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Episode 02: Cosmic Imperative / Re: Epilogue: They That Shed Their Blood [Day 03 | 1800 ]
Last post by Hans Applegate -
[ PO2 Knox | Arboretum Terrace - Memorial Wall | Deck 21 | Vector 3| USS Theurgy ]

Knox, having already checked in with Cross earlier, decided to continue the day in his official female form. PO2 Knox was the first human that he impersonated. And he was still impersonating her. So did that make him a she today? Knox pushed the ridiculous question aside as he rounded the corner of the hallway and entered the area where the memorial service was about to start. There was already a crowd there to celebrate how few crew members there are left now. Noting everyone’s somber expression, Knox mimicked their melancholy looks, feeling a bit emo while doing it, and made his way to a place to participate in the ceremony. Or maybe not participate. Observe. That is the word. Observe—actively in a group together.

The person doing the talking said really nice things about the dead crew members. That made Knox feel like he should respond, or someone should. Cheer or clap or something since they sounded so awesome. But there was just silence from the crowd. No ‘So say we all’ or anything, so Knox stayed quiet too.

Then came the name reading. It was and wasn’t that long. Knox had never been to a funeral like this before. The spawning season as a Nebullian Crab saw hundreds of thousands of their kind die each year shortly after mating. Tridopulons lived for nearly a thousand years and had very few numbers to start with so death for one of them was rare, but apparently their funeral could go on for a week or more. Warriors of Kevnath, a tentacled wasp-like people, held a massive gathering where they read the names of their fallen after a battle with a rival clan before having a massive orgy to breed new warriors to replace the ones who had fallen in battle. Knox looked around and deduced that there was no mass orgy likely in the near future, seeing as how everyone was acting. Although there were tears. Many members of the crew were crying because of the deaths of their crewmates. Crew…mates…

Then, as Knox was deeply thinking about the word Crewmate, the ceremony concluded. People began to mill around and talk. Some hugged. Others cried. Some seemed to head away quickly wanting privacy. Knox was interested in making a friend or two if he could. This was his first social outing after all.

He walked up to a cute young ensign and decided to open with a question that seemed on topic and relevant to the situation. “Hi, did you lose anyone close to you?” Knox asked.

The ensign started to cry loudly with big, tearful sobs, as Knox stood there wondering what to do next. But before Knox could make up his mind for his next course of action, the cute ensign ran away down the hall, still crying loudly.

“I didn’t get your name!” Knox called out.
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Episode 02: Cosmic Imperative / Re: EPI S: Two sides, same coin [Day 03 | 0930]
Last post by Ellen Fitz -
[ Lt. Enyd Isolde Madsen | Chief Diplomatic Officer's Office | Deck 08 | Vector 01 | USS Theurgy ] @Dumedion

The laugh surprised even her.

It came out short and genuine — not the diplomatic variety she kept on hand for situations requiring the appearance of warmth — and she shook her head at the flask he'd produced with the particular fondness one reserves for people who are absolutely wrong about what you need and completely right about everything else.

"Hauq." She held up the glass of water like evidence at a tribunal. "I have consumed enough caffeine from three separate species' culinary databases to put down a giant targ. The water is not a preference. The water is triage." She set it back down. "My blood is approximately sixty percent stimulant compound at this moment and I am one poorly-timed thought away from ripping my hair out, shredding my uniform, and running foaming at the mouth down the corridors until my nervous system remembers it's attached to a human being."

Her gaze drifted to the ceiling with a look of genuine longing.

"I had plans for that, actually. The holodecks." She let the thought sit there a moment. "When they're back online."

She looked at the flask. Then, with the air of a woman making a calculated tactical decision, she reached for it.

"Although." She turned it over in her hand, considering. "A depressant to counter the stimulant. That's not irrational. That's chemistry."

She drank. Didn't grimace. Stared at the flask for a long moment as though it had personally misled her about its intentions, then set it on the desk between them.

"Right." She slid it back toward him. "You want to know why I'm playing the long game instead of swinging the sword."

Her feet found the edge of the desk. She put them there without ceremony, let her head tip back against the chair, and felt two pins give in her bun — the whole thing beginning its slow architectural collapse. She didn't fix it.

"I'm going to tell you something that has no bearing on anything tactical," she said to the ceiling, "and I'm telling you because I want you to understand that I know the difference between losing the thread and choosing a longer one." She brought her eyes level with his. "I was engaged once." Her lips turned upward in a wry smile. "Well, actually twice, but this one was more...traditional?" Her half-shrug caused more of her hair to shake loose and again she didn't try to fix it. "On Cardassia." She watched his face. "Javec Praar. Aide to Castellan Ghemor. Former military. Son of a deposed elite." The corner of her mouth lifted, dry. "You might be offended to hear this, but I think you two would've enjoyed hunting together or some other manly pursuit where you can beat you chests and gloat over one another over a strong drink."

She let that land and kept watching as she continued, her voice matter-of-fact.

"He died in my arms. A wound that should've been mine. I felt the last push of his heart — felt his blood go from warm to not." She didn't look away. "And then I went somewhere very dark for a while." She retrieved the flask without asking and took another pull, set it back. "Specifically, I drank myself to the bottom of a bottle and then climbed back up, found a colleague I found deeply irritating, and performed an Orion dance on his desk." Her thumb traced the edge of the chair absently. "I was informed, with some precision, that if I didn't recover my composure, I would be removed from the fleet." She tilted her head. "At the time I thought that sounded like an adequate plan. Find a hole. Wallow in it. Die of misery in some unremarkable corner of the quadrant." Her thumb stilled. "I had held the man I loved while his body stopped. I had brought him there. It seemed like a fair trade."

The ship hummed around them. The stars outside held their positions with the specific indifference of things that have watched empires rise and collapse and remained entirely unmoved.

