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91
Episode 02: Cosmic Imperative / Re: Epilogue: Sit Rep After Hell [ Day 03 | 2130 ]
Last post by Dumedion -
[LT Arven Leux | En Route to Conference Lounge | Between Decks | USS Theurgy] Attn: @Nesota Kynnovan @Ellen Fitz @Nolan @ob2lander961 @chXinya @Griff @rae @Stegro88 @Eirual @RyeTanker @tongieboi @Pierce @Tae @Hans Applegate @joshs1000 @P.C. Haring @Krajin @Eden @TWilkins
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He rode the turbolift with his head back against the wall, eyes rested closed. The day had been much like the previous (minus the chaos of combat, explosions, and the ship quakes); despite the progress made with most patients left over from the battle, Arven was still behind on the administration side of the equation. The CMO’s office – unofficially his office and living quarters – held a treasure trove of PaDDs to that end, each one a personnel file that needed updating.

Life as the sole surviving medical officer was anything but glamorous, or lax.

In his mind, Arven was reviewing the upcoming testing required for Ms. Feynri’s upcoming treatment. The case was interesting, for several reasons; namely the fact that he’d never treated a Vulpinian, nor attempted to reverse trauma on such a scale. Part of him wondered if it was even possible, still, regardless of the success rates the simulations predicted.

His inner musings were shattered by a sudden arrival: a crack of one eye revealed a blonde – teal shirt, big doe eyes, stack of PaDDs under her arm. She greeted him with the kind of energy early morning “happy” people exhibited – that same annoyingly bright aura of optimism, and bubbly exuberance that most sane people simply couldn’t match and didn’t even try. Point of fact, they often avoided it. Arven mentally squirmed from the sheer onslaught of verbiage assaulting his ears.
 
Saints and ministers of grace, defend us, Leux groaned mentally; he hadn’t moved, only offered a noncommittal grunt in reply thus far. Blondie didn’t seem perturbed in the slightest – she seemed to accelerate right into full blown conversational engagement, rambling on about the state of the ship, what she’d seen during the battle, how she was part of a team hunting some kind of varmint in the bowels of the ship. It wasn’t that long of a ride; Arven wondered if her rapid-fire speech-pattern and inexhaustible supply of sunshine and rainbows had somehow distorted space-time, trapping him in an ever elongating bubble of hell.

A pause, brief as it was while she took a gulp of oxygen, prompted him to engage – just for the sake of slowing her down.

“You know what a v’traxian worm is,” he asked rhetorically, speaking over her head – which was basically at his chest anyway. “Blood parasite. Pulled one out of a Tellarite once; poor guy was so constipated he was nearly septic – worm had chewed through and made itself at home in the guy’s colon. Terrible situation,” Leux sniffed, still leaning against the wall, eyes still closed. “Anyway, I went in manually, pulled it out,” he wiggled the fingers of his right hand. “Amazing what you can accomplish with enough lube and a little elbow grease.”

The door swished open.

“Oop, that’s me,” Arven’s eyes popped open and he kicked off the wall, leaving her behind. He shook his head as he walked, wondering how the girl’s psyche eval played out. Before he could finish the thought though, he had to come to a sudden stop to keep from getting run into by a dark-haired male in a lab coat, too buried in a PaDD to pay attention to where he was going. Violet eyes narrowed in recognition; he was older, but still wore the same style of corrective lenses, still wore his hair the same.

Frost, Arven snorted mentally. Bloody hell.

He didn’t try to catch up or keep pace with the esteemed immunologist; Arven shoved his hands in his pockets and took his time at a distance. It had been many years since the Doctor’s guest lecture at Stanford; Arven doubted the man would recall their little…debate…on list of differential metabolic T Cell pathways and their interoceptive homeostatic functions in various tissues. Back when I was young and impressionable, Arven scoffed. He followed a few steps behind as Frost entered the conference room; saw the man trip, spill his coffee, stare indignantly at the offending coil, then walk off to the replicator.

Arven let the corner of his lips curl in dry amusement; not directly at Frost, mind – more for the fact that the man hadn’t seemed to have changed much at all. After greeting Cross and Valin with a silent nod, he scooped up the coil. “Is there a reason it’s so dark in here,” he muttered to himself, then set his PaDD onto the table and began to wrap the coil up around his arm in a figure eight, much like a piece of loose rope. Once bound up, Arven wrapped the loose end around the loop three times and tucked the tail in to prevent it from coming undone, then tossed it atop the open crate.

His eyes looked over the table, noted his assigned seat, and moved to stand behind it; the chair looked plushy – built in LCARs panel – the kind of seat one could expect for senior officers to polish their ass with.

Arven really didn’t want any part of it.

Voilet eyes met Cross’; nothing was said, but Leux let his expression speak for itself – surprised to find the same weary acceptance reflected in the Vulcan’s gaze. A hint of kinship threatened, between two officers that had never wanted or expected to have responsibility thrust upon them under such circumstances.

With nothing else for it, the Doctor took his seat and waited for the other department heads to arrive.

92
Episode 02: Cosmic Imperative / Re: Epi S: [Day 03 | 0615] A Man's Purpose
Last post by Ellen Fitz -
[ Lt. Cmdr. Cross | Corridor | Deck 11 | USS Theurgy ] @Stegro88

Cross did not stop walking. The corridor narrowed, the noise of Sickbay thinning behind them into a distant hum.

“I am aware of the distinction,” he said, voice even. “You have acquired skills beyond your current posting. That much is not in dispute.” A brief glance sideways—measured, clinical—then forward again. “From my position, Petty Officer, a transfer to an engineering-adjacent role is the most logical course of action given our present circumstances.”

He let that settle without emphasis, as though it were an operational note rather than a concession.

“The ship is damaged. Resources are strained. We are operating without certainty regarding resupply, reinforcement, or even strategic direction in the immediate term. Personnel who can serve in multiple capacities are no longer an advantage. They are a requirement.”

They passed a pair of crewmen hauling a damaged panel aside. Cross adjusted his path by a fraction, never breaking stride.

“You wish to broaden your impact beyond combat,” he continued. “That aligns with current necessity. Your engineering training will not go to waste if I have any influence over the matter. That said,” Cross added, tone sharpening by a degree, “you would be ill-advised to think in terms of leaving one role behind for another.”

He slowed slightly, just enough to make the point land.

“The future of this ship is undefined. Given the nature of recent events, it is highly probable that every individual aboard will, at some point, be required to function as a warrior—whether they were trained for it or not.” His gaze shifted again, more direct this time. “In one sense or another.”

