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Episode 02: Cosmic Imperative / Re: Epilogue: They That Shed Their Blood [Day 03 | 1800 ]
Last post by Griff -
[Lieutenant (j.g) Alistair Leavitt | Arboretum | Deck 22 | Vector 03 | USS Theurgy]
[Show/Hide]

Alistair, true to form, was late. Very late, in fact. After returning from the Hobus mission, he had been everywhere and nowhere, handling countless tasks ranging from the tedious to the apocalyptic, and sheer exhaustion was growing more and more insistent. He completely lost track of the time as a result, and so only just entered the arboretum halfway through the ceremony. He stood alongside the rest of the crowd, watching and listening, though he barely registered most of it. Alistair was still numb after Hobus.

Enyd being alive helped warm him, but their all too brief exchange wasn't enough. Even standing with his crewmates, even hearing the president welcome them back, Alistair couldn't help but feel a weight on his shoulders, grim and penetrating. Isolating. The thought of returning to his quarters alone was deeply unsettling.

One thing, however, caught Alistair's eye as Commander Stark said her piece. Behind her, on the wall, was not just a list of names, but a list of starships, their artistically outlined shapes visible next to them.

USS Harbinger NCC-67890
USS Endeavour NCC-71805
USS Resolve NCC-91985
USS Bellerophon NCC-74705
USS Eclipse NCC-73888

The last one hit like a gut punch. Alistair hadn't asked anyone to put the name up there. He hadn't even talked about it since returning to 2381, save for a murmured confession to Enyd in the dark, protected by their blanket fortress. Still, somebody had read the report. Put it up there.

The weight grew. Alistair left as soon as he politely could, talking to no-one.
2
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

He watched her the way a man might sit and ponder the meaning behind an artist’s choice of color, or brush stroke; attention widened to encompass the entire work – fascinated yet detached. The little details still mattered: the way her hair fell slowly at the mercy of gravity and the micro-shifts in her posture – the way her tone shifted, once the brief internal debate had been concluded – the way weariness still pulled at the corners of her eyes and mouth, still threatened to drag her limbs down, and the way she still refused to yield.

Hauq was a man whose occupation demanded a higher level of observation; much like his fists, or blade, or choice of disruptor – he had long ago honed it into a weapon.

The chair was slightly smaller than required, forcing him to sit upright, arms draped over the rests as if he were a monarch of old, before the time of Kahless; when Madsen lounged, the Colonel’s posture remained the same – mostly because he didn’t fully trust the furniture’s architecture. The Federation seemed to enjoy building cushy, elegant things to mask their functionality; the Theurgy itself was a fine example of that – a ship built to rival any warship in the quadrant alone – yet it was riddled with fine embellishment and fanciful fillagree.

Madsen drank, then set about answering the question he’d asked.

He offered no response initially, only listened with rapt attentiveness. As humans were wont to do, the diplomat opted to take the ‘long route’ in her reply; Hauq didn’t begrudge her. He wanted to understand. Martok had requested this from him. The tale held the familiar sting of loss, something that even strangers shared if given enough time to converse. Anyone who lived long enough lost someone they loved. Madsen had the privilege of loving someone deeply – truly deeply – before that loves tragic end; yet Hauq felt no sympathy for that end. He felt bewildered that she would let such a thing – such an honorable sacrifice, such a courageous end for one so beloved – tear her down and nearly destroy her.

Such a man, Cardassian or no, deserved to live forever in her memory as an example of what love truly was: powerful, consuming, a passion that drove all sentient creatures to extreme, irrational behavior – yet fleeting, and always, regardless of how the end comes, tragic and painful.

Yet she found a way back, in the fires of Vulcan; Hauq would have recommended the Fire Wastes near the equatorial zone of Qo’noS, if given the chance, but they hardly knew each other then.

Fire is fire, he shrugged mentally.

The meaning behind the wink was understood, yet the way she categorized his ‘name’ for her was not; The Storm without End was a title, not a name – but he supposed that was merely semantics. Madsen had earned it by being exactly that: a seemingly never ending headache for Martok while the Theurgy had orbited the home-world; by design, or fate, or as some punishment for past sins, Hauq and his warriors had been left to clean up her mess. It wasn’t a term of endearment, nor was it an insult; it simply was who she was, in his eyes at least.