"Something intervened. I'd call it luck but luck doesn't feel like nearly dying several times on hot rock." She exhaled. "The Vulcan Forge. A pilgrimage. I have no business surviving that kind of terrain — I have gusto in abundance, but I am still human, and humans are relatively fragile when stripped of technology and pointed at ancient lava fields." Her voice had gone quieter. Not softer. "But I burned through the self-pity in there. The grief. The part that wanted to give up because giving up felt like the appropriate scale of response to what I'd lost." She looked back at him. "I came out the other side still angry. Still tired. But pointed in a direction."

She let her eyes close. In the silence, her hair finished its collapse — the bun giving up entirely, dark strands shifting loose across her shoulder. She didn't open her eyes immediately.

"I tell you that," she said, "so you understand what I mean when I say I don't lose the thread. Even now. Especially now." She opened her eyes. "When people call me names — and they do, and not all of them as generous as yours—" she gave him the wink, brief and direct, "—it's usually because the line I'm walking looks, from certain angles, like I'm walking the wrong direction."

She brought her feet down and sat forward, elbows on the desk, and when she raised her hand to count, she did it the way she did everything — without preamble.

"First." One finger. "The Infested within Klingon borders, and Martok's consolidation of power — that is not a Starfleet problem to solve. I want to be plain about that. If Theurgy remains in Klingon space running Martok's errands, the other Houses won't see an ally. They'll see a pet targ on a Federation leash, and Martok's authority becomes a question mark that his enemies will answer for him." She met his eyes and held them. "Information on fighting the Infested — freely shared. Technology, personnel when the need is specific and the ask is direct — of course. But the Theurgy cannot be seen doing Martok's interior work for him. That is a battle he must be seen winning himself."

Second finger.

"The D'ravsai Coalition." She registered whatever moved across his face and continued before he could respond to it. "I know. I know what a Romulan is to a Klingon. I am not asking you to change that. I am pointing out that there is now a new governmental power taking shape on Romulus that is not the Senate as it was, not Tal'Aura's remnant, not Shinzon's excess — it is something that has not existed before, and it has not claimed one contested planet, not rattled one disputed border, and has specifically requested to be left alone to put itself together." Her finger stayed up. "More to the point — the Tal'Shiar, which was at the root of most of the Romulan-Klingon friction that wasn't pure cultural theater — has been gutted. The new government has made clear they have no interest in sustaining it. The cells still out there are severed limbs. They'll move, they'll cause damage, but they have no heart now." She dropped the finger. "I would think Martok might find some satisfaction in that."

Third finger. Her voice shifted slightly — not softer, but careful in a way the previous two hadn't required.

"The President." She exhaled through her nose, jaw tightening once. "I cannot control her. I would not have chosen that speech. I want to be honest with you about that — not because it changes anything, but because I think you deserve the honest version." Her hand stayed up, but her eyes moved to the viewport, then back. "What she did has put a target on her back from two directions simultaneously. From the Infested, who will read this civil unrest as the exact piece of chaos they've been cultivating — and they will use it, Hauq, because that is what they do. Reality becomes their raw material. Mother doubts child. Brother turns on brother." Her hand lowered. "And from the uninfested who genuinely believe she overstepped her authority, which is not an unreasonable reading of what happened, and who will use that belief with complete sincerity to undermine everything she tried to build with that pardon."

She sat back, the chair taking her weight fully.

"We may have just handed them the keystone." She said it flatly, without drama. "The Theurgy has been visible since the pardon. Anyone who aided us, anyone who stands near the President — they're now in the crosshairs of something we cannot fully map. And when people start denouncing each other, when the accusations begin to compound, the Infested don't have to lift a finger. The uninfested do it for them."

She looked at her hands, where they'd come to rest in her lap. Then back at him.

"And the screening." Her voice went very quiet. "The entire quadrant, Hauq. We still don't know where they come from. We don't know if more are coming. We can fight the ones we find. We can burn out the nests we locate. But the mathematics of screening a galactic population with our current tools—" She stopped. Pressed her lips together. Didn't finish it. Didn't need to.

"Now is not the time," she said instead, "for impulsive emotion. Not the time to doubt the people who have proven themselves, not the time to move fast because moving fast feels better than moving carefully." She held his gaze, and her voice came out level — not commanding, not soft — the tone of someone speaking a thing they have believed for long enough that it has become structural. "At the core of everything — everything, all of it, every line being held on every front — is eradicating the Infested. That's what we're protecting. That's what comes first."

Her chin lifted a fraction.

"After that, we can go back to arguing about territory and culture and whether Romulans are trustworthy and whether Federation diplomats ask too many questions." The ghost of something moved at her mouth. "I look forward to it, frankly. It'll mean we survived long enough to care about the smaller things again."
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Episode 02: Cosmic Imperative / Re: EPI S: Two sides, same coin [Day 03 | 0930]
Last post by Dumedion -
[Colonel Hauq | Diplomatic Suite | Deck 2 | Vector 01 | USS Theurgy] Attn: @Ellen Fitz

The flash of fire in her eyes spoke to Hauq's soul in a way he had not prepared for; anger, fury, indignation – these were the emotive responses he had expected – yet the Diplomat's eyes had flared to life after a moment of…something else. At first, the windows of her soul widened with what seemed like relief mixed with longing, then clouded into something like regret or shame as color flooded her cheeks. Then her body language shifted entirely; shoulders set, jaw firm, brows knitted.

The blue steel of her eyes; adamant, glinting.

For a heartbeat, Hauq was entranced, given just a glimpse of the purest manifestation of Enyd: a storm of change, a catalyst – a force of nature, wild and untamed, uncontrollable, undeniable.

Joined with such a power, a man could conquer all creation – or be left to languish in its utter ruin.