They came to a stop at a junction. Cross turned to face him fully now, expression composed, unreadable.

“If you are transferred, you will be expected to maintain both competencies. You will repair systems when needed. You will take up arms when required. There will be no distinction in the moment that matters. Can you operate under that expectation, Petty Officer?” The question hung there, less an inquiry than a final calibration.
93
Episode 02: Cosmic Imperative / Re: Epi S: [Day 03 | 0800] Meeting of the Minds
Last post by Ellen Fitz -
[ Hirek tr’Aimne | Conference Lounge | Deck 01 | USS Theurgy ] Attn: @Brutus @Pierce @chXinya @Eirual @Nesota Kynnovan 

Hirek did not move at first. The bowl had long since been emptied, set aside with absent precision, and he had reclined into the chair as though it belonged to him by right. Eyes closed, fingers loosely steepled against his abdomen, he had let the pain come and go in measured waves—catalogued, compartmentalized, dismissed. A discipline learned young, refined under less… conversational conditions. Voices droned on around him. Orderly. Polite. Inefficient. A faint breath slipped through his nose.

Tal’Shiar interrogators could learn something here, he mused. If only in how to prolong suffering without ever raising one’s voice.

Frost’s voice cut cleanly through the room, and Hirek’s eyes opened at last—clear, sharp, and faintly amused. He did not sit forward. Did not rise. The invitation not to was noted… and accepted with quiet defiance. His gaze settled fully on Frost now.

“Hirek tr’Aimne,” he said, voice husky, clipped, carrying that lilting island cadence beneath its restraint. “Bioengineering, biosynthetics by formal education. Botany and zoological integration by inclination… and necessity.” A slight shift in the chair—enough to ease the pull along his ribs, nothing more. “As for my laboratory…” He gave a partial shrug. “I do not have one.” He let that sit. “I was not issued dedicated space upon my arrival. I have, instead, made myself useful wherever doors were not barred.” A flicker of dry amusement crossed his expression. “A practical arrangement. If not an efficient one.”

His eyes moved briefly across the table—Zarqan, Angharad—acknowledging the earlier discussion without interrupting it.

“I have spent the last several days working within existing facilities—primarily assisting with analysis related to the Infested.” His fingers tapped once, lightly, against the armrest. “Prior to my latest mission to my home planet, I conducted a series of controlled bio-integration experiments. Cross-species adaptability under parasitic influence. Behavioral thresholds. Cellular resistance. There was one specimen of note. Highly promising.” His gaze returned to Frost. “It demonstrated partial resistance to neural override while maintaining host viability longer than any comparable sample observed.” A slight tilt of his head. “It was destroyed during the attack. If Starfleet wishes to pursue that line of inquiry, we will require a replacement.” His expression sharpened, just a fraction. “And ideally, a controlled environment in which to do so.”
94
Episode 02: Cosmic Imperative / Re: Epi S: [Day 03 | 0615] A Man's Purpose
Last post by Stegro88 -
[ PO3 Lorad | Main Sickbay | Deck 11 | Vector 02 | USS Theurgy ] Attn: @Ellen Fitz
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Lorad eased past the press of people, heading back towards the emergency entrance to the Sickbay. He had been on detached duty with others from the Security Department sweeping areas of the ship damaged during the battle. Inevitably, they had found both wounded and dead that needed to be cared for. This was his third trip back to the sickbay, to the morgue this time. He had used the last free space in the room to leave the remains for identification before departing. He had just stepped past the head nurse’s duty station when a sharp, clear voice cut through the clamour of the sickbay.

“Petty Officer Lorad,” it called and Lorad turned to see a tall, bald man standing some distance away, looking at him. “Walk with me.” Lorad recognised the tone of someone used to commanding respect as much as he knew who this man was, if only by reputation. Commander Cross, Chief Tactical Officer and Temporary Executive Officer. Lorad hurried to catch up, his long strides eating up the deck until he could fall in to step beside the man.

“I have been briefed by Commander Stark regarding your recent temporal activities,” Cross said as he continued walking down the passageway. “There are... irregularities. Circumstances that place you at the edge of several departments’ interests.” Lorad had been watching the man as they moved and saw the Vulcan glance at him, he guessed trying to measure his reaction. "I am less concerned with speculation than I am with intent.” Lorad followed Commander Cross through a junction and into a quieter corridor, something that Lorad appreciated. Cross continued without stopping. “What are your expectations moving forward, Petty Officer? Regarding your place on this ship? Your duties?”

Lorad was taken aback. While he had known that sending the message he had sent before the battle would draw attention to him and bring about a potentially uncomfortable conversation, he had believed that due to the current situation the Theurgy was in after battle, that it was probably several days away. Instead, it seemed it was happening now.

“Sir?” Lorad said, trying to buy himself time to think and formulate a response. He went through Cross’s words again, searching for what the man was asking. A part of him considered that just three days earlier in this timeline, he would have gone ahead and answered using his limited understanding of the language. Now, with 8 years of additional experience in speaking the language, along with a few courses in it, Lorad was more prepared to respond.

“You are referring to my skillset prior to my mission compared to the skills I know possess after my service with Starfleet,” Lorad stated calmly, his voice clear. “I am a member of the Theurgy’s crew and will perform the duties assigned to me to the best of my abilities. That said, I would prefer, from my perspective, in a roll where I can utilise my engineering skills. I worked hard to obtain them and would regret them going to waste. Whether that be with the maintenance crews in the Fighter Assault Bay or in the Engineering Department of the Theurgy herself, I do not mind.”

“I have been a warrior for most of my life,” Lorad continued. “And while I do not see that changing, I would like to have a larger impact on the course of my future than just how well I can aim a phaser or swing a sword. Sir.”
95
Episode 02: Cosmic Imperative / EPI S: Two sides, same coin [Day 03 | 0930]
Last post by Dumedion -
[Colonel Hauq | Transporter Room 1 | Deck 5 | Vector 01 | USS Theurgy] Attn: @Ellen Fitz
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Hauq materialized alone, dressed in the unremarkable leathers typically worn by any Klingon warrior: a sleeveless black tunic under an oiled matte grey, devoid of any ostentatious finery or symbols of rank. His eyes, the blue-green of an ancient – nearly extinct – southern bloodline, narrowed as the light of materialization faded. Abnormally large hands balled into fists as his nostrils flared; an invasive stench had crept into the sterile, recycled air.
 