Madsen’s posture shifted again, into something more akin to seriousness. Hauq leaned in, resting his chin on the knuckles of his entwinned fingers, elbows resting on his knees while she counted off her points. He had expected nothing less, showing neither admonishment nor surprise at her words. His nose wrinkled at the mention of the so-called Romulan Coalition – which was just another turn of phrase for what would eventually become another Romulan blunder at government, given time – but he held his tongue. Madsen continued; her stance on the Federation president’s actions earned a barely perceptible shrug, followed with an equally brief nod of agreement.

At the end, Hauq blinked slowly; all of it, the entire speech, could be summed up in a simple answer: Madsen was playing the long game without knowing how long that game was going to last, with the hope that putting out one fire would prevent the entire quadrant from burning.

The colonel spread his hands after a moment as he leaned back slightly, then mimicked her counting digits as he spoke:

One.

“We are Klingon. We will do as we have always done – with or without you. Martok will face many new challenges from the Council; enemies will gather, more blood will be shed, but in the end, the strongest will prevail.”

Two.

“There was plenty of satisfaction to be had from mauling the Romulans; we have drunk and bellowed our songs to the stars and gorged ourselves on glory. Yet we are not fools, nor are we blind; Romulans will never change – no more than humans, or Cardassians, or those genetically forged creatures that call themselves Jem’Hadar. In a decade, or a century, or a millennium, this…Coalition…will implode, or turn rancid, or be perverted into the oppressive monstrosity we just spent countless lives burning from the stars. We will be watching, and waiting, and we will not ask for permission to do what must be done.”

Three.

“Your President is a fool – on that we can agree. I can only hope the Chancellor can maintain some semblance of self-control while they speak, otherwise we may part on far less friendlier terms. I cannot control him anymore than you can control her – nor can I influence the other members of the Council – but I can keep the back-channels open, for as long as possible, should the worst come to pass.”

Hauq nodded to her.

“The screening as already begun. It will continue – likely for the entirety of our lives. Where they are discovered, will be shared; we will burn them out wherever they choose to hide, given time.”

He stood then, to pull a pouch from his belt at the small of his back.

“Your words will reach the Chancellor’s ears. To that end, he wished me to bring this; a token of personal gratitude – unofficially, by Martok himself,” he tossed the burlap sack to her. “Bloodstones. Enough for every member of your crew. We can no longer guarantee your safety in Imperial space, you see; this…situation, will reach the ears of the Council, and they will twist the facts to serve their own ends. Some will take matters into their own hands, some will not. What matters is this: should the need be great, any of you that bare one of these stones will be granted amnesty and asylum within the House of Martok, without question.”

The Colonel smirked briefly.

“The man takes life debts quite seriously.”
3
Episode 02: Cosmic Imperative / Re: EPI S: The curious case of Humpty Dumpty [Day 03 | 1900 hrs]
Last post by Ellen Fitz -
[ Specialist Hirek tr'Aimne | Sickbay | USS Theurgy ] @Dumedion

The hand moved before he was fully awake.

It found the device at his sternum and wrenched — or tried to. His fingers closed on it, knuckles whitening, and for three seconds he was not in sickbay at all but in a chair in the sub-levels of the Citadel with something very like this pressed against his chest by a man whose name he had taken pains to memorize for later use. The smell of his own scorched skin. The particular quality of silence that Tal'Shiar interrogation rooms were designed to produce, sound-dampened so that nothing you did in them carried anywhere useful.

Then Leux said something, and the smell went away.

Hirek released the device. Laid his hand flat on his sternum instead, feeling his own heartbeat, methodical and unimpressed with the last thirty seconds. He looked at the ceiling of sickbay for a moment, then at Leux.

"My apologies." His voice was rougher than he'd have preferred. "Reflex."

He looked down at the device properly now — the housing, the contact points, the particular geometry of the emitter array — and something moved across his expression that wasn't quite amusement and wasn't quite the other thing.

"A vel'drath stimulator." He said it the way a man identifies handwriting he recognizes as his own on a document he didn't write. "The design is mine. Or was, originally." He sighed, shaking his head. "I developed the prototype approximately eleven years ago, after a close acquaintance with a Breen energy dampener during what I can only describe as an inadvisable diplomatic encounter. The experience left my cardiac and peripheral nerve function in a state that my own people's medicine addressed with considerably less elegance than I thought the problem deserved." The corner of his mouth moved. "I was bedridden. I had time to think. The device I eventually built was intended to support heart and nerve function during recovery from acute systemic trauma — a tool for healing, with several secondary applications I found personally interesting."

He looked back at the ceiling.

