flipped the Valkyrie neatly over end, breaking the narrow field of Romulan disruptors.

After another flip, so quick and violent that the inertial dampeners couldn’t fully mitigate it, gravitational forces pushing him hard into the seat as he dove, passing so close to his attacker that their shields sparked with a flash of light as they touched.

After the short, brutal chase through the combat zone, and another target lock – his, this time – that was not broken.

After the Valkyrie’s velocity took him right through another debris field, that had been a fully functioning fighter just seconds before.

“We have got to find a way to see these fuckers coming. Starting to feel like a high-speed haunted house.” He’d long since lost count of the number of times the Romulans had jump-scared him, decloaking practically on top of him. The only reason they’d survived this long was the hair trigger response time Starfleet selected for and trained in all their fighter pilots.

Before he had time to catch his breath, another dog fight erupted. He was dodging disruptor hits when Shadow’s call for assistance came through. Janus was flying without a wingman today – they’d lost Ghost, when? Only yesterday? – and it was moments like this when he sorely needed a partner to set up a shot while he led the enemy on a merry chase. There weren’t enough people left, so he was making do. It slowed him down though, and by the time he had an opening, there were already enough wolves in route to protect the Helmet.

“Wolves, Janus. Cover Razor as he limps back to the—” he cut off with a grunt, yanking the ship into a dive with such force that he got a warning on the HUD for potential damage to the throttle, narrowly avoiding a Stalker that had decloaked right in front of him. He wondered if the Romulan had decloaked in a panic to prevent a head-on collision.

“—Back to the bay.” He cut the channel immediately, trusting the squadron to do what they could. He had other things to do. He spun the Valkyrie around again to engage, but the other ship was already gone. This was getting ridiculous.

“Theurgy, Janus. Thea, my holographic beauty, really need a touch of genius and your buxom sensors to break through these Romulan cloaks.”

[You always become more flirtatious with me when in combat. Is there a reason for that?] The ship’s AI responded almost immediately. He wondered how many things she was doing simultaneously, and envied her.

“Habit.” Back in the Peregrine days, Janus and his original RIO had always used increasingly insane terms of endearment for each other as mid-combat stress relief. His next RIO, in the earlier models of Valkyrie, had hated the practice, which had only served as encouragement for him to continue. The Valkyrie Mark III didn’t have a RIO, the backseat functions having been taken over by the onboard computer. But programming and perfecting that system had meant months of work with Thea in his ear, which led to him unofficially giving her the role. Janus had sworn to never have an RIO again, but Thea was the exception. She never got tired, and was never physically in the ship. Basically perfect. “Answer the question.”

[Processing.]

“Take your sweet time darling, I love getting beat up.” But Thea had already cut the channel. Good for her. He’d hear back when she had something. Until then…

His sensors lit with an enemy contact, at an acceptable distance for once.

Science had never been his strong suit. Not as a child, not at the academy, and certainly not now. But he’d also never been one to twiddle his thumbs and wait for the blue shirts when he could bash together a workaround of his own. The Stalkers were dangerous because Starfleet had little to no knowledge of them. Not enough to build a working training sim, not enough to know where the weak points were, not enough to break through the cloak with a Valkyrie’s sensors. The ship was surely soaking up sensor data today, but he could do one better.

What Janus did excel at were precision strikes, even in high speed, close quarters combat. Sometimes a troubled youth came in handy, and as an ensign he’d spent nearly all his time in the holodeck learning non-lethal methods of disabling enemy fighters, torn between loyalty to Starfleet and a firm belief that the Maquis were right.

Admittedly, it would be a bit harder here, since he didn’t have schematics to choose targets from. But on the upside, there seemed to be plenty of Stalkers to practice on, and he couldn’t give less of a shit if the pilot survived or not.

They were getting a new chief of the deck. What better way to ingratiate himself than bringing back a souvenir?