Romulans, Hauq nearly snarled, only just managing to control himself with an upward twitch of his top lip; a hunter targ, scenting prey.

Signs of battle and ongoing repairs were recognized, as well, along with the scents of blood, fire, and unwashed bodies. Most tellingly, he could read the visible weariness in the youth before him – a man, in all but the years and scars required to be one. Hauq nodded at his murmured welcome, averting his gaze to spare the boy further discomfort; he had neither the time nor the interest to exchange pleasantries.

“I am Hauq, son of Dorak. You will take me to your chief diplomat,” the Colonel stated.

“Is…a-are you expected…?”

“No, lad,” Hauq lowered his chin, head tilted in a curious mix of sympathy and challenge. “Nevertheless, I will see her – now.”

He heard the boy swallow, then a murmured agreement followed.

[Moments later…| Diplomatic Suite | Deck 2 | Vector 01| USS Theurgy]

Hauq nodded to the security escort before the door swished open, leather creaking with every movement. He stepped with the confidence of a man sent to speak for another, the words already queued at the forefront of his mind – their consequences irrelevant, for whatever reaction they caused.

After coming to rest near the center of the room, Hauq slowly turned, his sharpened senses taking in the space; what had taken place here, he could not say – but he knew it was a place death had recently visited. Something lingered there, in the air; almost like an echo…an echo of a glorious struggle for survival...

A blink snapped his mind back to the moment at hand; Hauq forced his attention to settle on the solitary soul he had come to meet with an involuntary intensity. His expression was carefully controlled between the fire of justified anger and the cold demand for explanation; chin lowered, eyes wide and fierce, breath steady.

“che'wI' 'oH, qa'pu,” he named her, purposefully lacking any hint of humor. “A title you continue to earn at every turn, it seems,” a wry smirk followed, just the barest twitch at the corner of Hauq’s mouth. “The Chancellor bade me speak with you, while he and your President occupy themselves with their own discussions of state,” a pause, only momentary – enough for the woman to possibly deduce that Martok had sent him to say something the Chancellor could not? She looked exhausted onto death...perhaps her wits had fled? 

“Will you speak with me, as we are...respectful allies? Or shall I,” the Colonel flashed his jagged fangs in an ugly, cold smile – then jerked his head towards the door, “bide, and let politics make corpses of us all?”

He doubted Madsen would miss the rhetoric – nor fail to see why he had come and what he had to say – but that was beside the point. His eyes flared wide as his head dipped; a nod, but there was nothing but challenge in the gesture. He wanted her to shake off the weariness that clung to her frame like a worn cloak – he wanted to see the steel in her eye.

Most of all, he wanted her to explain just what in all the hells the Federation was doing.
96
Episode 02: Cosmic Imperative / Re: Epilogue: They That Shed Their Blood [Day 03 | 1800 ]
Last post by Nesota Kynnovan -
[Lieutenant Dr. Nathan Frost, Ph.D. | Deck 22 | Arboretum | USS Theurgy]
[Attn: @Eirual]

A soft, dour grumble escaped Frost’s lips as he made his way through the corridor; his blue eyes glued on an interactive map of the ship as he came around a corner. While he was occasionally accused of having a terrible sense of direction, which was true but nevertheless always vehemently denied, Frost couldn’t get around the fact that he was completely and utterly lost. Every deck aboard the battle-damaged dreadnought was an utter maze and, in fairness, the Canadian Immunologist wouldn’t even be able to find his own quarters on Deck 15 if he wanted to; let alone the Arboretum.

On the bright side, he did stumble onto the quaintest little bar called the Below Decks Lounge – twice- somewhere on Deck 28. It hadn’t helped him to find the Arboretum though and, too proud to ask for directions, Frost had stubbornly pressed on with the help of his interactive map. A part of him contemplated just returning to the Below Decks Lounge though, provided he could still find it; the ceremony was likely over anyway and, as a new arrival to the ship, it was likely that no one expected nor missed his presence there anyway. Yet, as the Acting Chief Science Officer, he also knew that he couldn’t expect the Science Department to be present while he remained a no-show and thus he continued to make his way through the corridors of what he believed to be Deck 27.

As he rounded another corner, his blue eyes still glued to the interactive map on his PADD, Frost suddenly crashed right into someone. It sent him stumbling back; the PADD flying through the air and clattering harmlessly onto the deck while Frost fell backwards against the wall and just barely kept standing. He was about to speak up and voice his utter exasperation of being ran into like that, but he quickly closed his mouth again when he realized that it was Mia who’d ran into him. With a shock, he realized that the blonde-haired woman had fallen against the wall and was now sitting on the floor; clearly in grief.

”Mia?” As Frost spoke up, there was a hint of concern in his Canadian-accented voice. A part of him was curious what she was doing on Deck 27, but given the tears in the woman’s green eyes it was obviously not appropriate. No; he recognised the woman’s grief and instead carefully approached Mia before kneeling down next to her. ”Hey, Mia…” Frost briefly paused, trying to choose his words. ”It’s okay…” He paused for a couple of seconds while staying kneeled down on the deck next to the woman. ”Come on, let’s get you off the floor. We’ll get you a warm drink, alright?”
97
Episode 02: Cosmic Imperative / Re: 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]

In sharp contrast to the grimace he’d presented to Morali, Frost presented the blonde-haired Xenoanthropologist with a much more neutral smile as he listened to her. He had met Mia Dunne before, albeit just several hours earlier and before he was even made aware that he was the new Acting Chief Science Officer, and the fact that she’d been hard at work in the Geology Laboratory in the middle of the night had given him the impression that she was diligent. Diligence was something Frost could appreciate and, as such, the smile turned a little more friendly as the woman finished her report before sitting back down.

”Thank you, Miss Dunne.” As he spoke, Frost presented Ensign Dunne with a friendly nod before turning his attention to his PADD for a brief moment. He’d seen Geology Laboratory first-hand earlier that morning and, combined with the Ensign’s report that she had the situation under control, made her the excellent choice to assist Lieutenant Junior Grade Zarqan with the vole hunt. As he pondered on the decision, Frost’s blue eyes briefly came to rest upon Lieutenant Junior Grade Morali, whom he also considered to be a scientist who had things under control for now, but just one look at the man prompted Frost to realize that Ensign Dunne would be far better suited for it than the Temporal Affairs Officer. Frost suspected that Lieutenant Junior Grade Morali might downright refuse and that was not something he was willing to deal with. Not now. Thus, the Acting Chief Science Officer turned his attention to the Cyberneticist with a friendly smile. ”Miss Kerina, given the fact that you’ve just arrived and have yet to get started on any projects, I would like you to report to the Xenozoology Laboratory after this briefing concludes to assist Mister Zarqan in capturing his errant vole.” While he spoke, Frost turned his attention to Ensign Dunne. ”Take Ensign Dunne with you, she’ll show you around.”