"I am not surprised the Tal'Shiar adapted it. They have been attempting to recruit me since before I had anything worth recruiting. Every refusal cost someone I cared about something they could not afford to lose. It became something of a motivating factor in my decision to kill as many of their operatives as opportunity permitted. Which is what led me here." He stopped, realizing the medicine the doctor had given him and loosened his tongue far more than normal and he'd just said more to this man of acquaintance of five minutes than he normally said to better "friends." "Forgive me." He said it without particular self-flagellation, the way a man corrects a navigational error. "You are the chief medical officer of a department that is, from what I understand, currently held together with whatever the Theurgy equivalent of twine and optimism is. My history with the Tal'Shiar is not a pressing concern in your professional hierarchy."

He sat up slowly, accepting the offered pyjamas with a glance that suggested he found them faintly absurd but was willing to concede the point. He pulled them on without drama.

"I can help." He said it simply, as a fact being reported rather than an offer requiring consideration. "I hold cross-training in field medicine and biochemical trauma response — useful if not formally credentialed by Federation standards. The science department has granted me latitude to pursue certain experiments, but the scheduling is flexible." He settled the collar with one hand. "I cannot promise consistency, but I can promise competence, and I suspect at the moment one of those is more available in your department than the other."

He raised an eyebrow at whatever Leux had said next — the offer, the question, the thing Hirek hadn't quite caught in the residue of adrenaline still working its way out of his system.

"Proceed," he said. "I have always been a curious sort. It is, in fact, at the core of most of my documented problems."
4
Episode 02: Cosmic Imperative / Re: Epilogue: Sit Rep After Hell [ Day 03 | 2130 ]
Last post by Ellen Fitz -
[ Lt. Cmdr. Cross | Conference Lounge | V. 1 D. 1 | USS Theurgy ]  @TWilkins @Pierce @RyeTanker @rae @chXinya   @P.C. Haring  @joshs1000  @Dumedion  @Nesota Kynnovan  @Eden  @Brutus  

T'Less arrived first of the second wave. She moved to her seat without needing the seating configuration to orient her — she'd either reviewed it in advance or assessed the room in three seconds and drawn the correct conclusion. Both were consistent with what he knew of her. He gave her a nod that carried the weight of the sit rep she'd compiled, and she returned it without ceremony.

Pierce came in behind her. Cross knew what she chose to show him, and he had catalogued the distance between that and what she likely knew. He filed this as normal rather than adversarial and indicated her station.

Ida zh'Wann came through the door and Cross's attention went to her antennae before his eyes did — old sha'mura habit — then settled on her face and stayed there a half-second longer than it should have. She moved correctly. Took her position with the precision of someone who had earned it. None of that changed what her presence meant. Akoni was dead. Cross had known this. He had filed it and had not taken it back out, because there had been no functional moment to do so and there still wasn't. He looked at Ida zh'Wann and felt the absence of Kai Akoni like a pressure differential in the room and said nothing, because nothing he said would make it smaller.

Rel entered, spine straight, eyes controlled. Cross read him the way he read everything he hadn't fully catalogued yet, noted that the man looked like he'd rather be in a cockpit, and found this understandable.

Hathev came in without announcement.

She never did.

Cross's hands, clasped behind his back, did not move. His weight did not shift. His eyes went to her once — location, bearing, status — then returned forward. Everything he didn't do with his face after that was a significant amount of effort he would not be acknowledging to anyone, including himself.

Lok came in last, unhurried, carrying the FAB's numbers the way he carried everything — like a man who had been doing this since before most of this room learned to walk and had long since stopped being impressed by conference tables. He found his position without being directed to it.

Cross looked at the empty chair that should have held Natalie Stark.

"Commander Stark is with the President," he said. "She'll join when she can. I'll give her the highlights." He left no space for commentary on this arrangement. "We'll proceed."

He scanned the table once — not for effect, but because he wanted confirmation that everyone who was supposed to be here was here and seated and pointed in the right direction — then clasped his hands behind his back.

"CONN."

Every head in the room found Llewellyn-Kth with the collective efficiency of people who had sat through enough briefings to know exactly what that word meant for whoever came after it. Cross watched the ensign register this, stand, introduce himself, and collect his knee against the table edge in the same approximate motion, and filed all three events without expression.

“Thank you, Commander.” Sylvain began, making a move to stand, though hesitating as he appeared to second-guess himself, before haphazardly continuing to rise to his feet, a soft thud sounding in the room as his knee appeared to collide with the edge of the table. “I-i'm Ensign Llewellyn-Kth, the new Chief CONN officer, for those of you who haven't met me yet...” He paused, straightening himself up and trying to present himself as professionally as possible, his pale face adopting the slightest twinge of red as he spoke.