OOC: Don't actually help Razor, Josh already has a plan.
100
Episode 02: Cosmic Imperative / Topic: EP 2 S: [D3 | 0020hrs] Heavy is the Head
Last post by TWilkins -
[ Sylvain Llewellyn-Kth | CONN station | Bridge | Deck One | Vector One | USS Theurgy ] @Brutus @Stegro88 @Dree @Nesota Kynnovan

If Sylvain had spared but a second to contemplate his current circumstances, taken even a moment to look around and truly absorb what was unfolding in the space around him, he had little-to-no doubt that his carefully composed mental state would have shattered like glass right there on the bridge. Fortunately for him, since he’d taken his station, he’d barely been afforded time to breathe, let alone think… His mind was connected to the sensors all but physically, sweat glazing his flushed face as he scrambled to keep up with the information flowing through his station, fingers dancing across the console before him with such ferocity, that they threatened to leave smudges of blood in their wake.

He felt like a hummingbird in a hurricane.

The carnage that whisked around them was like nothing he'd ever experienced, not even in a simulation, and despite his most exemplary application of the sensor data, even Sylvain’s finest flying couldn’t avoid the sheer volume of hostile vessels that had locked weapons on them. There was an entire Romulan fleet against their alliance, and every volley that erupted from their ships was tailed in the wake by a whole menagerie of Klingon vessels, swooping their salvos into any weakened shields before skirting off to whichever target was the most opportune for their arsenal. The Theurgy’s enemies were far too numerous for any evasive manoeuvre to contend with, and the minefield of cloaked ships that spanned across the Triangle only served to make his job all the more difficult… Instead of deciding if they were going to get hit, Sylvain could only delay the inevitable for as long as possible, and then do it again...

And again…

“We have a Warbird approaching from our starboard side, seventy-three kilometers out…” Sylvain regurgitated the data from his console as loud as he could, out of habit more than necessity. He was sure that the bridge crew didn’t especially need him calling out all of his sensor data, but that’s how it had always been serving aboard the Bowman… It was a habit instilled in him as much as breathing; even though he was facing circumstances infinitely more harrowing than a few Talarian raiders conducting a border raid, in some strange way, his habit brought him the tiniest glimmer of comfort in the face of the maelstrom that was unfolding beyond their bulkheads. It gave him the tiniest glimmer of control over their circumstances, control that the Ensign knew that in reality, he did not really have. But it helped, and he'd take any help he could get. “Another two Warbirds are coming up on our aft, port side, one hundred and twelve kilometers out; initiating evasive pattern Iota Five, that should give us some breathing…”

His sentence hit an abrupt conclusion as the Ensign’s jaw came to a sudden lock, clenching so suddenly that he drew blood from his own tongue, eyes wide and alert as his fingers frantically tore across his console, ignoring his planned evasive pattern and instead sending the Helmet lurching into a dizzying twist in the opposite direction. Barely a second later, a cloaked vessel opened fire into the exact spot that his evasions would have taken the Helmet… A metallic heat prickled across his tastebuds as his trembling hands pressed back into the console, cold sweat sending icy jolts along his spine as his raw fingertips resumed their dance, scrambling to correct the Helmet’s position, reprogramming the computer into a new evasive pattern that would prevent them from hurtling straight into the Erudite’s path.

The last thing he needed was to cause the Erudite any additional difficulty…

Their Savi allies hadn’t fully recovered from the damage they’d suffered at the Hobus Station, and given the size and destructive capabilities of their vessel, they’d drawn the lion’s share of the attention from the Romulan fleet. His sensors didn’t give him the details, but from based on the attack patterns and the sheer volume of enemy vessels that had attempted to engage the Savi, he could only assume that even with their superior technology, they must’ve taken some substantial damage… Good grief what he wouldn’t give to transport a few more genetically modified Moopsy onto the Romulan flagship right about now…

But he had little time to dwell on 'wishes' right now...