With a nod, the Benzite Xenozoologist spoke up as well. It was clear that the man was appreciating the additional help, but when he spoke up Frost could hear a certain apprehension in his voice. ”If I may, I think it would be best to hunt our vole at night.” Lieutenant Junior Grade Zarqan turned his attention to Lieutenant Junior Grade Kerina and Ensign Dunne and smiled apologetically as he spoke, but winced immediately at the pain caused by his facial injury. ”…I tried to corner it during the day along with Ensign Sikia, but it attacked immediately. Our working theory is that it should be much more docile at night, while it is resting. I would hate for either of you to get injured just for helping me out.”

Lieutenant Junior Grade Angharad spoke up as well, nodding thoughtfully in agreement with Zarqan’s idea. ”In the meantime, I’ll help Kerina to get settled in and show her around. You know, she’ll need quarters and someone has to authorize her for the systems in the Cybernetics Lab.”

While Zarqan and Angharad spoke, Frost made some notes on his PADD before nodding as well and turning his attention to the Orion Cyberneticist and the blonde-haired Xenoanthropologist. ”Very well, that settles it then. Miss Kerina, once you’re all settled in I would like you to pick up Miss Dunne and report to the Xenozoology Laboratory together.” With that, the Acting Chief Science Officer turned his attention to Hirek and his smile instantly turned more sympathetic. ”Good morning. Could you tell me your name, your specialized field and the status of your laboratory?” Before he finished, Frost also made a gesture with his hand; worried that the Vulcan would stand up and promptly keel over. ”Also, please stay seated. You don’t have to get up.”
98
Episode 02: Cosmic Imperative / Re: Epilogue: Sit Rep After Hell [ Day 03 | 2130 ]
Last post by Nesota Kynnovan -
[Lieutenant Dr. Nathan Frost, Ph.D. | Deck 01 | Conference Lounge | USS Theurgy]
[Attn: @Ellen Fitz, @Brutus, @Nolan, @ob2lander961, @chXinya, @Dumedion, @Griff, @rae, @Stegro88, @Eirual, @RyeTanker, @tongieboi, @Pierce, @Tae, @Hans Applegate, @joshs1000, @P.C. Haring, @Krajin, @Eden, @TWilkins]

As he walked through the corridor on Deck 01, a soft yawn escaped the lips of Doctor Nathan Frost. The Canadian Immunologist had been appointed Acting Chief Science Officer only mere hours after coming aboard, which was a little over eighteen hours ago, and he had only slept two hours thus far; given the fact that he’d inherited a Department in disarray and didn’t even knew what happened to his own predecessor, Frost had deemed it a necessity in order to get a proper hold of the situation. Though, since he’d barely gotten any sleep aboard the IKS Vask’at either, the Canadian was now going a little over forty-eight hours with barely any sleep and it was beginning to show.

Shaking his head against the growing fatigue, Frost raised the mug in his right hand up to his lips. The white mug, which had the Theurgy-logo imprinted onto it, had found its way into the Acting Chief Science Officer’s possession during the briefing with the Science staff just eleven hours earlier and it hadn’t left his immediate vicinity ever since; even now it was full of warm coffee and, as Frost took a sip of the warm liquid, he sighed in content as he felt how the bitter liquid seemed to give him just that little mental boost. After another sip, the blue-eyed gaze of Doctor Nathan Frost was drawn to the PADD in his left hand. The small tablet computer displayed the information he needed for the upcoming meeting of the Senior Staff; the status of the various Science facilities and the science personnel whom now fell under his care, the repair requests made by the scientists in order to get their respective facilities operational again, a list of inner-department transfers to alleviate personnel shortages and, sadly enough, the list of casualties suffered during the battle.

While Frost’s blue eyes went over the casualty list again, a soft sigh escaped his lips. He had never met any of the fallen scientists personally, but there were three names in particular that felt like a punch to the gut; they were three exceptionally gifted scientists whose loss hurt the Canadian Immunologist on a personal level. The first amongst these was Tyreke Okafor, whom had been a bright scientist specializing in three different fields, ranging from Synthetic Biology to Nutrigenomics and Organic Electronics. After reading the man’s personnel record, Frost was convinced that they’d been able to nip the infected threat in the bud if he’d been able to meet Okafor six months ago. Then there was the second name; Asra Tek. She had been a brilliant Warp Theorist who, in Frost’s honest opinion, should have received a posting at the Daystrom Institute instead of a frontline commission. Now, the loss of such a prodigal scientist was bound to set research in her specific field back by decades, if not generations. Last but definitely not least was Kizra Tos, Theurgy’s resident Chemist. While Frost had never met the young woman, he’d read several groundbreaking papers written by Dezrin Tos; the previous host of the Tos symbiont. If Kizra had been anything like Dezrin, which Frost assumed she’d been, the loss of Kizra Tos and the Tos symbiont were significant losses to the scientific community of the Quadrant.

A soft sigh escaped Frost’s lips as he swiped back up to the top of the document. The loss of those three officers felt like a failure on his part; knowing that they would still be alive if he’d gotten to the ship six months ago. If he’d been here, Frost knew that he would have been able to work with the scientists and provide them with his insights, thus accelerating their research into the parasite and bringing Theurgy back into Starfleet’s fold much sooner. It made the Acting Chief Science Officer feel increasingly cold and empty inside; a feeling which, combined with his fatigue, innately drew his attention to the comfortable warmth radiating from the cup of coffee in his right hand.

Frost was pulled back to reality as he reached the doors of the Conference Lounge; the same room where he’d met his Science staff only eleven hours earlier. He briefly held his pace in front of the doors to quickly take another sip of coffee before taking another step and allowing the doors to open with their signature hydraulic hiss. As he stepped into the room, he noticed that Commander Cross was already present in the Conference Lounge, standing on the far side of the room along with another man who was leaning on a cane. Frost presented them both with a polite nod before looking around the room and realizing that he was the first to arrive. ”Ah, am I early?”

