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Episode 02: Cosmic Imperative / Re: Epi: S [Day 03 | 0145] By these wounds...
Last post by Krajin -
[ Lt.Thane Va’rek ] | Cryobay | Deck 11 | Vector 02 | USS Theurgy ] Attn: @Ellen Fitz @Dumedion @Eden

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Silence stretched—heavy, dangerous.

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

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


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



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

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

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

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

Ch’Ress shifted. “And if we refuse?”

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

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

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

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

A long pause.

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

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

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

They departed separately—but with the same orders.


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



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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes, Captain,” Cross replied without hesitation.

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

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

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

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


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



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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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



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

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

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

The Triangle.

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

She didn’t waste time speculating.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes, sir.”

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

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

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

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

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




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

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

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

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

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

If she survived the next few minutes.

She felt the impact before the alarms reached her ears.

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

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

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

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

Dewitt didn’t hesitate.

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

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

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

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

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

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


GM Notes: Part 1.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Maybe she was.

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

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

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

OOC: Tagging @Dumedion so Talia can laugh
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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 | The Triangle ] Attn: Wolves @Hans Applegate @Dumedion @Krajin @P.C. Haring @ob2lander961 @Pierce @Stegro88
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He missed the big moment. Not missed it by not being there – because Prophets curse him, he’d been far closer to it than he would have preferred – but totally, completely ‘if the shockwave from the Valdore’s thalaron emitter exploding hadn’t hit him, he wouldn’t have even realized it had happened’ missed it.

Janus had let Shadow off guard duty, tasking her, Atlas, Archon, and Salvo to disable the ship while he remained on Knox’s defense patrol. The Romulans had figured out Knox wasn’t on their side, and the remaining stalkers had concentrated on the fighter that could see through their cloaks. Janus gave them a run for their money, helped somewhat sporadically by Knox, who either had another plan or simply didn’t know enough about the fighter he’d stolen to put up a better fight.

Eventually, his luck ran out, as was always bound to happen. His Valkyrie registered the torpedo’s target lock, a bright red line arcing starboard across his display while the HUD flashed warnings. Janus jerked the throttle hard to avoid a direct hit, but his weakened shields still took a glancing blow, a bright flash of light that ended in complete darkness as his ship died completely.

The next moment was frantic. A curse – in Cardassian no less, shit was that low – and a quick punch at the controls in the hopes that secondary and tertiary systems would boot before someone decided to blow him up.

Ironically, the shockwave probably saved his life. Knox’s flight had taken them very close to the Valdore, leaving them right in the debris field as the other Wolves disabled the Romulan flagship. Physics was friend to neither Starfleet, Klingon, nor Romulan. So when Janus took the gut punch of force throwing his ship spinning in the void, so did the second torpedo, what would have been a kill shot soaring over his canopy.

That was when the Valkyrie decided to reboot. Janus flipped along the torpedo’s trajectory before the green lights of the thrusters even fully illuminated. He recovered faster than the Stalker, two well placed phaser shots doing the job. It had lost its shields in the shockwave. Luck was fickle that way.

“Ok, now where did you—” Janus swore again when his sensors caught sight of Knox entering the Valdore’s shuttle bay. “Knox, Janus. Do not land on the Valdore. We want that fighter. I repeat, do not…” Too late. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me. You’d better bring that back!”

At least that meant he was off guard duty.

He found Shadow and Atlas fairly quickly, angling down and coming up from below with a quick strafing run to pull some of the fire off them. Salvo and Archon weren’t there. He didn’t see them on his HUD right away, quick glances back and forth all he could manage between the shooting, flying, and rerouting power to his once again lagging shields. There they were, finally, shown only in the dim light of emergency beacons. Damn.

Archon and Salvo. Razor. And that was today. Hopefully they’d be recovered alive, unlike the other four in the last thirty-six hours. Damn. He needed more pilots. He needed more fighters. Damn.