He read the blow, of course; the impact registered as a mild jolt to the side of his jaw – which Hauq lifted a fraction, to spare her fist from injury. The physical sensation meant nothing – less than nothing – but the intent? The force that drove her, the motive essence that set her warrior's heart to unimaginable acts of courage and desire – he felt that; felt it reverberate through the marrow of his bones, through the furnace of his heart, down into the depths of his own soul.

Invigorating, intoxicating.

It was there and gone in the time it took her to strike, and Hauq felt himself mourn its loss more keenly than the death of his own warriors. A growl, deep in his chest, resonated as Enyd turned away from him; it was all he could do to keep from roaring his loss at the ceiling – from stripping the cloth from his chest – from tearing the stars down from heaven itself just to lay at her feet, in the hopes of feeling her power again.

She spoke, proving his point without realizing it; she had known, or deduced correctly, why he had come. Even exhausted beyond reasonable endurance her mind still remained sharp, and if Hauq had been a man of lesser constitution – Cardassian, Romulan, or mere human – he'd likely be unconscious. The strike was perfectly thrown; she’d held nothing back. The distress in her tone, the hoarseness, spoke volumes. For a moment, Hauq found himself drawn to offer aid – a word, a gesture, anything…but what could he possibly offer? He was made of far rougher material than her; like stone to silk.

His hands were made for many purposes; comfort was not one of them.

Hauq pivoted away, slightly, to the viewport – blinking – forcing his heart to slow. Silently, he repeatedly pleaded with himself; a mantra of self-control against the intoxicating flood of conflicting desire she had unleashed upon him: Remember yourself. Remember your oaths – your duty.His body tensed with the struggle; hands clenched into fists – lips and nose trembled with barely suppressed emotions.

By the time her eyes met his, he had it contained – buried deep down in his heart – chained there by thick ropes of unyielding will. His…infatuation…with her had nearly broken him. All in the span of a few heartbeats, he blinked, bewildered to the point of doubt in his own mind.

Enough, he nearly snarled. Focus.

Hauq wiped the trickle of blood that leaked through the corner of his lips with the back of his hand; the result of an annoying gash on his tongue – an injury due more to his own teeth rather than Enyd’s fist.

Still...

“Very well,” he replied in a growled murmur with the faintest of nods, then forced himself to straiten under the weight of the burden in his chest. “You…know us, Enyd Isolde Madsen; you know us well,” Hauq spoke in a rumbled baritone that spilled from his lips like a dam on the verge of collapsing beneath the weight and momentum of a flooded river. He moved – slowly, deliberately – to seat himself opposite her, his attention fixated on her face with absolute focus. “We have given much of ourselves to this venture, you and I; more than either of us had known we were capable of – I see the mark of it writ upon your soul. That…grieves me,” he admitted through clenched teeth, as close as a confession to her that Hauq could ever allow.

He let that sit in the air between them for a few heartbeats – no more.

“We aided you when we had no cause to. You aided us in return. We have faced everything – treachery, revelation, honor and glory. Now tell me why you have forsaken those oaths of shared blood spilled,” he paused to ensure Madsen felt the words, the grievance behind them, and the unspoken implications behind that. “Tell me why you allow these…politics… to distract you from a cause justly pursued against an evil that cannot be allowed to exist. Tell me why you embrace a nest of vipers at your breast, while you shun… those that would walk with you through chaos incarnate without hesitation.” His tone softened gradually, turned into something closer to confused disappointment.

Stone-faced, his gaze shifted to the glass of clear liquid then snapped back up to her eyes with a glint of amusement; an attempt to let her see that he understood more than he let on – that he was no witless barbarian – that she was not the only one with vision to see both sides of the coin.

“…and what in all the hells of creation makes you believe water to be a worthy toast to such a victory,” he smirked then, procuring a flask of bloodwine from an inner pouch. The scent of it spread as soon as he unscrewed the top, drinking deeply before setting the flask next to the untouched glass of water with another nod of encouragement, easily within Enyd’s reach.

“Drink. Speak. Then, you will sleep,” his eyes narrowed, “one way or another. The time for respite is now – you would be wise to take it while you can.”
4
Episode 02: Cosmic Imperative / Re: Epilogue: Sit Rep After Hell [ Day 03 | 2130 ]
Last post by RyeTanker -
[ Lieutenant Frank Arnold | en route to Conference Lounge | Deck 01 | Vector 01 | USS Theurgy] @Pierce @Brutus @Ellen Fitz @P.C. Haring @Nesota Kynnovan @Dumedion @joshs1000 @chXinya @TWilkins @Griff @Stegro88

Frank was bone tired and weary as he carried his PADD.  Coffee had given up the struggle and he really should be getting some sleep, but either the Captain or the XO needed to know what the state of the ship was now.  He'd barely had time to head back to his quarters to get a new fresh uniform and clean off the grime and sweat from his most recent bout of repair work he'd been doing near the breach on Vector 3.  The problem was re-reouting all the EPS and ODN conduits around the gap the Romulans had inconveniently blown in the hull, then dealing with the shock damage when Lieutenant zh'Wann had gotten the parasite off the hull. He wasn't normally one for grumbling, but now was as good a time as any as he rode the turbolift to the Conference Lounge.

His hand reached into his pants pocket and he pulled out a small single use hypo.  He hadn't seen one of these things since the Dominion War and he'd hoped he'd never have to again, but with the way timelines were vaulting forward and being compressed, sleep was starting to feel like a luxury he couldn't afford.  He sighed as he stared at the amber liquid.  It was a slippery slope he knew too much about.  It was the addiction to the illusion that everything was fine and one could keep going.  The body had its own price to pay though.  It was an act of credit that biology demanded would be paid later.  One could feel awake and alert on a stim, but nothing could replace the known precision control of one's body when they'd had sleep versus when they didn't.  His hand twirled the tube in his hand once more, and he could feel sleep calling him like a siren from the deep.  It had been very tempting, especially when he'd seen Kamilla lying covered up in their bed.  A very inviting sight.