As he spoke with a Canadian-accented voice that hinted at his own confidence, which bordered at sheer arrogance, Frost walked into the room. Despite his tone, the Canadian’s fatigue immediately showed when he walked past an open maintenance case that sat open near the bulkhead; someone had placed a half-spooled coil of fiber conduit inside it, but the coil hadn’t been properly spooled and thus allowed the fiber conduit to spill out of the maintenance case. Frost’s foot caught the stray fiber conduit as he walked past, tripping him up and prompting him to spill the contents of his mug as he struggled to keep standing.

Whereas other people might have been embarrassed, Frost instead looked at Commander Cross and the other Starfleet officer with a look of sheer exasperation before turning his attention to the half-spooled coil of fiber conduit. The Canadian Immunologist remembered that the maintenance case had been there during his Science briefing eleven hours earlier, but Frost could have sworn that he’d placed that half-spooled coil of fiber conduit into one of the chairs to prevent anyone from tripping over it. How it had found its way back into the maintenance case was beyond him but, after several seconds of exasperation and semi-bewildered staring, Frost coughed and began to make his way to the replicator to refill his mug.
99
Episode 02: Cosmic Imperative / Epilogue: Sit Rep After Hell [ Day 03 | 2130 ]
Last post by Ellen Fitz -
[ Lt. Cmdr. Cross | Conference Lounge | V. 1 D. 1 | USS Theurgy ]
ATTN: @Brutus   @Nolan   @ob2lander961   @chXinya   @Dumedion   @Griff   @rae   @Stegro88   @Eirual l  @RyeTanker  @tongieboi   @Pierce   @Tae   @Nesota Kynnovan   @Hans Applegate   @joshs1000   @P.C. Haring   @Krajin   @Eden   @TWilkins

Cross entered without breaking stride, hands clasped behind his back, eyes moving before the doors had fully parted — walls, sightlines, seating. He’d always been keen on these details but in the hours since his instatement as acting xo, Cross could feel certain aspects of his personality solidify. Strengthen. It was yet to be determined if they were the part of his personality that were the “warm and cuddly” type, or if Hathev was liable to tell him to be less Vulcan about things.

The conference lounge had not been fully restored.A maintenance case sat open near the far bulkhead, lid propped at an angle that suggested whoever had left it intended to return and hadn't. A coil of fiber conduit lay half-spooled across a chair that had been nudged out of alignment and forgotten. Someone had left a diagnostic wand on the table's edge, its indicator still cycling a patient amber, presumably under the impression that this was someone else's problem now.

Cross looked at it for a moment.He crossed to the table and lifted the diagnostic wand, thumb finding the active control and deactivating it. Into the case. The conduit coil followed — not perfectly spooled, not worth the time, but returned to something that would not catch anyone's elbow in the dark. The chair he realigned with a single precise push and did not look at again.
The air carried a faint metallic sharpness beneath the ship's regulated atmosphere. Heated circuitry, recent access. The smell of repairs that were ongoing rather than finished.

He noted this without comment to himself. There was no one present to comment to. Valin had entered behind him — the uneven cadence of the man's steps marking him as clearly as a name tag — but Cross did not consider Valin an audience for internal observations. He considered Valin someone currently proving, step by compensated step, that medical clearance and restoration were different categories of thing. Indeed, the command adjutant was already taking notes on the state of the conference room and formulating a list of suggested improvements for the repair crews.

"Thea. Environmental controls. Drop temperature two degrees. Ventilation up five percent."

The adjustment registered along his skin a moment later — subtle, useful. He moved along the table activating consoles in sequence, each station coming online beneath his touch with the quality of machinery that had been repaired recently and was being asked to demonstrate its confidence. Agenda framework. Attendance registry. Priority flags. Holo-interfaces rose at measured angles, uniform, contained, professionally indifferent to the fact that half the ship was still in the process of becoming whole again.

“Did the doctor give you any special orders before releasing you I should be aware of?” Cross asked the command adjutant without looking up from his work.

He paused at Tactical. Damage assessments hovered in his peripheral attention — hull breaches, shield failures, personnel losses categorized and recategorized into administrative language until they became something that could be filed rather than carried. Supply requisitions sat underneath them, more immediate and considerably less dignified in their specificity. Lieutenant T’Less had done an exemplary job of putting together the sit rep for their department. He closed the reports before they expanded and returned his attention to the seating configuration.

Valin’s cane was ostensibly to assist in his walking, but the subtle gilt work down the shaft and the rare wood that formed its core spoke to the man’s flair for opulence while just meeting Federation regulations. He could have remained sour about his medical situation but instead turned it into a statement.

“Nothing of relevance, Commander.” Any special orders that might have existed would likely have been ignored by the lieutenant in any case. Valin did not like sickbay nor doctors.

Cross nodded at Valin’s response before jutting his chin toward the table. "Seating will reflect operational necessity," he said. To Valin, nominally. To the room.

He adjusted. Operations drew closer to Tactical because the current situation demanded it. Science shifted into cleaner line of sight because the current situation demanded that too. Medical he placed at the center and did not move it — an axis of certainty in a meeting that would have several uncertain variables and Cross was not in the business of distinguishing between the two when they amounted to the same placement. Engineering he adjusted twice, narrowing the gap by increments, as though proximity to the other departments might compensate for what the supply lines had not yet delivered. He was aware this was not how physics worked. He adjusted it a third time anyway.

The President's address had been clear. Logistics would stabilize. Support would follow. The Federation stood with the Theurgy and intended to demonstrate that commitment through material means. A statement of intent was not a supply crate.

Cross had spent enough of his career working with the gap between what command structures promised and what arrived to have developed a very specific relationship with optimism — not hostile to it, exactly, but in the habit of keeping it on the other side of the table. Callahan had called this his "foundational suspicion of pleasant outcomes." Cross had considered that characterization and concluded it was probably fair. He had also concluded that foundational suspicion of pleasant outcomes had, on several notable occasions, kept him and others alive, and had filed this under not the worst trait to have and moved on.

He returned to the head of the table.

"Thea. Display meeting header. Classification level three. Internal record active. External access restricted to command authorization."
The header resolved on the far wall.

Cross looked at it for a moment. Then he said, "Lighting. Reduce ambient ten percent. Increase table illumination," and the room shifted, and the header remained exactly what it was regardless. He clasped his hands behind his back. "Thea. Confirm channel security." He nodded to himself. “Department heads will arrive within three minutes," Cross commented to Valin. Then he raised an eyebrow and asked. “Did you catch the president’s address during the memorial?”