But that was a problem for the morning. Now they had to finish up here.

“Janus, Wolves. Theurgy is putting a team on the Valdore, so disengage. Can’t blow any more of her until our people are off. Stick together and start mopping up. We’re almost done here.”

It would be over as soon as the assault team had Donatra. As long as they were quick about it.

“Should have let us blow it up.”

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

Cross left the XO’s office with Stark’s notes still fresh in his mind, the padd secured under his arm more out of habit than necessity. He already knew the contents by heart. He always did—personnel files, medical assessments, command annotations. They were patterns, variables, probabilities. People, reduced to trajectories.

The corridor toward the recovery ward was quieter than most of the ship, and he found himself appreciating that. Theurgy never truly slept, but sickbay came close. The lighting softened. Footsteps echoed less. It was a place where outcomes were still being negotiated.

Callax Valin had not been a name Cross knew well until recently. A pilot. Talented. Disciplined. Ambitious. Stark’s notes were thorough; Ives’ even more so. Between the two of them, Cross had built a clear picture of the man—one that no longer aligned with a fighter cockpit. The injuries alone guaranteed that.

Cross paused briefly outside the recovery ward doors, centering himself out of reflex more than need, then stepped inside.

Valin was on a biobed, propped slightly upright, dressed in a standard medical gown that did nothing to hide the fact that this was not where a man like him expected to be. The pilot looked diminished only in circumstance, not presence. Cross noted that too.

He approached without ceremony.

“Lieutenant Junior Grade Valin,” Cross said evenly, stopping at the foot of the bed. “I’m Lieutenant Commander Cross.” No inquiry about pain levels. No polite preamble. Cal would have already had enough of that. “I’ve reviewed Doctor Leux’s reports,” Cross continued, pale blue eyes steady. “As well as the physical therapy projections. You will not be fit for flight operations for the foreseeable future. Even with aggressive treatment, returning to a fighter cockpit would be… distant.”

He let that land, watching Valin’s reaction without staring.

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

He looked directly at Valin now.

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

Another pause—this one deliberate.

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

Cross waited then, silent, attentive, giving the pilot the dignity of deciding his own future.
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Episode 02: Cosmic Imperative / Re: Epi: S [Day 03 | 0145] By these wounds...
Last post by Dumedion -
[LT Arven Leux | Main Sickbay | Deck 11 | Vector 02 | USS Theurgy] Attn: @Ellen Fitz  @Eden
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All things considered, Arven had to admit that the situation could always have turned out worse. Still, he couldn’t help but groan then suck his teeth with an annoyed tsk after the patient spat a mouthful of blood all over the side of the biobed. Great. You know how many times has this thing been cleaned and sterilized, he grumbled silently while he procured a towel from under the bed to swipe the splatter of crimson fluid up, then mushed it up against the patient’s face.
 
“Wonderful. Open up,” Luex deadpanned before gripping the man’s jaw, while his other hand called up a detailed internal scan of his chest cavity. Seeing no lacerations to the tongue or obstructions, Arven’s eyes flicked to the scan imagery – and recognized the problem immediately. A quick glance at she-wolf preceded a curt gesture to the cabinets behind her as he talked. “Tension pneumothorax – third shelf up, white triangle, blue button in the middle. Slap it over the gap between his third and fourth rib,” Arven instructed as he typed away on the biobed’s control interface, then moved quickly to prep two hypos and jabbed them into the man’s neck.

He hadn’t had time or the inclination to engage with either of them directly, but he’d heard and saw their reactions. The patient seemed concerned for his people, which was admirable enough; the issue was, unfortunately for him, that the Doctor had no definitive answers to give – so he did what most people did: he bought himself time. “I’ll look into your people when I can,” the Doctor replied neutrally. “For now, it seems, we’re enjoying a bit of reprieve from hostilities. Best focus on yourself now.” He nodded then, then watched the patient’s vitals as his half-canine assistant activated the internal regulator to the pilots chest. “Vi, OR2 ready yet,” he turned and yelled, then placed a O2 mask over the pilot’s nose and mouth. “Deep breaths, take a nap. You'll be fine," he told the pilot dismissively - while the man's eyes rolled up into the back of his head.