Sylvain’s mind was arrow-sharp and focused on his duty station, above all else. The Ensign was mostly oblivious to the urgent flurry of movement that was occurring behind him, Security Officers preparing defensive positions, the cacophony of voices coordinating at mission ops, an officer in red briskly walking to deliver a report to the woman in the captain’s chair, Commander Stark he thought he'd heard, something aboard the boarders who were attacking the ship... He didn't know anybody's names for certain, which in a twisted way, allowed him to distance himself from their comings-and-goings. Their chances of survival were slim enough already, and they’d only plummet further if he allowed himself to become distracted by anything, even for a moment. He knew that their circumstances were bleak, that the Helmet had been boarded, that their shields were depleting, and that with each new salvo, energy was being diverted from other systems just to keep the ship together…

But none of those things were his responsibility.

He was manning the CONN, and his job was to make sure that they avoided as much fire as possible; lasting an hour under such circumstances was an achievement in itself, but he had a lot more to go before they’d see the glimmer of hope on the other side of the conflict… Security would handle the boarding parties. Medical would handle casualties. Mission Ops would handle… Mission ops… Operations would handle their power distribution issues. And Tactical would handle the enemy vessels. Everyone had a role to play, and there was no room for their pilot to get distracted worrying about responsibilities beyond his own.

“Helm take us sixty eight degrees port, I’ve got a clear shot on the engines on one of the D’deridexs…” The woman manning the Tactical station’s voice reached his ears, a Human from the few glances he’d got of her during the battle, with dark eyes and hair pulled into a tight bun behind her head; Macfarlane, he seemed to remember someone calling her... Sylvain’s fingers flew to respond to her initiative immediately, banking hard enough to put some strain on the inertial dampeners, before guiding the Helmet up into the position that Tactical had requested. His sensors confirmed the target in question, one of the larger Romulan vessels that was harrying the Euridite, a notable target to…

His train of thought was abruptly derailed as his sensors flickered with activity. EM fluctuations; a telltale sign of a cloaked ship, only a few kilometres in front of their new position…

The Ensign moved to action immediately, fingers preparing to guide the Helmet into an incredibly sharp manoeuvre, one that would probably press the limits of the inertial dampeners to the max… But before he could engage, Tactical confirmed their target lock, and a torpedo was launched from their starboard tubes... The torpedo had launched at the exact same second that Sylvain needed to bring the ship into a dive, and though he was no expert at stomach-churning acts of piloting, the Ensign was quick enough with physics to recognise that a manoeuvre sharp enough to avoid a collision with the cloaked vessel in their path, would have thrown their own shields into their torpedo...

He knew that an impact like that would have devastated whatever power stability that their ship was clinging onto; he had to wait… It was just for a moment, barely a second of pause as his eyes watched the torpedo leave the proximity of their shield boundary, but it was long enough to matter. The instant that the torpedo had cleared the danger zone, Sylvain sent the ship into a dive, his fingers commanding every thruster to send them down into lurch so hard, that without the inertial dampeners, he’d have probably turned the entire crew compliment of the Helmet into a red paste decorating the bulkheads.

"Brace for impact!" He called, his hoarse voice breaking above his usual volume as the collision neared... And, for a moment, just a moment, he thought that he’d made a right fool out of himself. There was a split second when he wondered if he had made the manoeuvre in time…

But then the ship growled with thunderous intensity, the very edge of their fore shields scraping against the hull of the cloaked vessel that he’d attempted to avoid, a searing wave of heat erupting from his right side as a conduit overloaded from the resultant collision, sending a shower of sparks that cascaded down from the column beside his station. The vessel that they’d clipped was shorn apart from the impact, the resultant explosion breaking across the aft shielding of the Helmet as the vessel soared past the shockwave, the sharp angle of their descent the only thing preventing them from losing their shields entirely.