The command adjutant was finalizing arrangements for the meeting on his PADD, having found a maintenance crate to lean against to free up a hand for typing. “I did,” he said, focused on the device. The words betrayed nothing as to Valin’s reaction to the speech. Rather, it was simple acknowledgement. After a moment, Valin looked up. “I suspect her advisors and the Federation Council had some choice words to say in private after the ceremony. I am not sure if bold or reckless is a better description for the speech. Possibly both.”

Whatever Cross had thought to say in reply remained locked in his throat as the doors opened and the first of the department heads arrived.

GM Notes: Although all active writers have been tagged so they can keep abreast of the sit rep the ship (that they can use for other threads) only departmental heads will be writing in this thread. Please write your chief arriving for the meeting and separately PM me the sit rep (dialogue only) that I will drop into a JP post style that will follow after everyone arrives and then we will go back to person by person replies to the sit reps. Please reach out if you need support in putting together your departmental sit rep.
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Episode 02: Cosmic Imperative / Epilogue: A New Dawn for ch'Rihan [Day 03 | 0800 ]
Last post by Ellen Fitz -
[ Conference Room | Paris One | The Triangle ]

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The room had been arranged for balance. Not equality—never that, not among these particular parties—but the careful geometry of it. The suggestion. Bacco sat at the center of the curved table with her aides staggered at her shoulders, and across from her, Colonel Xiomek occupied the opposite position with two Romulan representatives flanking him—Cretak from Donatra to his left, Veleth from Tal’Aura to his right—in a stillness that had nothing to do with agreement and everything to do with the particular discipline of people who have not yet decided how much they trust each other.

Lieutenant Vyta th’Verohr, Starfleet intelligence analyst, occasional intelligence operative, and current accidental aide to the President of the United Federation of Planets, was manning the same post he’d held for the past eight hours, a silent presence behind Bacco’s shoulder. Lieutenant Enyd Isolde Madsen stood slightly off-axis, PADD held low against her side, eyes moving through the room the way someone reads a text they already suspect contains bad news.

Around the room, extra chairs had been placed against the bulkheads, creating a second ring, lesser than the chairs at the table. These were for the most part unoccupied, the various aides and representatives having chosen to begin with rather obvious intimidation techniques. But they would fill up if the talks were productive. Productive being diplomatic code for long.

Lieutenant JG Nysari zh’Eziarath, however, had chosen a seat immediately upon entering, strategically placed near the corner. She was still clearly on the Federation side of the room, but had a clear view of Xiomek and Bacco. Similarly to her department’s chief, she also had a PADD. It rested lightly on her lap, loaded with decades of Federation/Romulan history, and within easy reach of her fingers should she need to send a quick note to someone who could whisper in the President’s ear.

The viewscreen dominated the far wall. Ch'Rihan resolved in tones of grey and muted green. The feed stabilized. Reman Senator Vkruvux stood forward—not beside the Romulan senator at his shoulder, not behind him, but forward, in the way of someone who had decided the arrangement of a room was itself a negotiation, and intended to win it. At his shoulder, hands folded within his sleeves: Senator Belas. Gaze fixed. Unreadable in the particular way of men who have spent considerable effort becoming so.
Initial greetings had already been given, though the feed had been unforgiving at first with its static. But now, with the feed stable and clear, no one spoke. Until, finally, Vkruvux spoke.

"They called us tools." Vkruvux's voice was low and even. Not performed. Not hesitant. The register of someone who had decided, some time ago, that he would say this exactly once and would not need to repeat it. "Labor. Weapons. Shadows that moved when commanded." A pause. Not for effect. For control. "We will not be governed that way again."

Belas took his turn then, though he did not step forward as he spoke. “Limiting the Reman people limits all within our borders.”
A slight shift moved through the room. Madsen's eyes moved. Xiomek did not react. Beside him, Cretak's gaze had gone to a point just above the screen, and Veleth had gone very still in a way that was different from Belas's stillness—less trained, more chosen.

"We present the formation of the D'ravsai Coalition," Vkruvux continued. "Named for the brothers of our shared mythos. Not because they were alike." His chin lifted a fraction. "Because they endured one another and were stronger for their differences, sharpening each other."

Behind him, Belas held still. Agreement, here, was restraint.

"Romulan and Reman will stand as coequal peoples. Structurally. Not symbolically. All opportunities for care, education, and social or political advancement will be made available for both peoples." Vkruvux inclined his head toward the unseen window of the room he occupied, as if trying to convey the entirety of the planet.

Belas again spoke up, as if cued by Vkruvux’s strategic pause. “Freedom of movement within our borders will be assured for both peoples.”

Xiomek's finger tapped the table once—light, unhurried. To his left, Cretak's jaw shifted. To his right, Veleth said nothing, which was its own kind of statement.

"And you have consensus for this," Bacco interjected. Not a question. Not quite. Behind her, th’Verohr’s face had settled into a nondescript, practiced calm, his gaze following Bacco’s, adding weight to her words.

Vkruvux held her gaze through the screen. "We have momentum."

A flicker moved through Madsen's expression—small, involuntary, the kind that gets logged and not discussed.

"Consensus," Belas said smoothly, "is a process, Madam President. Not a prerequisite for progress."

Xiomek's mouth tightened. Almost a smile, stripped of warmth. Cretak looked at Belas for the first time—briefly, assessing. Veleth did not look at anyone.

"Sometimes," Bacco said, "it's the difference between a government and a civil war." She let that sit just long enough to register.  "Continue."

Vkruvux inclined his head once. "Our terms are not terms of surrender. We will not be absorbed into Federation frameworks. We will not be remade in your image." A beat, precise as a cut. "But we will engage."

Madsen's thumb moved along the edge of her padd.

"The Neutral Zone no longer reflects political reality. We propose its revision. Controlled transit corridors—diplomatic and scientific. Federation envoys permitted on Ch'Rihan and ch'Havran under defined conditions. In return, we expect recognition of Coalition sovereignty without internal interference."

Something moved through the room on Xiomek's side of the table—not a stir, exactly, but a reordering. Cretak's posture had changed by a fraction. Veleth's hands, previously flat against the table, had shifted. Xiomek leaned forward. Nysari had been watching with polite attention until that final request, when her antennae jerked straight up, suddenly rigid. Thankfully, she was far from the center of the action, unnoticed.

Bacco folded her hands together. "You are asking the Federation to trust a structure that does not yet fully exist."