"I’ve run CONN activity reports across all three vectors, and the most immediate material concern is the loss of four of our shuttles, with five more severely damaged. A further three shuttles were damaged when the Romulans boarded the ship, but it's mostly low-yield disruptor burns, so we should have them up and running again within the next few days.” He paused, taking a small breath. “As for the more severely damaged ones, we’ve tractored them into Shuttle Bay one, pending an engineering assignment, but it looks like it'll be quite resource-intensive to get them back in working order.” He shot a somewhat furtive glance towards the Chief Engineer before he continued. “That leaves us with only four functioning shuttles as it stands, so we’re going to have to be quite frugal with how we assign them until we get the repairs completed on the rest.”

“Moving on… Navigation. We’ve taken damage to our secondary navigation sensors on Vector One, the primary navigation array on Vector Two isn’t far off needing a complete rebuild, and the Stellar Cartography sensors are completely misaligned.” He paused once again, pale finger gliding deftly along the side of his PADD. “We’re making a temporary fix by rerouting Vector Three’s navigation array through the main deflector, but it won’t be enough to compensate if we run into any sort of spatial phenomena. Even a subspace eddy could cause us some real damage if the computer can’t map it.” His finger flicked across his PADD, to bring him to the next section of his report. “We’ve also got some sort of malfunction in the inertial damping system; something is causing the ship to think that impulse speed is threatening the structural integrity, but all internal scans confirm we’re not in danger. We have a team working on finding the source of the error as we speak, but between that and the navigational issues we’re having, I can’t recommend that we head anywhere in a hurry; we could risk doing more damage to the hull than we’ve already got.” His mouth opened to deliver a final point, and then closed again, hesitating somewhat. Something processed behind his brown eyes, and then his mouth reopened, clearly having decided that whatever he had to say, was important for the Senior Staff to hear.

“The President’s entourage also gave us some updated Federation star charts, which I’ve been cross-referencing with the information in the Theurgy database…” He paused, referring once again to his PADD. “… and there are some rather alarming discrepancies between the two.” Sylvain took another brief pause, sending a copy of the map to display on the conference room monitor, so that the rest of the Senior Staff could see for themselves. “There have been notable changes in the borders of several species that neighbor Federation territory. We’ve seen expansions from the Tholians, the Sheliak, the Breen, the Tzenketh, the Kzinti, and the Talarians. There have been incursions into both Federation and Cardassian space, and entire systems seem to have been absorbed into their respective territories. There’s nothing in the charts to indicate when these changes took place, or why they occurred, no mention of any wars or diplomatic exchanges;  the Federation has even lost territory in the Beta Quadrant to the Shackleton Expanse, which doesn't really have any explanation that I can think of...” He paused once more, glancing over at the display as though it meant something more personal to him. “I don't really know what this information means to us, I just thought it was something that we should be aware of, given how long the Theurgy has been without any updates from Starfleet…” He turned towards Cross, somewhat bashful looking, given the amount of time he had spent talking, and gave the man a small nod. “That’s all from me, Commander.”

The report itself was competent. Cross listened the way he listened to everything — tracking the numbers, flagging the gaps, noting where approximation had been substituted for certainty and whether that substitution was honest or evasive. Four functioning shuttles. Navigation rerouted through the main deflector. Inertial damping throwing false structural warnings that nobody had located the source of yet. He did not write any of this down. He did not need to.

Then the star charts went up, and Cross went still, the way he did when something required his full attention rather than his operational attention, which were different things that felt different from the inside. Border expansions. Tholians. Sheliak. Breen. Tzenketh. Kzinti. Talarians. Territory absorbed, systems gone, no corresponding diplomatic record, no indication of timeline. Federation losses in the Beta Quadrant to the Shackleton Expanse, which was not an entity that acquired territory through conventional means.

He looked at the display for three seconds longer than he looked at most things. The Theurgy had been running in the dark for a long time. Cross had known this in the abstract. The abstract had just become considerably more specific.

He gave Llewellyn-Kth a nod when the ensign turned to him, brief and direct. "Noted, Ensign. Well done." He let his eyes move back to the star chart for one more second, then pulled them forward. "Engineering."

Frank took a sip of his scalding hot coffee. At this point, it was more of a ritual than something that would keep him awake. It had been a very long day and it still wasn't over. The closest thing he'd gotten to any sort of rest was the funeral service for those that they knew were dead at the moment. It was still a long and terrible list. It wasn't likely over at this point yet since they weren't sure who was going to make it or not from the wounded list. Those would be much smaller affairs though.