This rumination sealed the deal.  Contemplative he was, indecisive, he usually was not and he stretched his hand out holding the PADD exposing his wrist.  The slim hypo's cold applicator pressed against his exposed skin and a quick press of the button released the liquid into his blood stream with the system's trademark hiss.  At first there was nothing, then there was a rush, not heard but felt in his head and his ears as everything became sharper, more intense as if power was being redirected to his senses.  The fog of the last few hours was fading to be replaced by a far sharper accuity.  He closed his eyes and took a deep breath as his mind mentally clicked down the time till he should be arriving on the deck.  The subtle slowing of the hum told the Chief they'd almost arrived and he straightened himself as he stood a bit straighter.  He finished exhaling as the system beeped his arrival and he exited.

The Chief exited the turbolift and moved briskly along the corridor.  He took a moment to look over the work that some of the other staff were doing on the way, noting to see if the repairs being made were matching what was being reported.  He nodded at the crew members that looked up and mentally noted that everything seemed to be lining up with the summary of the situation he had. It could have been much worse he concluded to himself as he continued his impromptu inspection before reaching the door to the conference room.  Several other people were ahead of him and his brow furrowed in confusion.  Lots of new faces. Again.  The Chief let out an audible sigh as he crossed into the conference room.  His eyes locked with Commander Cross and he nodded his acknowledgement of the de facto first officer of the ship now that Captain Stark was in command.  The blue eyes swept the room and he spotted the Chief diplomat and gave re-assuring grin with a friendly nod.  Then he spotted what he was looking for as he bee lined for the equipment.  "Coffee. Frank Arnold blend number 3. Black. Large." The replicator glowed and hummed as the largest possible coffee mug materialized inside the replicator chamber.  The aromas of fresh coffee wafted into his nose as he slid the mug out of the chamber.  Lifting it out was impossible since he'd programmed the replicator to use practically every last millimetre for cup height when he said Large.  Taking a quick chug, the burly engineer found a spot and promptly planted himself in it as he put his coffee mug and PADD down, and took a few more notes on the repairs as he waited for the meeting to start.
5
Episode 02: Cosmic Imperative / Re: Epilogue: Sit Rep After Hell [ Day 03 | 2130 ]
Last post by TWilkins -
[Ensign Sylvain Llewellyn-Kth | Ensign Llewellyn-Kth’s Quarters | Deck 08 | USS Theurgy] @RyeTanker @Pierce @rae @P.C. Haring @joshs1000 @Dumedion @Nesota Kynnovan @Eden @Brutus

The cacophony that hit his ears was shrill enough to shatter his skull, noise piercing through his head, high-pitched and unrelenting, as it blared into his unconscious and roused him from his blissful slumber. The sheets beneath his body were soft, save for the few crumbs of debris that he’d failed to brush away, back before he’d collapsed into the mattress not two hours prior. Above him was the delicate pressure of his duvet, hugging down against him as his body flexed outwards, releasing his muscles from the prawn-like curl he had adopted as he’d slept. A pained grumble fled Sylvain’s lips as he stirred, sleep filled eyes wincing against the sound as he tried to burrow his head deeper into his pillow, duvet twisting around his shoulders as he struggled against his overwhelming desire to tell the alarm exactly where to go…

The Ensign knew that he only had himself to blame, but that didn’t offer his aching body much comfort as it wrestled with the desperate grasp of unconsciousness, his eyelids betraying him by accepting defeat in their battle against exhaustion. He’d known that the window of time between the conclusion of the memorial, and the Senior Staff meeting that he’d been asked to attend, was short; less than an hour and a half after he factored in all of the travel and preparation that he’d need to do before he could present himself again… He’d gone almost three days without any meaningful amount of sleep; he could have pushed himself through and saved his slumber until after the Senior Staff meeting…

But the allure of a bed, as it turns out, was a dangerously slippery slope.

It had started with the return to his quarters, where he was greeted by the consequences of his bad decisions; the genetically modified moopsy he’d smuggled off of the Euritite. He couldn’t wait to have the opportunity to inform someone more senior about his new pet; that was certainly going to be a fun conversation… Thankfully, it quickly had gotten bored of trying to chew through his boot with its toothless maw, and had instead settled on rolling back-and forth between his sofa and his dining nook, whilst Sylvain had listlessly tried to get the replicator to produce some bone-broth for the thing to drink… He’d probably need to ask sickbay to take a look at it at some point; make sure that the Savi’s genetic engineering wasn’t going to have it growing new teeth, or a second head, or start exploding, or whatever other nonsense the Savi had engineered it to do…

By the time the ordeal was over, and Potato was happily trying to drown itself in a shallow bowl of tepid bone broth, Sylvain retreated to the adjoining bedroom, fully prepared to dedicate another solid hour into compiling a report for the Senior Staff. Unfortunately, he’d not so much as glanced down at his desk, before he’d caught his reflection in the console above him…

It was a truly remarkable sight.

His typically pristine uniform was ragged, dirty, and even singed in places; somehow it was even resting lopsided across his shoulders… His copper hair was thick with grime and sweat, his face smeared with, what he hoped was just soot from the bridge explosion that had grazed him… Hells bells, he’d even managed to adorn himself with some miscellaneous stains down the front of his jacket…

No, that wouldn’t do.

