USS Galaxy: The Next Generation Sim Log
Stardate: 60809.14 - 60809.20 |
Logs |
"Snippets" "Semper Paratus" "Tally ho!" cried the starboard lookout, "Contact bearing 235 Mark 6, passing left to right on low impulse drive." "Confirmed." Aknowledged the on duty Sensor station, "Designate contact as Minbari Class Civilian Yatch running under EMCON conditions....dang good eyes Seaman Kerr." Grins spread across the faces of all present in the tiny green-lit cabin. Spotting conditions were always difficuly in the weird gravitic eddys and currents that made up the Beta Perseii Quadrinary system. Formed on the history and traditions of the old shallow water navy units of the 20th and 21st century, the Modern Coast Guard was a small but elite group of spacers dedicated to the patrolling and enforcing of law in and amongst the shallow 'gravity wells' of any of 1000 Federation worlds. The Fancy Starfleet snobs may have the big deluxe pleasure liners with which to shuffle back and forth between the stars, but the 'Coasties' as they were still called, were the real sailors.....intimately familiar with every nook and cranny of their assigned star system. On a starship, going from place to place involved merely tapping out a few computer commands....blip blip blip...and voila the ship flies you to the next star system. So it was no surprise that after the All POINTS BUlletin was put out on the Federal NET for a 'vessle of interest' that it was a tiny White and Orange Coast Guard Cutter that made first contact. The Bullhorn....a device who's name origins was lost in antiquity was a particularly unique Coast Guard tool. Enter the Bullhorn. A variation of a low powered laser-comm beam, the device was able to actually vibrate the hull of a nearby ship with low frequency tractor beams so that one would literally 'hear' a voice coming through the very deckplates. The resultant voice and rattling of loose objects was loud enough that nobody could later say in court....'Im sorry...our Comm was out and we couldnt hear you.' Tapping the old style micropone to test for static, Harmon cleared his throat. "Attention Minbari yatch at 235 Mark 6...this is Coast Guard Cutter 12 on routine safety inspection. Cut your sublight engines and prepare to heave to for boarding." **************** "Impulse engines?" "They're broadcasting a registry." announced the lookout, magna-noculars tight to his eyes. "BLR-1G Prophet's Hope....A Bajoran flagged yatch." Bajor was not a member of the Federation and thus was not liable to Federation laws, but the veteran Coasties had seen that trick too often before. The rattling explosion for the railgun almost knocked the two Hydrans from their feet. They were cloned agents disguised as Breen, and were not quite used to bipedal locomotion. ************** The two small craft....the first an overpowered civilian yatch driven like a madman by one of the top Hydran agents to come out of the Royal Hydran Academy....the second a gleaming white Coast Guard cutter skipping across the gravity waves, guided by a mad filipino who learned his trade in the dangerous shoals off Luzon as a boy. The Minbari yatch twisted down in a spiral deep into the magnetic flux of the quintuple system.....hoping to hide in the various pulls of the five tumbling planets. The Cutter closed in, knowing the Lagrange points like th back of his hand, Mr. Magsaysay cut minutes off his time by guiding his own craft through the calmer 'waters' thus reducing hull drag. "Warp signature!" sang out the scanner crew. "Estimate tranluminal capability in 2 minutes." The 3-inch railgun barked again, punching a 70-pound titanium slug deep into the yatch's starboard nacelle where it rattled around the interior, careening off delicately balanced equipment and generally screwing up any chance of forming a stable warp field. ***************** Three Hours later, Lt Blake Harmon of the Federation Coast Guard knew he hand landed the big one. The two occupants of the yatch...at first beleived to be Breen agents had actually proved to be Hydran clones, and had started spilling confessions before the coasties had even started asking questions. "Aye sir....Establishing Subspace link...this is Coast Guard Cutter CG-12 on Secure Channel...hailing Federation Marshal Corps...Come in please." "Love Hurts: A Romantic Comedy Featuring Cannibalism, Insanity, and Victor Krieghoff" "Fashion Victim" FO Aristi Ferguson (APC) ***** My name is Aristi Ferguson, and I think today I may die. You might be thinking that I have no idea what's going on here. That I'm completely in over my head, what with being captured on an away mission by some clearly pre-industrial civilization we didn't even know was here. That's not the case, not at all. Years ago, before I entered Starfleet, I spent the better part of a decade studying cultures such as this one...studying what they'd left behind, trying to put the puzzle pieces together to get an overall picture of who they'd been. I've studied a lot of extinct cultures on Earth, even had the chance to do a couple years of field work, and for a species that prides itself on being so benevolent and enlightened now, it's amazing how barbaric they were in the past. Which is why I think today I may die. When the Brown Woman returned to the tent in which they were holding me, I thought I would die then. But she released me. They hadn't thought to bind my feet (maybe they thought I was just going to let them do whatever they wanted) so I ran...only to be captured again (of course!) by two of the woman's companions. Those