He waited till he was called on to give a status of the ship.

"It's bad, but could be worse. The hull has sustained a significant number of micro fractures, several dozen blown out windows that have forcefields in place, and one major breach on vector three where a romulan boarding shuttle was connected to the ship."

He flipped a button and the page changed. "Over system capabilities are within tolerances. Weapons, and engines are ready at your command." He flipped a page and kept going as his mouth turned into a grimace. "I would advise that we keep the amount of fighting to a minimum. Though the major combat systems are intact and being brought back to full capacity, the shield system took a beating and will need several hours to repair. It can operate, but won't hold out for long. The boarding of the ship is where the majority of the damage is going to be dealt with." Another PADD flip. "Our side and theirs were fairly liberal with the use of their weapons and in some cases, explosives. We have damaged ODN and EPS relays all over the ship, along with the accompanying computer systems. If the majority of the effort wasn't allocated to removing various hazardous bodily fluids, I would redirect the efforts to restoring the data and power systems." The Chief Engineer checked the numbers again. "So far the damage survey has counted on average 15 damaged EPS relays, 8 ODN junctions, 45 interface units across every deck. There's also damage to the lsolinear and Bioneural data storage systems that will necessitate replacement and testing. Re-routing systems are working for the moment, but the ship is currently working in spite of the damage since data packets are being rerouted, but this is causing a slight degradation to computational processing and communications speeds as other systems have to take up the slack." Chief Arnold tried to keep his sense of being miffed at having his shiny repaired ship in such a state of disrepair, but it was fair to say he felt he had the right to be slightly salty about the whole affair. The Chief looked up and saw a slight glazed look over take the others and he let out a grunt of irritation as he decided he's made his point and moved on.

More flipping. "The other area of major concern is the FAB. The bulkheads held despite multiple major explosions inside the hanger decks. There is wreckage still littering the flight areas and flight operations at this time are limited. Launching, recovery and servicing operations are major concerns with damage still being surveyed at this time. There's about a dozen wrecks littering the FAB. We barely have the space at the moment for the storage of the surviving fighter complement till we can get all those wrecks cleared out. So that leaves the question of whether you'd prefer we salvage the ships or just dump them out into space? I have our people going the wrecks for sensitive and dangerous technology, so maybe we can get something useful, or at least easily dump all the hazardous parts out of the ship soon."

Another flip. "Casualties amongst the engineering staff are not heavy, but are still significant with over a dozen dead and an equal number wounded and not likely to return to duty soon." This was the tough part. "Assuming we can find the necessary non-replicatbable materials, I'm estimating repairs out of our own resources will be at least 4 days." The ice blue eyes of the engineer looked into the Commander Cross as he would not flinch from his conclusion, especially after what he'd heard from the President. "None of these repairs are going to be as solid as if they came from a starbase, so some of the systems are going to be less durable. It would help if the Starfleet task force could transfer personnel and materials to assist in our repairs? It would save a lot of time to have ready made components."

Cross listened to Arnold's report the way he'd been listening to all of them — tracking numbers, noting the gaps between what was said and what was implied. The engineer didn't dress it up. Cross appreciated this.

Hull micro-fractures, blown windows on forcefields, the Romulan breach on Vector Three. Weapons and engines functional. Shields degraded and needing hours he didn't currently have to give them. The interior damage was the longer problem — EPS relays, ODN junctions, interface units across every deck, the bioneural and isolinear storage systems flagged for replacement. The ship was routing around its own injuries like a man favoring a bad knee, and at some point the compensation would cost more than the original damage.

The FAB numbers landed and Cross's eyes moved briefly to Lok, who was already looking at Arnold with the expression of a man listening to someone describe his living room on fire. A dozen wrecks in the flight areas. Salvage or dump. Cross filed this under decisions with resource implications that required Lok's direct input and moved on.

Arnold looked at him when he got to the conclusion. Didn't flinch from it. Four days minimum, assuming materials. Repairs that wouldn't hold like starbase work. The ask for personnel and components from the task force was framed as a recommendation, not a request, which was the correct way to frame it.

Cross nodded once. "Noted on the task force transfer. I'll raise it with Commander Stark." His eyes moved across the table. "Medical." Cross looked at Leux. Leux looked back at him with the expression of a man who had written the report, knew exactly what was in it, and had no interest in performing surprise at any of it. "Doctor."

Leux picked up his PADD and read in one of the most tired sounding voices of the meeting thus far.