Vi-Nine appeared in the Doctor's peripheral suddenly, occular lens blinking as she scanned the patient. She spoke in a tone of hurried tone of patient authority, like a parent reminding a child of chores that needed to be done before playtime. “Sterilization cycle completion in 70 seconds. We have an issue in cryogenics, however. A...ah, power issue – I've initiated emergency retro-suspension of one of the patients. You'll need to supervise his revival and follow up examinations while I," the droid bent over the wounded pilot and stoked his breather mask gently with a single silver finger, "take special care of this one."

Arven looked at her like the android had just spoken a string of incoherent nonsense, blinked, then cleared his throat. "Wait, what? In the middle of all this? Really?"

“Oh," the droid waved a hand as she stood again, "There appears to be a...creature…chewing up the conduits,” Vi-Nine clarified, then hefted one of her mechanical limbs, which morphed with a series of clicks and whirling servos into an active, blue flamed torch. “Some manner of mole-like specimen from one of the science labs, I believe. I can initiate termination protocols, if you require.”

Arven felt the blood drain from his face. “Absolutely not – stand down, right now,” he pointed at the wounded pilot. “You fix him,” then he gestured to himself and wolf-lady. “We’ll handle cryo.”

Vi-Nine seemed to sag a bit, then un-transformed her arm back to normal. “Very well.”

"First though," he addressed she-wolf, "go get cleaned up. CMO's office has a wash room, back that way. Meet me in cryo when you don't look like you just ate a Romulan." Arven wiped a hand across his face with an exhausted breath, then nodded to all of them. “Lets go, chron's ticking - Vi, what's the unit number in cryo?"

The android was already moving the biobed towards surgery, humming to herself. She turned her head all the way around to face Arven as she kept walking. "Hm? Oh," her occular lens flashed brightly and rapidly for a half a second. "Row D, Bravo-Four. Ferasan male - full details transmitted to your PADD," she waved, then disappeared into OR 2 with her ward. "Have fun - I know we will."

Another giant cat, how wonderful, Arven frowned with a grumble, then set off to cryo.
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Episode 02: Cosmic Imperative / Re: Epi 2 [ D02 | 2300 hrs.] All Squared up at the Triangle
Last post by Eirual -
[Kelistina Kavat Droga | Deck 06 | Vector 01 | “Helmet”]
ATTN: All Active writers

To say she was tired was an extreme understatement. Kelistina had been working with the crew making repairs as the battle raged. Frustrated in the knowledge that she was not nearly trained enough on this ship and it’s systems to do more that patch holes. More than a few times it had been her height that held her from getting to where the damage was. As it was, her unfamiliarity with the Theurgy’s equipment made her question if her skills were good enough to keep this ship and her new friends alive even as she was knocked off her feet in the middle of sealing a bulkhead.

Death was evident in many places. She’d had to pass bodies that no longer resembled a living being as she made her way through damaged corridors and rubble to get to a more critically damaged area. Lugging the assigned tool kit over the debris. She couldn’t remember how many hours she’d been on her feet, but it felt like forever. At last she was returning to the Maintenance area to return the borrowed tool kit. Someone else would probably be needing it soon.
Looking around at the chaos even in this area saddened her further. She set the tool kit near the storage area then leaned against the wall. She didn’t really know who to tell that she was back. All she remembered was someone handing her the kit and a remark about hoping she could get the work done fast. In the heat of the battle and the chaotic aftermath of the intrusion that had already taken lives, she was still wearing that outfit she’d made. But it looked more like she had covered herself in rags. Burn holes and rips covered a good portion of it, since it was definitely not created as something to work in. She let out a long tired breath as she let her body slide down the wall, tiredly pulling her legs close and wrapping her arms around them.  She’d rest here, just for a little bit. Then she would try to find her friend Ny-Sa-Ri. She hoped she would find her alive and well. Her head slowly fell to rest on her knees as her exhaustion overcame her and the world around her faded to black.