The Ensign was anxious enough about presenting his department breakdown to an unfamiliar Senior Staff; he certainly couldn’t do it looking like he’d just been dragged through a Klingon refuse pit and then gotten beaten with a pain stick… So he’d stripped his uniform off carefully, ignoring the various bruises and red blotches that decorated his otherwise pale skin, and passed into the next section of his dangerously luxurious quarters, the bathroom. Unfortunately, being unaccustomed to such fancy things, Sylvain had taken quite some time figuring out how to master the shower; it had both a sonic, and an H2O setting, the latter something he discovered when he’d accidentally unleashed a downpour of warm water straight down upon his head. It was a woefully inefficient way to wash, but he couldn’t deny how blissfully therapeutic it had felt, to stand under the downpour of warmth and let the aches of the last seventy two hours slowly wash away from him.

The opportunity to relax under the water was a rare joy to conclude an otherwise dour few days, but it only led him to yet another obstacle to his endeavours, since he hadn’t thought to replicate himself a towel; the Bowman didn’t have such fancy facilities as H2O showers and bathtubs... As such, he’d been a man on a mission when he’d returned to his bedroom, leaning gently on his desk as he reached down to search through his belongings for a fresh pair of underwear and some sort of material to dry himself with.

By the time his modesty was covered and his skin was dry once again, the Ensign was cold, and the deep creases that had lodged themselves into the fabric of his spare uniforms, having spent the best part of a month neatly folded in his suitcase with the rest of his worldly possessions, were the next stanza in the saga of his undoing. He’d hung them up in the bathroom and asked the computer to run a steaming sequence, which it was thankfully capable of doing, and with that crisis averted, Sylvain could finally return to the task of preparing his situation report for the briefing…

But now, he was cold. Not an unexpected sensation, considering he was flouncing around in his underwear like a common Orion harlot, but certainly not optimal conditions to work in. Seeing it as the most viable solution, he’d peeled back the duvet on his bed, careful to minimise the spread of debris from the covering onto the bottom sheet, and figured that he could afford himself the rare treat of working from bed for an hour or so… He’d settled down onto the alarmingly comfortable mattress, PADD in his hands regurgitating the information he’d already accumulated from the time he’d spent working on a status report for the Captain, back before the President had arrived… It felt so long ago…

And then it was the little voice in the back of his head telling him that he could shut his eyes for a minute…

And alas, that was how he ended up cursing whatever Gods his father’s people had invented, face-down in a pillow as he awoke, feeling decidedly worse than before…

“-umputer, alarm off…” He grumbled hoarsely, his eyes heavy as he weakly attempted to blink himself awake, foggy and unimpressed. The silence that followed his request was rapturous, but he had little chance to enjoy the newfound tranquillity of his quarters, instead mentally bracing himself for the arduous task of getting himself ready for the Senior Staff meeting; as blissful as remaining in bed would be, Sylvain was an exemplar for being prompt and prepared. Still, he permitted himself a further ten seconds, counted softly under his breath, before he forced himself out of the warm embrace of his duvet. He wasn’t a masochist, after all…

He’d allocated himself a brisk forty minutes to get himself ready and venture over to the meeting, which gave him roughly twenty five minutes to get himself ready, ten minutes to get across the ship, and a further five minutes to politely nod at all of the unfamiliar senior officers he was about to have to interact with; the manifest had already changed since he’d arrived aboard not three days prior… He recognised one name, a Lieutenant Frost, from his time aboard the IKS Vask’at, but he couldn’t keenly recall if they’d had much interaction; Sylvain had prioritised trying to avoid Klingons, which had left little room for socialising. Of course, he also knew Commander Cross, but their interaction hadn’t been a shining example of Sylvain’s character either…

His mind wandered somewhat absentmindedly as he clawed himself out of his bed, proceeding into his bathroom to collect his freshly steamed uniform, and began preparing himself to look presentable for his first meeting as Chief CONN Officer aboard the Theurgy. It was perhaps even more important for him to be making a good first impression, now that they were on reasonably good terms with Starfleet once again…

Though, truth be told, not that he’d ever say it out loud, but Sylvain didn’t entirely relish the prospect…

Now that the Theurgy had been ‘forgiven’ by the Federation at large, there was no guarantee that he’d be kept aboard… After all, he had been a desperation pick by Admiral Anderson, a knee-jerk reaction to take the only person in Starfleet who could see the future, and throw him into the one place in the galaxy that would grant him safe harbour from the parasite threat. The only reason he’d even found himself heading a department, was because the last poor soul had died, and they’d needed a prompt replacement…

It wasn’t that Sylvain felt some sudden and great kinship with the Theurgy or anything… How could he? He’d only been there a rough seventy two hours, and most of those had been spent aboard the Euridite… Yet, the thought of being asked to find a new assignment, travel across to a new vessel, meet new people… The prospect of embarking upon yet another saga of socialisation was exhausting to even think about. He didn’t want to join a new ship and find himself branded as ‘someone from the Theurgy’, no doubt end up on the receiving end of countless questions about Starbase 84, or the battle with the Klingons above Aldea, events that he hadn’t even been witness too… Hell, even if the Bowman would take him back, the thought of having to face Captain Yume and admit that he’d lied to her face, even under orders from an Admiral, stung…

Not to mention that, given the feats he had accomplished even in such a short time aboard the Theurgy, he was worried that perhaps he’d outgrown his former vessel… Not that he’d ever voice such things out loud, and it certainly wasn’t any admission that he was enjoying the newfound mortal peril that the Theurgy had gifted him with… But he’d ended up on the Bowman because of his own self-imposed exile; his punishment to himself for ‘cheating’ during his examinations. But, if he was being ruthlessly logical, he didn’t think a cheat could have accomplished what he had done that day…

It wasn’t pride; Sylvain didn’t do pride…

But it was something close.