"Acting CMO Report: Medical staff has been reduced to approximately 2/3 strength, with the entire senior officers cadre either KIA or placed in stasis. Vi-Nine is functional, and carrying a significant patient load. LT Leux has assumed the CMO's duty role temporarily. Vector 01 (V1 Battle Clinic) damage: minimal – repairs ongoing. Utilized as an extended ICU/UCU. Vector 02 (Main Sickbay) damage: moderate – critical systems affected include decontamination chamber, primary holographic table, blown/destroyed EPU conduits to consoles A3, A7, B4, B8, B12. Two biobeds, main replicator, and Vi-Nine’s secondary recharge station. Repairs ongoing. Utilized as a primary care facility with minor injuries attended via the first aid station at reception. Wait times improving, but remain longer than optimal." He took a breath, heaved a sigh, and continued reading. "Vector 03 (V3 Battle Clinic) damage: severe – almost all critical systems are offline/destroyed. Utilizing what we can as a secondary aid station. Repairs ongoing. Ongoing treatments and damage to replicator systems has hindered on-board supply of plasma, platelets, and blood; until all systems are operational, a donation drive has begun to restore back-up supplies. As humans hold the majority demographic, all blood-type donors are needed, but universal donors and receptors take precedence. Morale concerns – medical is working around the clock to catch up with treatments post-battle. Primary concerns based on observation/cases tended thus far: sleep deprivation, malnourishment, lingering psychological trauma. In essence – while repairs are needed, it behooves us not to work ourselves to death. Medical staff requests LT. Ryn remain detached from engineering repairs to medical facilities." He finally glanced up and found Cross's eyes before adding. "End Report."

Leux delivered it clean. No editorializing, no softening of the numbers. Two-thirds strength. Senior officer cadre gone — KIA or stasis. Vi-Nine carrying load. The vector breakdown went up and Cross tracked it: V1 functioning as an extended ICU, V2 running primary care with the damage list that made Arnold's engineering numbers feel optimistic, V3 stripped down to a secondary aid station on salvaged systems. The replicator damage had hit plasma and blood supply, which meant the donation drive wasn't a suggestion — it was a logistics problem wearing a morale hat.

The morale assessment at the end was the part that would not appear in most CMO reports, which was why it was the part Cross intended to keep. Sleep deprivation. Malnourishment. Psychological trauma presenting across cases. No surprise there.

"Lieutenant Ryn will be detached to medical facilities," he said. "I'll clear it with Engineering." His eyes moved to Arnold briefly — confirmation, not a question — then back to Leux a moment before he looked to Frost. "Science."

"Science." Frost straightened under scrutiny. The report was on his PADD but he didn't look at it. "I'll begin with personnel, because the rest of it needs that context first." He kept his voice level. "Five dead. Tyreke Okafor — synthetic biology, nutrigenomics, organic electronics. Asra Tek — warp theory, Daystrom-caliber work." A beat that was shorter than it felt. "Kizra Tos and the Tos symbiont. Nara Nueva. Cir'Cie." He set the PADD down. "I didn't know any of them. I want to be direct about that, because it would be easy to stand here and perform grief for people I never met. What I can tell you is that I've read their files and their work, and the losses are significant beyond the personal." His jaw tightened. "Okafor in particular. If I'd had six months with him, we might already have answers we're still looking for."

He picked the PADD back up.

"Facilities. The majority of Science is functional or in the process of becoming so. The exception is Xenozoology, which experienced a power loss during the fighting that resulted in a catastrophic containment failure." He said this with the careful neutrality of a man who had chosen, consciously, not to lead with it. "Most specimens have been recovered. We are currently missing one vole." He looked up briefly. "Lieutenant Junior Grade Kerina and Ensign Dunne have been assigned to assist the Xenozoologists in retrieval. I expect a resolution shortly. The vole is small. The ship, relative to the vole, is not."

He flipped to the next section.

"Hydroponics sustained significant damage. We lost a substantial portion of the current growth stock." He paused. "Among the losses was a specimen that had shown preliminary indications of therapeutic potential in individuals affected by Infestation. Early stage — nothing peer-reviewed, nothing I would have staked a treatment protocol on yet. But it was promising enough that losing it is not simply a botanical casualty." He set the PADD down again. "Our botanist is also gone. Hydroponics is currently being maintained by Crewman Jensen and Crewman Kane, both botanical technicians. They are doing the job. I want that noted. They are doing a job that is not theirs by rank and they have not stopped."

He looked at Cross.