[ENS Mia Dunne  |Main Sickbay |Vector 2 |USS Theurgy ]

Somehow she was still walking. After her injuries during the Hobus mission she didn’t think she could feel more pain. She’d been so wrong. As soon as they had returned to the triangle she had been doing what she could to assist. Her task was looking for injured to be sent for care. Unfortunately, she’d also found many that hadn’t survived, Romulans, Klingons and Theurgy crew. The pain was deep in her soul. Not a physical ache that could be treated quickly, but an emotional turmoil at the loss of so many. How many of her friends would be listed on the memorial wall? She didn’t even want to think about that.
Now she was in sickbay, assisting in the care of the wounded as much as her limited skills would allow. She longed to go back to the solitude and quiet of the science labs. She walked amid the groans and cries of the wounded on the beds, the chairs and some even on the floor. Too many, way too many for the surviving medical staff to deal with. So here she was, walking through the battle worn wounded, offering what aid she could, while knowing she wasn’t much help at all.
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Episode 02: Cosmic Imperative / Re: Epi S: [Day 03 | 0255] The Cost of Continuity
Last post by Ellen Fitz -
[ Lt. Cmdr. Cross | Deck 01 | Executive Officer’s Office | USS Theurgy ] @joshs1000

Cross watched Frost go without calling after him, dark eyes following the man’s retreating back until the doors slid shut with a muted hiss. For a moment, the office felt quieter—emptier—despite the low thrum of systems and the ever-present scent of disinfectant and scorched circuitry. He exhaled slowly through his nose.

Confident. Sharp. Arrogant, he assessed clinically. Which means he’ll either last… or burn out spectacularly.

His gaze drifted back to the PADD nearest his prosthetic hand, fingers resting against its edge without activating it. Science chiefs aboard Theurgy had developed a disturbingly short half-life of late—transfers, casualties, reassignment, or worse. Brilliant minds chewed up by circumstance and war before they ever had time to leave a mark.

Here’s hoping you stick around longer than the others, he thought, not unkindly. The ship needed continuity almost as much as it needed hull plating and power.

Cross was just turning back toward the desk, intent on burying himself once more in reports, when the doorway dimmed. Not metaphorically. The light from the corridor was partially eclipsed by a massive presence, and Cross instinctively looked up. Lok filled the threshold.

At 2.08 meters tall, the Ferasan engineer was impossible to miss—broad shoulders brushing the doorframe, powerful digitigrade legs planted with relaxed solidity, striped tail swaying lazily behind him. Blue eyes, warm but alert, met Cross’s gaze beneath the short-trimmed mane that framed his face. His mechanic’s coveralls bore the marks of recent, relentless work, and the faint scent of machine oil clung to him like a second skin.

Cross straightened slightly. Whatever fatigue pressed at his bones, it didn’t dull his appreciation for competence—and Lok radiated it.

“Commander Lok,” Cross said evenly. “Come in.”

He gestured inside, waiting for the Ferasan to duck through before the doors sealed again. As Lok entered, Cross turned back to his desk, shuffling through the stacks of PADDs with brisk efficiency until he found the one he wanted. He activated it, scanned the contents once more to confirm, then looked back up.

“As of fifteen minutes ago,” Cross began without preamble, “you’ve been reassigned.” He held the PADD up just long enough for the transfer order to be visible. “You’re now Chief of the Deck. For the time being, you’ll be pulling double duty—Head of Propulsion and Chief of the Deck—until the ship stabilizes and we can reshuffle personnel to better match operational needs. That includes replacements, assuming Starfleet can spare any.” His mouth tightened. “Which I am not counting on in the near term.”