two may have been two of the men who killed PO Tombs and took me prisoner; I don't know. Many of these people look the same, even more so than most humans-- all brown and burly and very very dirty. Anyway, that was the third time I escaped death, I guess. Clearly they wanted me for something. So they took me back to the tent, where the Brown Woman-- who had at some point introduced herself in her broken language as "Conca-Esska"-- began to pull my clothes off, like she wanted me to wear something else I guess. That was a strange experience, but seeing no harm in it (so far) I let her continue. After all, someone with as many body mods as me has long ago given up on modesty...and it's not like this was the first time someone had seen me naked. Amusingly enough she seemed to find my tattoos interesting, as she began to trace the knot work of one of the bands on my left arm, all the while muttering something I couldn't understand. Maybe they had some sort of significance to her, or maybe she just thought they were pretty. No idea. And, she hadn't tried to kill me yet, so it was probably innocuous. That's when she brought out what she wanted me to wear. The garments were obviously leather, but were dyed in a much more colorful and elaborate pattern than hers. The long, wrap-like skirt had been pieced together from three separate sections of hide with a complex series of stitches, and had been painted in a dark red and brown scale pattern inside and out. The shirt (although it was more like a tube of fabric held together at the front with some lacing) was done in a similar pattern, but the scales were a little smaller. With that, oddly enough, came a pair of stiff bracers dyed a brilliant, crimson red and bearing eight small claws in an almost diamond pattern on the surface and five more pointed downward along the bottom edge. Having been used to wearing Starfleet standard issue garments for years now, I wasn't quite sure about this. I mean, I could sort of see the aesthetic value in the garments (because they were quite nice; much nicer than what she was wearing), and it did make sense to try and 'go with the flow' while I was here, but still. Probably sensing my hesitation, she insisted. "Pease pease Reece," she urged me in her strange voice, "pease wear." Startled for a moment by what she had called me, I soon recovered. That's right, I *had* told her my name, right after she'd told me hers. She just couldn't pronounce it, so to her "Aristi" became "Reece". No better, that had been my nickname in college, where many of my human colleagues had been-- Wait. I looked at her more closely, my eyes narrowing. "Pease pease," the Brown Woman said again, oblivious. And it occurred to me finally (took me long enough!), that it wasn't some strange language she was speaking, some tongue that had evolved remarkably like Standard. No, she was saying 'please please'...which meant that she was speaking some corrupted form of English...which meant that the more I looked at her, the less she looked 'humanoid' and the more she looked just plain human. Oh boy. "Alright, Brown Wo- I mean, 'Conca-Esska'," I said to her at last. "I'll wear your strange clothes." She cocked her head to the side, almost like a dog or some other curious pet would, not understanding a word I said except for her name. No matter, I'll just reach forward, pick up the skirt, and... Wow. First, let me get something straight. I've worn a lot of leather in my day. I was a wild child in my teens and twenties, and my family is fairly well-off, so I had it all. Miniskirts, studded chaps, skin-tight practically painted on pants that made my ass look great, thigh-high stiletto boots that were perfect with the miniskirts, bustiers with obscenely plunging necklines, vests, jackets, you name it. And they weren't just made from Terran animals either. No way. Terran cows and pigs and deer and gators have soft skins (when you can get them, that is), but they can't hold a candle to the feel of any part of an Andorian ice bear, a Capellan power-cat (hair-on hides, of course), even a Vulcan le-matya. But this, whatever I was holding, put all of those to shame. I held the skirt up before me. There were subtle striations in the tanned skin, but neither that nor the slightly uneven, unfinished edges gave any clue as to what sort of animal this had come from. Not that I would have been able to identify it anyway with this pounding headache, which had been with me ever since I'd woken up tied to that stake. (When was the last time I even had a headache, anyway?) "What is this?" I asked Conca-Esska. She smiled and shook her head. Probably still didn't understand me. "What...ees...?" I asked again, more slowly, dragging a hand down the surface of the skirt. Speaking like that felt stupid at first, but again, 'going with the flow' and all. Hopefully she would understand that. Thankfully she smiled and nodded. "Ees Utla-rat ya Eight-rat." "Utla-rat ya...Eight-rat," I repeated. "What ees 'Utla-rat ya Eight-rat'?" "Ees no moar. Utla-rat ya Eight-rat ees wis gate dag'n now." And then she took one arm, held it level just above her breasts, then moved it down towards her waist. "Oosh em, make dess." "Make dess," I said, mimicking her arm motion. "See." She nodded and smiled again, then put a hand on the edge of the skirt. "Pease now, Reece." Make dess. Utla-rat ya Eight-rat. It took a minute, but I finally figured it out. Predictably, my mouth filled with bile, and I had to swallow hard to keep from vomiting. I'd been stark naked this entire time, and of course that was a little weird, but if this was the only thing they were going to give me to wear, I was content to stay nude for the rest of my life. However long that would be. Because human skin made into leather had to come from somewhere. Apparently these bits had come from 'Utla-rat' and 'Eight-rat'. I didn't want to think about what might have happened to those two. And garments decorated this elaborately usually meant one thing. Well...one of two things: honored guest...or sacrifice. Knowing my luck, it wouldn't be the first one. And that's why I think today I may die. (Wonderful.) "Thank You for (Not) Smoking" Captain T'Vara PO2 Saro ***** "Is there anything else this morning?" T'Vara asked, passing the latest padd back to her new yeoman. "One final item, Captain. 