"We are asking the Federation to recognize that it will." Belas replied.

"That is not the same thing." Bacco shot back.

A pause. Vkruvux did not look at his counterpart. "It is," he said, "from our perspective."

Bacco exhaled softly through her nose. Not impatience—calibration. "Keep going."

"At this time, we have no interest in expansion into bordering territories.” Vkruvux’s words were chosen carefully. “However, any encroachment into Imperial territories or disputed territories, as we have many with the Klingons, will be treated as hostile expansion. We will respond accordingly."

That landed differently than the rest of it. Madsen's eyes lifted, briefly, to the President. Across the table, Cretak's chin came down a degree—the movement of someone hearing a position they recognize, stated by someone they're not sure they trust to hold it. Veleth said nothing. Xiomek likewise still said nothing.

"That's the kind of statement," Bacco spoke measuredly, "that turns a negotiation into a reportable incident."

"It is the kind of statement," Belas returned, "that prevents one."

"Or invites a test of resolve," Madsen commented, eyes widening when she realized her words had been louder than she’d intended.

A thin silence followed before Vkruvux spoke again. "We do not intend to invite anything, lieutenant."

Committed now, Madesn's gaze held steady. "Intent has never been the deciding factor at that border."

Vkruvux did not respond. He moved on—deliberately, the way someone changes a subject by refusing to acknowledge that it still exists. With Cardassia, the posture shifted: stabilization, trade, reconstruction, the efficient kind of partnership that doesn't require either party to admit they need it. He said they would find the Coalition's approach efficient, and Belas's lip twitched at that—amusement, or irritation, or some Romulan register that existed comfortably between both.

"Cardassia's still deciding what it is," Bacco spoke up once Vkruvux finished with his hopes for the relationship with Cardassia. "You may want to give them room to do that before you decide what they'll accept."

The Breen, Vkruvux named last, and briefly: the border would hold. No elaboration. None offered, none expected. Everyone in the room had the nearly the same relationship with the Breen, one of distance and wariness. Then the Reman senator stopped. Silence settled into the room the way it does after the last item on a list—not empty, but complete.

Bacco leaned back slightly, fingers steepled. Not for effect. Because it gave her something to do with the pause she was taking.
"You're outlining a doctrine."

"Yes."

"And doctrines have consequences outside the room they're spoken in." Her gaze shifted—not to Vkruvux, but to Belas. "Especially when the people back home haven't agreed to them yet."

Belas inclined his head. Acknowledgment without concession.

Bacco's gaze moved then—not to the screen, but to the table in front of her. To Xiomek, and the two Romulans on either side of him who had not, in the course of this entire exchange, once looked directly at each other.

"Nothing here is binding," she said. "Not today." A breath. "But some of it is workable."

Xiomek's posture shifted—attention narrowing, the way it does when something stops being theoretical.

"The Neutral Zone can be eased. Carefully. Limited diplomatic envoys, monitored. Transit corridors—pilot program, not policy."
Madsen glanced up. "Madam President—if I may."

Bacco gave a small nod.

"Any corridor would require layered verification protocols." Madsen chose her words with the particular care of someone who knows the room is listening harder than it looks. "Not just for transit clearance, but for personnel integrity. We don't currently have a reliable method of identifying compromised individuals at a large scale. Such scans have to be done on a smaller, ship-by-ship basis."

The word hung there. Compromised. Xiomek's gaze moved to her. Unambiguous approval—the rarest thing in this room. Beside him, Veleth had gone still again in that chosen way. And while Cretak's expression had not changed, something behind it had.

"She's being diplomatic," Xiomek said. "The situation is worse than that."

"I'm aware," Bacco said. Then, to the screen: "Safety isn't guaranteed. Not yet."

Vkruvux inclined his head once. Acceptance. Not agreement—the distinction mattered, and everyone in the room understood it did.

Nysari stood up then, PADD discarded the seat behind her. “Madam President,” she began, waiting for the nod that gave her permission to continue. “Despite best efforts, there have always been paths across the Neutral Zone for – shall we call them – ‘determined parties.’ Creating authorized transit corridors will make smuggling and trafficking operations less profitable. As they go out of business, their clients will be forced to use monitored corridors. Any verification protocols we require will be safer than the current situation.”

Bacco studied the Andorian a moment before glancing between her and Madsen. Before she could say anything Colonel Xiomek spoke.

“We can post ships at the entry points of these corridors on our side of the Neutral Zone and employ your identification method,” his lips almost pulled back in a snarling smirk, “to any who wish to travel through. And we would expect access to the full crew of any ship arriving for the same treatment.”

“I doubt many captain’s would look kindly upon such a demand,” Bacco raised a hand before Xiomek or any others could counter, “however, given the nature of the parasites we’re dealing with, we accept the suggestion and would match it with our own ships along our side of the Neutral Zone.” She glanced at Nysari and then Madsen again before she continued. "If you present strength as a threat," Bacco said, quieter now, "the Federation will respond to the threat. If you present stability as an invitation, we'll meet you there."

A pause held in the room, like a collective breath inhaled. The room held its shape around the silence that followed.

Not agreement. Not refusal. Something narrower—more conditional, more deliberate. The particular architecture of parties who had arrived at the same table from incompatible directions and had not yet decided whether that was a problem or a foundation. On the screen, Ch'Rihan's sky remained its familiar grey. Patient. Waiting for a consensus that had not yet decided what it wanted to be.

"The Tal Shiar," Bacco spoke again. She let it sit. Not a question. Not quite an accusation.

On the screen, Vkruvux's expression did not change. Belas drew a measured breath.

"The Coalition," Belas said, "has not issued a formal statement on the Tal Shiar's status."

Bacco nodded. "I know."

"Because the situation does not yet permit one." He continued before she could respond. "We are not concealing the problem. We are determining its scope. There is a difference." A fractional pause. "Many Tal Shiar operatives remain active. Some are on Romulus. Some are on Remus. Some are—elsewhere. Their command structure, their current directives—" He stopped. "The Citadel sustained significant damage."

"From the Theurgy crew members your people were holding for questioning," Bacco supplied quietly. Even-toned.

Belas looked at her. "For questioning, yes."

"Torture," Madsen interjected. "The word is torture."

In the silence that followed, Nysari’s quick intake of breath was easy to hear. Vyta’s gaze found hers, what he saw in her eyes sending him half a step towards her before he remembered where he was and jerked back into place.

Something moved through Belas's expression—not guilt, not anger. Something more considered than either.