Cross set the PADD down and leaned back against the desk, folding his arms—organic hand resting lightly against the prosthetic.

“I’ve just finished reviewing the latest readiness report,” he continued bluntly. “We currently have eight launch-worthy craft.” A beat. “That number is unacceptable.”

His eyes locked onto Lok’s, intensity sharpening. “We are on the brink of things going completely to hell. If they do, eight fighters won’t keep this ship alive. I need propulsion, flight support, and deck operations running at peak efficiency—and I need them running now.” There was no attempt to soften what came next. “I need you operating without sleep if necessary. Without regular meals, if it comes to that. Same as the rest of us. We’ll fix offensive capability later. Right now, survival and defensibility come first.”

Cross studied Lok for a moment, measuring not muscle but resolve. “Questions?”

As he spoke, his gaze briefly shifted past Lok’s shoulder, drawn to another figure standing rigidly at attention in the corridor beyond—another large man, waiting patiently. Cross hadn’t met him face to face, but recognition sparked nonetheless. He remembered that voice on comms during the battle. Calm. Decisive. Effective under fire. The bearing matched the reports. Matched the actions. That, at least, brought a flicker of grim satisfaction.

Cross’s attention returned to Lok, expression steady.
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Episode 02: Cosmic Imperative / Re: Epi S: [Day 03 | 0255] The Cost of Continuity
Last post by Nesota Kynnovan -
[Lieutenant Dr. Nathan Frost, Ph.D. | Deck 01 | Executive Officer’s Office | USS Theurgy]
[Attn: @Ellen Fitz]

As the Commander rose from his chair, Frost happened to notice the man’s prosthetic hand and briefly wondered whether that was a result of the recent battle as well, but chose not to comment on it. Instead, as the Vulcan welcomed him aboard, Frost simply replied with a curt nod and a smile.

When Commander Frost pulled up the summary schematic, Frost turned his blue eyes to look at the amber- and red coloured sections while the Commander began to present him with a preliminary damage report. The Canadian Immunologist made sure to take notes on the PADD in his hand, first typing blind but soon turning his attention to the small tablet. The touchscreen display of the device made soft tapping sounds with every touch, which gave away the fast pace of Frost’s typing as he summarized the damage report. He occasionally shifted his gaze back to the summary schematic as it shifted to different areas of the ship, but Frost’s facial expression became increasingly concerned each time he did so; the reddish hue that emanated from the display did little to hide the fact and instead even accentuated it.

And then, just like that, the summary schematic faded and Frost’s blue eyes met the paler blues of Commander Cross. While the preliminary damage report was done, the Canadian’s mind was already processing the information; prioritizing what needed to be done immediately and what could -potentially- wait. The one thing that worried him above all else was the improbable fact that Chemistry, Xenobiology and Cybernetics were completely intact; there was nothing in the Commander’s preliminary report that indicated whether this was because the laboratory was actually intact or because no one had reported back with an accurate, in-depth assessment yet. And how could they? Regardless, that made it an unknown factor to Frost and, given the amount of hazardous materials in that particular laboratory, definitely a priority.

Frost listened to Commander Frost as the Vulcan spoke up once more, explaining that anything dangerous had to be reported, and Frost presented the man with a curt nod in reply. When the Commander added that he expected his science staff to move quickly and adapt, Frost finally smiled again and spoke. ”It’s what I do best.” The Canadian accent of his voice and the smile on his face almost managed to hide the arrogant tone. ”I’ll first check the laboratories myself to make an accurate assessment and then assemble the Science Staff to address the issues at hand.” While Frost hadn’t been able to read up on every single member of the Science Department, he had managed to quickly scan through the dossiers of the staff earlier; he had no idea how capable any of them actually were, but he figured that he would find out soon enough.

Just like that, with those few arrogant words, Frost turned around on his right heel and quickly made his way out of the office, headed straight for the Chemistry, Xenobiology and Cybernetics Laboratory.
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