So, alas, a good first impression would be necessary, and Sylvain had spent his twenty five allocated minutes varnishing himself to perfection. His uniform was pristine, unscuffed, and certainly no longer lopsided, his hair was styled up into a tidy quiff, and he even took a moment to shave the whisper of stubble that had attempted to creep up onto his jawline. When he gave himself a final once-over in front of the mirror, his vision slightly distracted by the sight of Potato jumping up and down in some sort of elaborate dance, whilst staring fixated at a potted plant, he concluded that his efforts were satisfactory; his uniform was perhaps a touch ill fitting around his waist, but he attributed that to his general lack of appetite over the past few months… Why did every Klingon delicacy always involve some sort of entrail or worm…? He also considered briefly that he might have over-shined his boots, since they were reflecting the light a little too ambitiously, but his time allocation hadn’t left much room for pondering, and as such, he departed his quarters with a confident pace, though not without first making sure that the door was locked…

The last thing he needed was to be responsible for a moopsy getting loose.

The corridors of the ship were sparser in traffic than they had been all day, which gave Sylvain the freedom to dabble with his PADD as he moved. Truthfully, whilst it had been irresponsible of him to leave his report unfinished, he’d done so much cataloguing of the CONN’s relevant department issues earlier, that he was confident that he could deliver a summary without too many issues. CONN was thankfully not the most expansive department, and engines overlapped with Engineering, whilst navigation overlapped with Science; his evaluation would be thorough, but it wasn't impossible that it would be touched upon, in part, by his new colleagues.

No, the presentation wasn’t concerning him, beyond the usual baseline anxiety that the Ensign had when he was required to interact with another sentient being… No… It was the second PADD that he had perched behind the first, that was making his palms feel a little clammy.

The Savi data that Crewman Davison had stolen from the Eruidite…

“Deck One.” He requested softly, reveling in the moment of solitude he was graced with, as he stepped into an empty turbolift. The data had been burning a hole in his uniform for a day now, metaphorically speaking, and he was quite conscious that he needed to hand it off to Cross at some point soon… Preferably in the upcoming meeting. Unfortunately, Sylvain didn't relish the idea of having that conversation with a man whose thus-far impression of Sylvain, had been throwing his PADD across the room and hitting himself in the face with it… If that hadn’t already tarnished his reputation, being blamed as the cause of their alliance breakdown with the Savi, would certainly finish the job…

“Good evening Commander, I hope you’re well?” Sylvain mused under his breath. “I just wanted to take a moment of your time to pass on some data that I was given by a Crewman Davison, who was tasked by a man going by the alias of ‘King’, with stealing information from the Savi. She kidnapped me and forced me to infiltrate the bowels of the Euridite, where we were almost killed by a genetically engineered moopsy, so that she could extract some information from the Savi’s database. Oh, and she’s dead now, so there’s nobody else in the entire galaxy who can corroborate my story. Also, I rescued the moopsy after its teeth fell out, because it was cute and squishy, and I was somewhat delirious after being drugged, and it’s now living in my quarters and possibly trying to mate with a potted plant. Would you like some tea?”

The sigh that fled Sylvain’s lips was of herculean proportions, glad that he'd had the solitude of the turbolift to experiment with a terrible way of presenting such information to a Senior Officer, before he had to do the real thing; he'd maybe need to take a more chasrismatic approach, perhaps try his hand at emulating a politician, like how they used phrases such as 'we'll circle back to that', as a way of avoiding questions that they didn't want to answer... Who was he kidding... He had the charisma of a tricorder...

And it was with that demoralising thought, that Sylvain stepped out of the turbolift and onto Deck One.

The conference room was occupied already, Commander Cross in gentle conversation with a shorter woman whom Sylvain didn’t fully recognise, whom Sylvain deduced to be either the Chief Diplomat, or the Chief Intelligence Officer; she reminded him a little of his mother, so he decided to mentally vote on her being a diplomat. It was just the way she carried herself… Also occupying the room were two men in Science colours, one who appeared Human, and looked thoroughly exasperated with the replicator, and a second, who appeared to be Trill, who was standing behind a chair with an expression that suggested that he didn’t really want to be there… A final form was a woman, though, Sylvain wasn’t entirely sure what species she was, given how heavily augmented her body appeared to be, silently organising the data on her own PADD.

At least he wasn’t the only one who planned on doing some last minute admin…

“Good evening, everyone…” He politely announced his presence to the room, softly enough as to give his best effort not to actually draw any attention to himself… It wasn't that Sylvain was unfamiliar with being the only Ensign in the room, or the youngest in the room, but formal settings such as this always made him feel a little inexperienced. Not in his duties, but in professional conduct in a staff briefing; it had taken him months to learn the ins and outs of the Senior Staff aboard the bowman, and there had only been five of them; the ship wasn’t big enough to need a dedicated Science or Tactical department, let alone a Diplomatic team or an Intelligence department…

It was a lot of new people to deal with all at once…

The Ensign steeled his courage, really focused on not tripping over, or hitting himself, or inadvertently throwing his PADD across the room, and made a move for his assigned seat, furthest from the door, of course, so he had to awkwardly pass by the people already at the table to get there. Gosh, he hoped nobody would try to make small talk with him...

He was abysmal at small talk...
6
Episode 02: Cosmic Imperative / Re: Epilogue: Sit Rep After Hell [ Day 03 | 2130 ]
Last post by chXinya -
[PLT Selena Ravenholm | Conference Lounge | Deck 01 | Vector 01 | USS Theurgy] attn: @TWilkins @Pierce @RyeTanker @rae @P.C. Haring @joshs1000 @Dumedion @Nesota Kynnovan @Eden @Brutus

Wandering her way into the Conference Lounge with less than a minute left on the Chronometer, Lt. Ravenholm’s cybernetic feet clicked on the deck with each step. While empty handed, one of them was busy rubbing her earlobe. It had been recently restored to its rounded shape, and it still itched. At least I got to keep the dress. she mused to herself after the surgery, the black and grey getup safely tucked away in her minimalist wardrobe for future use.