A second power surge struck the conduit at that moment, the brunt of the explosion on their shields sending a cascade through their systems, and overloading the conduit that had sparked previously. Sylvain flung his head down as the conduit beside him blew, but his hands never left the console, a blistering burst of energy singing the right arm of his uniform, but leaving him otherwise unscathed. The sound of debris clattering against the bulkhead was only drowned out by the sound of blood throbbing in his ears, but no sooner had it ceased, did the Ensign push himself up from the console with a wavering breath, gasping as he recognised that without his thoroughly reckless dive, they’d have probably blown out half of the relays on the ship…

It hadn’t been a manoeuvre that Starfleet approved operating procedure would have sanctioned, he doubted the Bowman would have survived it without compromising hull integrity… But hell if it worked…

A potent cocktail of terror, disbelief and awe flooded his system, and his adrenaline-riddled fingers once again pressed into his console, trembling, but finding their purchase through muscle memory alone. Using the residual energy of the shockwave, Sylvain pushed the engines a little harder, riding the explosion to gain some additional distance between the Warbirds that were still hot on their tail. If anything, their pursuers had only become all the more emboldened by the result of the collision, and no doubt any grief for their fighter, or concern for the D’deridex that now appeared to be dead in the water thanks to MacFarlane’s torpedo, had quickly been replaced with an eagerness to exploit the opportunity of the Helmet’s weakened shields…

They were hardly out of the woods yet…

“There’s a debris field one-hundred and forty kilometers ahead, I’m going to try and put it between us and the Warbird…” His fingers worked overtime as he spoke, navigating a shaky but efficient course towards a debris cloud that would at least scatter some of the incoming weapons fire… It would hopefully buy them a little time at least. “Tactical do you…” Sylvain began, glancing to his side, eyes lingering but a moment on the ravaged column that had erupted during the crash, damage already contained by the automated fire-suppression systems, before his hazel gaze reached the Tactical console…

The woman who had been speaking to him only a few seconds prior, was no longer actively manipulating her station, no longer finding opportunities to disable the enemy vessels and push the Theurgy closer to victory… Instead, she was the only stillness in a room aflood with chaos, the only individual who was not scrambling across her console or calling out reports or status updates… She was silent, her glassy stare affixed on a point on the bulkhead as though it was the most riveting holonovel she’d ever beheld, her cold, slack expression telling quite the opposite story.

MacFarlane was slumped against the back of her chair, having taken the brunt of the explosion from the conduit that occupied the space between his and her station, her body peppered through with shards of metallic debris that had been blown out from the column during the overload. A tapestry of jagged scratches littered her skin, but it was a larger piece of debris that had struck into her chest, that drew Sylvain’s horrified stare. It was the largest shard of debris by far, and it had been hurled into her with some significant force, impacting across her ribs and shoulder, and cutting deep into her form… The extent of the damage only became clear to him when her body shifted, lurching under some jolt or another, but only an inch, half sliding from her chair as her waist moved freely, whilst her lifeless torso remained pinned by the large hunk of metal that was embedded firmly into the back of her chair…

Sylvain twisted back to his console with a gagging noise erupting from his mouth, probably audible enough that the rest of the bridge could hear, hands shaking as he returned to his course... He had only taken a second glance at MacFarlane’s body, but it was time lost that he couldn’t afford, that the crew couldn’t afford. The Ensign redoubled his efforts, immersing his brain in the sensor data that continuously flowed through his console, whilst simultaneously applying every mental technique that he had learned from the time he'd studied on Vulcan, all just to push the image of the woman’s near-bisected form from his mind.

Their course was safe; no EM fluctuations. Their pursuers had opened fire; no EM fluctuations. Evasive pattern theta two; no EM fluctuations… His mind rotated on repeat, transferring data into action, relying on logic in its entirety as he skirted starboard to avoid an incoming photon torpedo, then guided the ship vertically to avoid a blaze of disruptor fire that grazed the wake of their thrusters, denying his mind any time to linger on the image that hung in the back of his subconscious…

He tightly swallowed down the taste of blood and bile that had filled his mouth, the residue of his bitten tongue and the vomit that had threatened to spill his mouth when he'd witnessed MacFarlane's fate.

Whatever thoughts would haunt him from that sight, would have to wait until later.

“... Debris field approaching…”

He had a job to do.


OOC - A thread for those characters stationed on the Helmet's bridge, fighting both the battle outside the ship, and preparing to hold against the boarding parties who are expected to begin an assault from within the ship.

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