"In response to medical." The words came out with the clipped precision of someone who had rehearsed not saying them and then said them anyway. "I have been awake for approximately forty-eight hours. I am, by any reasonable clinical definition, a liability to my own department, and so is anyone else who has been awake and working for that long or longer. I concur with the medical recommendation to rest and recuperate to avoid further damage." His eyes moved briefly, involuntarily, to Leux.

Cross nodded, thanked Frost for his time, then he looked to their resident "cowboy diplomat." He'd personally had little interaction with her up to this moment but her reputation certainly preceded her. "Diplomacy."

Enyd set her PADD flat on the table and did not pick it up again. She had written the report herself, which meant she knew what was in it, which meant she did not need to read from it, which was the only advantage she currently had over her own exhaustion.

"Diplomatic Corps." She kept her eyes level and her voice even. "Staff strength is at roughly half. We lost personnel in the battle, and we've had transfers in that haven't fully oriented yet. What we have is functional. Whether it's adequate is a question I'll answer after the next seventy-two hours."

"The D'ravsai Coalition." She turned her head slightly toward the display. "The President has sanctioned trade routes through the Neutral Zone as a soft-presence measure while the Coalition consolidates. We are not establishing official diplomatic ties — that's off the table for now, and I think that's the correct read. What we're doing is building a door before we knock on it." She paused. "Initial reports from personal contacts of the Romulan bioengineering specialist who defected to Theurgy prior to the battle, Hirek tr'Aimne, indicate the Coalition is already gaining ground among the Romulan population. That's the good news. The less good news is that there are early whispers of disconnect from some of the Reman groups — fracture lines appearing before the structure has fully set." She glanced briefly at Pierce. "Intelligence may have more granular data on that. From a diplomatic standpoint, trade is where we start and where we stay until the ground tells us otherwise. I have made some recommendations to the President regarding current personnel who may do well with the soft presence, and I will forward those names to you." She briefly looked apologetic, as if it just occurred to her that she'd put the cart before the horse but she continued her report before the emotion fully settled.

"The Klingon alliance." Her tone shifted slightly — still even, but careful in a way the previous beat hadn't required. "Chancellor Martok, as a personal favor, sent a friend to discuss the state of the alliance directly." She did not elaborate on the personal side of that conversation. "What came out of that conversation is that Martok is holding, but he's holding against significant internal pressure. Several of the Houses are reading this new alignment with the Romulan factions as something close to a betrayal — not of treaty, but of identity, which is considerably harder to argue against." She set her hands flat on the table. "My official recommendation is that we continue to provide reassurances where we can, but that the heavier diplomatic lift needs to come from the President herself, not from us. Bacco has officially recognized the Infested threat and welcomed the Theurgy back into the fold — that carries weight Martok can use with his Houses in ways that our word alone cannot." She inclined her head toward the PADD. "My personal recommendation is that we share any intelligence on combating the Infested with Martok directly and then step back and let him handle his own people in his own way. He did not get to be Chancellor by needing someone to hold his hand through a political crisis."

She took a deep breath and slowly let it out, pushing slightly back from the table before continuing. "The pardon." The word landed the same way it had in her head for the past eighteen hours — necessary and complicated in equal measure. "To this point, the Infested have used every step forward as raw material. Every alliance, every public statement, every moment of apparent progress — they find the seam, and they work it. This pardon is visible, and it is politically thin, and it has put a target on the President's back from two directions simultaneously." She kept her eyes forward. "There is still no large-scale method to scan for Infested. No reliable way to combat them at scale. We don't know their numbers or if they are growing. What that means in practice is that how we respond to official orders in the coming days — how we are seen to respond — will determine more about how our allies receive us than anything Bacco said at that podium. We cannot afford to give anyone a reason to revisit the word traitor. The pardon bought us standing in some circles and further condemnation in others. Only time will reveal which circles feel what towards us."

She looked down the table toward Pierce, brief and direct.

"The Dewitt intelligence out of the Akh'Terel Veil — Commander Pierce will likely have more to say on this, and I'd ask her to elaborate further." She brought her eyes back to the center of the room. "What I can add from the diplomatic side is that I received corroborating information through a private channel from Doctor Marlowe, reporting along much the same lines — coordinated alignment among the Orion Syndicate, Tzenkethi, Kinshaya, Gorn, Tholian, Cardassian True Way, and Breen elements, all of it oriented against a Federation they are reading, correctly, as fractured and distracted." She let that sit for a half second. "Dewitt died getting that data out. Marlowe is still on the proverbial, or literal, front lines of this unrest and can be called upon for further insight should we need it. I think we owe both of them the courtesy of treating what they sent us as the strategic context for everything else on this table, not a line item at the end of the report." She looked at Cross. "That's what I have, Commander."