A quick glance around the room as the woman weaved her way around the chairs and gathered officers showed plenty of blue and some red among those already here, most of them familiar faces, others somewhat new (though she’d correct that soon enough). The lack of yellow wasn’t too much of a surprise, with the state the ship was in everyone with at least some technical knowhow was hard at work trying to get it back together once again. At least they had the promise of actual Starfleet resources this time, no more scrounging on the fringes, or worse, raiding their own supply depots.

The readouts on the table showed Selena where she was intended to sit, her VISOR automatically linking up with the computer display the moment she saw it. Data flowed instantly between her personal databank and the table’s access point to update the current situation with the computer, Thea herself, and all the various systems tied together to keep them all alive and comfortable. Honestly, she could’ve made a pretty good argument that she didn’t need to be here, most everything she had could’ve just been read off of the report or she could call it in from whatever junction she’d currently be elbow deep in, (Or from the hot tub in my quarters… she dreamed to herself with a smirk), but it wouldn’t be nice to stand up their new XO like that.

Turning the chair to the side, Selena slid into the seat with the grace of a dancer, fingers immediately dancing across the table to organize the data she knew everyone would want to hear in a little bit, all in silence.
7
Episode 02: Cosmic Imperative / Re: EPI S: Two sides, same coin [Day 03 | 0930]
Last post by Ellen Fitz -
[ Lieutenant Enyd Isolde Madsen | Diplomatic Suite | Deck 2 | Vector 01 | USS Theurgy ] @Dumedion

The door opened and her hand was already moving toward the water carafe on the side table — because caffeine was what had gotten her through the last six hours and caffeine was now actively working against her, every nerve ending running just slightly ahead of the rest of her body, the floor seeming to tilt a quarter-degree every time she stood still too long — and then she registered who it was and stopped.

Hauq.

Alive. Standing. Filling the doorframe with the contained displeasure that she had, in their admittedly irregular and frequently undignified history, come to recognize as his default setting when she was involved. The leathers hugging his battle-hardened physique. The blue-green eyes, which she had thought about more than was professionally appropriate and considerably less than was personally honest. The jaw set like something carved from a bad mood.

Alive.

The tightness in her chest that she had been managing since the battle — the specific, carefully maintained tightness of someone who had not yet allowed herself to check the lists — cracked along a line she hadn't known was there. Her eyes went bright, and she felt the heat of it behind her face, and she had approximately two seconds before something embarrassing happened.

So she crossed the room and hit him. Not a tap. Not the kind of restrained contact that diplomats used to communicate displeasure. A genuine, closed-fist punch to cheek, the full weight of accumulated caffeine and sleep deprivation and six hours of walking the razor's edge between history and catastrophe behind it. Her knuckles reported the impact to her brain, and her brain noted that Hauq was built like something a less imaginative species would have used to anchor a building.

She shook her hand out once and said nothing about that.

"We're skipping the part where we're polite to each other." Her voice came out steadier than she'd expected, which was something. She turned before he could respond and went to the replicator. "We're doing the part where we're two people who survived the same battle, and we talk like it. I'm too damn tired for anything else."

She did not apologize for the language. She was not going to apologize for the language.

Two waters. She set his on the desk without looking at him and took hers to the chair in front of the desk — not behind it, not the position of authority, just the chair that happened to be there, adjacent to the one he could take if he decided to take it. She sat down, tucked one foot under herself, and drank half the water in a manner entirely inconsistent with her diplomatic training.

Her stomach was still doing the thing where it felt weightless, the days of caffeine compounds from three different culinary databases doing their collective best to convince her nervous system that she was in freefall. Her feet tingled. The inside of her head felt like someone had left a communications channel open on too high a frequency and forgotten to close it.

She looked at Hauq. He had called her che'wI' 'oH, qa'pu. He had said "as we are, respectful allies" in a tone that suggested he had several pointed opinions about the current state of respectful alliances. He had mentioned Martok, and he had paused after mentioning Martok in a way that was doing a great deal of work.

"Martok sent you to say something he couldn't say in the room." She wasn't asking. She wrapped both hands around the water glass, elbows on her knees, and let the cold of it register against her palms. "Which means he has thoughts about what just happened that he needs transmitted through a channel that doesn't appear on any official record." Outside the viewport, the stars held their positions, indifferent and exact. "And you want to know what the Federation thinks it's doing." She exhaled. Short. Not quite a laugh. "So do I, some days."

She met his eyes directly — the blue-green of them, the challenge in them, the thing underneath the challenge that she had learned, over the course of their haphazard and reliably inconvenient encounters, to read as something closer to investment than anger. He was not a man who got angry at things he didn't care about. She had found that oddly reassuring. Still did.

"Ask me what you came to ask, Hauq. I'll answer what I'm able to answer and tell you plainly what I'm not."
8
Episode 02: Cosmic Imperative / Re: Epi: S [Day 03 | 0145] By these wounds...
Last post by Ellen Fitz -
[ Ehfva Feynri | Corridor | Deck 11 | Vector 02 | USS Theurgy ] @Eden  @Dumedion  @Krajin  @RyeTanker

She heard Leux before she saw him, foil blanket going over the Feresan's shoulders in the same motion as his physical assessment. He took the patient's weight from her side without a word and she let him, shifting her grip to compensate so the transfer was clean.

"He's going into shock. Out into the hall."

She was already pivoting. They got the Feresan down onto the deck — no stretcher cart in reach, so the corridor floor would do — and Leux began working the warming packs into position with the efficiency of someone who had done this in worse places than a ship corridor. Ehfva kept one hand on the patient's shoulder, steadying him as another wave of shivering moved through him, and received the hypo Leux extended without him needing to look at her.

She pressed it to the Feresan's neck and held it until the hiss completed.

"Wounds are still open, dammit." Leux had the blanket back and was working at the melted uniform, his jaw set. "We'll have to seal these as he comes to. Once Vi finishes he can go in for deeper work — stabilize and treat what we can for now."