"The word," he said, "is framing. What one calls a thing reflects what one believes the circumstances required." A beat, during which Madsen held his gaze, a look of almost appreciative respect flickering across her face at his response. "I did not say I agreed with those beliefs."

Vkruvux spoke up. "The damage to the Citadel has set back our intelligence recovery by months. We do not yet have full accounting of which operatives were running which initiatives, or under whose authority, or whether those authorities still exist." His voice was flat—not defensive, simply precise. "This is what we are telling you. Not because we are required to. Because it is the truth of the situation."

"Which is exactly what concerns us," Bacco said. "A Tal Shiar without a legible command structure is not a reassurance. It's a variable."

"It is a variable," Belas agreed. "One we are working to resolve."

"With a damaged Citadel and a Coalition that, by your own account, has momentum rather than consensus."

"Madam President." Vkruvux's voice had not shifted in register, but something in its weight had. "The Federation has had every advantage in this situation. Intact government. Intact infrastructure. Time to deliberate at whatever pace its Council requires." He paused. "We have had none of those things. We are building a government out of a civil conflict, a fractured intelligence apparatus, and two peoples who have spent generations being told the other is not fully real." Another pause, shorter. "And we are still here. Asking, not demanding. Offering, not threatening."

Bacco did not answer immediately.

Veleth had not moved. Cretak's gaze had dropped—not in deference. In something less easy to name.

"The Federation's hesitation," Belas said, quieter now, "has its own consequences. Every month the Neutral Zone remains what it is, the fracture on our side deepens. The factions that do not want this conversation grow louder." He allowed a pause. "We are not asking you to trust us completely. We are asking you to understand that the window for this kind of conversation is not permanent."

Bacco exhaled—slowly, through her nose. "I understand that," she said.

She did not look at Veleth. She did not need to. Paris was mere weeks behind her and not a day further. The room absorbed her words. Bacco sat with it for a moment—not performing consideration, but actually engaged in it, which was a different thing and looked different on a person's face.

"All right," she said finally. Not a concession. A door, opened a precise and deliberate amount. "Here is what I can offer today." She folded her hands on the table. "At the next session of the Federation Council, I will formally present the Coalition's stated positions. Not as a recommendation. As a record of the conversation and its substance. The Council will do what it does with that." She waved a hand in the air before her. "What it does will depend significantly on how the next several weeks look."

"Meaning," Vkruvux said.

"Meaning stability is an argument. Instability is a counter-argument. The Council will be watching."

Belas inclined his head slightly. "We understand the nature of political optics."

"Then we're clear."

"In the meantime," Bacco continued, "I'm prepared to authorize a diplomatic envoy. Single vessel, defined personnel, defined mandate. They travel to Romulus. They establish a working outpost—Federation diplomatic presence, nothing more than that, nothing less." She looked at the screen. "Not a mission. Not an installation. A presence."

"Under what conditions," Vkruvux said.

After her earlier lapse in composure, Nysari returned to her seat, her fingers silently typing into her PADD. At this question, she shot off a quick message. Vyta’s PADD, held loosely behind his back, vibrated immediately after. He glanced at the note, then bent forward to relay it, whispering in Bacco’s ear, “A trade envoy, Madam President. Officially posted to the Federation Trade Commission. Operates with our authority without recognizing the Romulan government.”

Bacco nodded thoughtfully as Vyta straightened, before continuing.

"Defined transit corridor, pre-cleared. The envoy operates under Coalition oversight within Romulan space and Federation authority in all other respects. Any incident—any—triggers a review before the next step is taken." She let that land. "This is not a precedent. It is a first step toward one."

A pause on the screen. Vkruvux and Belas did not confer visibly, but something passed between them—the particular silence of people who have already discussed this possibility and are now simply confirming that the terms are acceptable.

"Agreed," Vkruvux said.

Agreed. One word. No elaboration, no qualification, no Romulan diplomatic scaffolding around it. The plainness of it was, itself, a gesture.

Bacco gave a single nod. Across the table, Cretak had straightened slightly. Veleth had not moved, but the quality of his stillness had changed—less withheld, more waiting. Two people absorbing outcomes to a negotiation they had attended but not led, calculating what it meant for positions they had not stated in this room.

There was a great deal that had not been said. The Tal Shiar's reach—its full reach, the parts that preceded the Citadel's damage and would outlast its recovery—remained uncharted. The political fragmentation on Ch'Rihan that Bacco had named and the Coalition had not denied remained unresolved. The question of what Donatra's remaining faction wanted, what Tal'Aura's remnant would accept, what Xiomek's coalition could actually deliver without either—those questions had been present in the room for the duration of this conversation and had been addressed only obliquely, in the spaces between other answers.

None of that was today's work.

"We'll be in touch regarding envoy composition," Bacco said. "Expect contact within seventy-two hours."

"We will be available," Belas said.

"Senator Vkruvux," Bacco said. A pause that was not quite a hesitation. "Senator Belas."

On the screen, Ch'Rihan's grey sky held steady behind them, the same as it had been at the beginning of this. Nothing had resolved. Nothing had collapsed. The distance between these two positions remained precisely what it had been when the feed opened—only now it had been measured, mapped at its edges, given at least the rough shape of a path.

Vkruvux inclined his head once. Final. Clean.

The feed closed.

The room was quiet for a moment. Then Bacco formally addressed Colonel Xiomex and the Romulans with him as they too departed for their vessels. Only once they were alone, Federation members only, did Bacco push back from the table. Not abruptly. Just done.

"Madsen," she said, without looking up. "I believe the Theurgy has a unique position here to be able to give me a full brief on envoy candidates you believe vetted for this mission before the end of the day."

"Yes, ma'am." She glanced at Nysari as she replied. The Andorian nodded in response.

"And I believe you can get me someone who knows the current state of the Citadel damage. Actual assessment, not what they told us. Someone with insight into what’s going on with the Tal’Shiar."

Madsen's expression did not change. "I'll see what we have."

Bacco picked up the PADD in front of her, glanced at it once, and set it down.

“Let’s see this done,” Bacco’s tone of voice was firm and also dismissive, a signal to end the meeting and authorize everyone to see to their part of the plan.

Madsen and Nysari took their leave, and Vyta slipped out not long after. Around Bacco, the room began its quiet work of becoming a room again—aides gathering materials, the low exchange of logistics, the specific industry of people who know that a meeting ending is simply the beginning of what the meeting required.

FIN
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