Cross nodded, letting a brief silence fall over the room as everyone ingested and wrestled with the reports up to this moment before moving on to the next report.
5
Episode 02: Cosmic Imperative / EPI S: The curious case of Humpty Dumpty [Day 03 | 2330 hrs]
Last post by Dumedion -
[LT Arven Leux | Main Sickbay | Recovery Ward | Deck 11 | Vector 2 | USS Theurgy] Attn: @Ellen Fitz
[Show/Hide]

The privacy screen shimmered around the recovery bed with its annoying, dull buzz; barely noticeable, yet perceptible enough to set one’s teeth on edge if you let it.

Arven stood adjacent to the biobed with his attention directed away from the unconscious patient, his eyes narrowed in concentration as he reviewed the case file, scans, surgical results, and medical history simultaneously. A three-dimensional holoprojection shimmered in the air off to his left, various sections and biological systems highlighted in turn, each represented an injury or trauma previously noted and corrected – either by his hand or Vi-Nine’s – during the previous hour or so bout of surgery. The list of injuries had been long but distinguished; nothing the Doctor hadn’t seen before, with the caveat of this patient being Romulan adding a unique twist to things.

The patient (Arven couldn’t be bothered to remember his name – point of fact, he couldn’t really pronounce it correctly anyway) seemingly stumbled into the Vector 03 battle-sickbay some time ago, requested assistance, then promptly passed out mid-examination. Leux hadn’t been present at that initial diagnosis, but he could imagine what caused the loss of consciousness…

Simply put, it was difficult to remain lucid while your lungs filled with blood; not to mention the…other problems.

Violet eyes flicked to the small, transparent canister sitting upon the edge of the small desk beneath the monitors to his right, and the device held inside: some form of neurological agitator of Romulan design. A single spike of seemingly unremarkable metallic alloy, yet every few seconds it deployed a plethora of barbed mechandrites, so thin they were barely visible to the naked eye; these would slither along the victim’s nerve endings, embracing each neuroplastic pathway like a long-lost lover – and hijack the receptor/receivers at the cellular level. A rather ingenious, if altogether wholly immoral and unethical piece of bioengineering. Romulans seemed to ignore or blur the rules when it came to extracting intelligence… or simply enjoyed torture enough to not give a shit. The doctor frowned at it, then returned his attention to the screens with a shrug.

A minor groan issued from the patient; subdued, almost a snore. Leux turned his head a fraction, watching the Romulan reach up to the device that beeped and buzzed upon his forehead in his peripheral vision. The Doctor reached and patted the questing limb away. “No touchy,” he warned, then continued his study for another moment before turning his whole attention to the patient, giving the man time to come to terms with where he was and what had likely happened.

Arven let the device on his head finish its cycle, then peeled it off without ceremony with an audible rip of adhesive and skin.

“Usually this is the part where I ramble off the litany of injuries you sustained and inquire as to how you feel, if there is any lingering pain, et cetera,” he shrugged, “but something tells me you feel better than you did. The lingering neural damage will sting, no doubt, but that’s to be expected given the…well,” Leux frowned, lifting the canister off the desk for the Romulan to see. “I’m not sure what to call it. It was embedded in the greater vagus nerve in your neck, which in Romulans,” Leux gestured, “is the major pathway to autonomous controls – heart rate, digestion, breathing. Thankfully, it was dormant and thus easier to extract. Had it been active? Well…,” the Doctor sighed and set the thing back down. “You’d probably be dead.”

He let that sit for effect before continuing.

“I can deduce and understand why you waited to be seen,” Arven nodded, “given what we’ve all just gone through. I’d be remiss to remind you however, in the future, it would behoove you to get in here a little faster – especially with latent injuries that appear less serious than what they are. Internal hemorrhaging is nothing to ‘limp off’, unless you’re a Klingon with the corresponding secondary organs and really don’t give a shit.”
 
His spiel/lecture concluded, Arven shrugged. “Of course, that’s your prerogative. Anyway, would you like to hear something interesting I discovered, looking for a blood donor,” he asked, eyebrows lifted with the barest hint of excitement. Arven suddenly remembered the man probably wanted some clothes first and tossed a set of medical PJ’s over. “You’ll have to excuse Vi – she doesn’t take modesty into account while working,” he explained, then turned and called up the info he’d discovered while the man dressed.
6
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.
7
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."
8
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.”
9
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.
10
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...
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