The dermal regenerator came next, passed across without ceremony, and she took it the same way.

"Handle that burnt tissue on the head and neck."

She set the regenerator to a conservative output — aggressive enough to close what was actively weeping, conservative enough not to compound the shock load — and began working the worst of the burn tissue along the jaw and up toward the temple. Up close, the damage was more extensive than the cryobay's light had shown. Plasma discharge, close range. The cybernetic arm had taken the brunt of it, but the heat had spread, and whatever had hit him had hit him before someone had gotten around to finishing the surgery for it. She did not say this. Leux knew it better than she did.

"Focus on breathing," Leux told the patient, not looking up from the arm. "You're coming out of months of cryostasis. If you need to throw up, tell us first."

The Feresan's teeth were still chattering — less violently now, the warming packs and the hypo beginning to do their work — and his pupils had come down slightly from the blown-wide terror response she'd first seen in the pod. He was tracking. Not well, but tracking.

Ehfva kept her movements slow and her voice quiet, pitched below the register that would require him to work to follow it. "The doctor's right. Just breathe. We have you." She moved the regenerator along the neck with steady passes. "You're on the Theurgy. You came out of stasis. Both of those things are good."

She was aware of how little she actually knew about how he'd gotten here, why he'd been placed in cryo with injuries still open, and what the last thing he remembered was. She did not ask. Not now. There would be time for history later, when he was warm, and the wounds were sealed, and he had enough blood pressure to care about the answers.
9
Episode 02: Cosmic Imperative / Re: Epilogue: Sit Rep After Hell [ Day 03 | 2130 ]
Last post by Ellen Fitz -
[ Lieutenant Enyd Isolde Madsen | Conference Lounge | V. 1 D. 1 | USS Theurgy ]  @TWilkins  @Pierce  @RyeTanker  @rae  @chXinya  @P.C. Haring @joshs1000 @Dumedion @Nesota Kynnovan @Eden @Brutus

The D'ravsai Coalition as they understood it was forty-one hours old.

Enyd had been doing the math since the memorial — not the kind of math that resolved into clean answers, but the kind that kept revising itself. The Tal'Shiar didn't dissolve on command. It persisted the way certain problems persisted: structurally, below the surface, capable of expression the moment conditions permitted. She'd seen it on Cardassia, watching the machinery of a broken state outlive the state itself — cells operating with the confidence of an organism that had simply forgotten it was supposed to be dead.

The Reman question was worse, in its way. The ones who had lived free understood freedom as something built and defended and paid for. The ones who had come out of the processing centers understood it as a wound that was also a door. You could not hand both populations the same framework and expect it to hold. She'd been turning this over since their morning meeting and hadn't arrived anywhere that felt like ground.

And the Klingons. Warriors who had spent careers defining themselves against a Romulan enemy, houses whose honor was woven through with it, being asked now to hold steady while she and whatever was left of this ship's diplomatic capacity attempted to build something new with a people they had spent decades treating as adversaries. The alliance had endured worse in theory. In practice, it had never been tested at quite this angle before, and angles mattered. She recalled her tense meeting with Colonel Hauq earlier and inwardly sighed.

The presidential pardon sat uneasily beneath all of it.

She'd read the address three times. Bold was the accurate word. Reckless was also accurate. The problem was that pardons had a grammar, and the grammar of this one — however necessary, however politically intelligent — told a story to the people who had already decided what they thought of the Theurgy. You didn't receive a pardon for loyalty. You received it for transgression. And without a sanctioned mission on record, without something that said "here is what they risked, here is what it cost, here is what they prevented" that everyone could see and believe, the pardon was a reclassification, not an exoneration. The same people who had called them traitors would now call them "pardoned," and they would say it the same way. And the distrust would continue, only now the president had put a target on her back as well.

She was still holding this thought when the conference lounge doors opened and the room received her.

Enyd moved to her seat on the kind of autopilot that only held together after thirty-something hours without proper sleep — feet finding the path while the mind worked elsewhere. She registered Cross at the head of the table. The doctor with the coffee mug. The CMO already seated, expression suggesting he had developed a philosophical objection to optimism.

Her PADD slid onto the table. Her hand went to the back of her chair. Then she saw Cal.

The PADD stayed where it was. She crossed the room without particular regard for the conference lounge's seating geometry and put her arms around him. She held on. For a moment, she simply held on, cheek against his shoulder, and said nothing, because there was nothing small enough to say, and she was too tired to pretend otherwise.

She pulled back. Her eyes were bright in a way she made no effort to explain.

"I was in sickbay this morning." Her voice was steady, which was the best she could currently manage. "Going down the beds. I heard you'd been hurt and I -" She stopped. Her jaw tightened once. "I didn't see your face. Someone said you were upright." Her eyes dropped to the cane. She studied it for a moment, doing the rapid internal calculus of someone who had spent a career reading rooms — injury, severity, the fact that he was here at all, standing under his own authority, the cane itself turned out with that particular gilt work that was very specifically Valin — and then something in her face shifted away from alarm.

"For what it's worth," she said, dry as Montana dust, "chicks absolutely dig a man with a cane. Especially if there's a sword in it." She tilted her head. "Is there a sword in it?"

Enyd then became aware of her own hand. She had been holding his wrist since she'd pulled back — fingers loose around the pulse point, not a conscious decision — and had been holding it through the entirety of the conversation. The color that moved into her face owed nothing to the conference lounge's adjusted lighting.

She let go.

"Sorry." The smile she gave him was small and genuine and slightly undermined by the fact that her eyes were still too bright. "Forgot myself. We can catch up more later."

She turned and walked back to her chair with the posture of a diplomat who had absolutely not just done any of that. Folded her hands on the table and mentally prepared herself for another meeting.
10
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
[Show/Hide]

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.

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