'Commander Tarin reports a four percent increase in recreational smoking aboard Galaxy in the past four weeks, bringing the estimated percentage of smokers aboard this vessel to 8.9 percent of the total ship's population," Saro replied, accepting the padd and adding it to the small pile on that side of the desk. "She wishes to strengthen the associated regulations against this activity, but as changes to global ship's policy require the approval of the Commanding Officer, she requests your permission to adjust said policy." T'Vara nodded, a bit of a frown creeping onto her features. Having been at the rank of Captain for over a decade now, the Vulcan was intimately familiar with such regulations. She was also aware of the steady decline toward disorder that pervaded less disciplined crews in Starfleet, particularly after the Dominion War, as regulations had been relaxed in order to provide a so-called 'more comfortable environment' for stressed out and occasionally overworked officers. To her dismay such a slow but steady decline in regulations had not stopped once the Dominion War had ended; rather, many commands had elected to keep them in place or relax them even more as crew retention became an issue. There was a certain logic to it, she had to admit, although the end result had been less than desirable. "What is Lieutenant Commander Tarin's proposal?" Saro reached for another padd. "From her memo: 'The benefit of recreational smoking as a tool for relaxation has been proven, especially in modern times when a variety of materials are available that pose little to no risk of addiction or detriment to an individual's health or general well-being. However, it is also a proven fact that, as the act of burning plant materials produces a strong, persistent odor as well as an increase of air pollution and a decrease of oxygen in the local area, such acts can be considered a detriment to the well-being of the ship's community as a whole. Smoking produces waste products, both solid matter and airborne particulates; in particular it causes a significant draw on the air filtration systems.' "Scrolling ahead... 'Therefore, I recommend that recreational smoking in any form not be tolerated aboard the Galaxy. Ship's internal sensors shall be reconfigured to consider all instances of smoking as small fires, and will deal with them similarly. Forcefield technology is sufficiently advanced to allow for a small three-dimensional forcefield to be generated that would surround the implement of smoking; however, I believe use of the transporters to automatically remove the offending item from the smoker's locale, and the entire ship, would be a more instructive example. In addition, use of cargo-specific transporters to move such a small amount of matter uses approximately six percent less energy and three fewer seconds than encasing the object in a forcefield until its oxygen supply is extinguished.'" T'Vara tapped one finger on her desk, the perfectly rounded fingernail making a quiet tap-tap-tapping noise against the hard, glossy surface. "When someone begins the act of smoking, the implement of smoking is removed from the ship via site-to-site transport." "I believe so, yes," Saro agreed with a nod. "A novel solution." Saro nodded again. "Aye, sir. But...if I may make one suggestion?" T'Vara's finger-tapping stopped. "You may." Saro smiled slightly and looked down. It was a well-known fact that the few J'naii serving in Starfleet were loyal, serious, hardworking personnel, and many of them worked particularly well alongside Vulcans. However, what many did not realize was that the J'naii as a people had a complex sense of humor, much of which was uncannily compatible with Terran forms of humor. And, being the third J'naii to ever enter Starfleet service, Saro had had many years of service to learn Terran humor very well. "It is possible," it said with almost the slightest hestitation, "that the suddenness of a cigar or cigarette being abruptly whisked away in a transporter is unlikely to cause much of a lasting impression. I'd like to suggest that, in order to inform the offending party why their, ah, 'smoke' suddenly disappeared, we program the computer to recite the first paragraph of 'Commander Tarin's note during each offense as an explanation and instructional piece." T'Vara arched an eyebrow slightly upward but otherwise was silent for a long moment. In its chair, Saro began to wonder if the suggestion had been a little too brash. "An...excellent idea, Petty Officer Saro," the captain replied at last. Saro exhaled the breath it didn't even know it'd been holding. "Thank you, sir." "Please inform Lieutenant Commander Tarin that she is to implement these changes immediately. Dismissed." Saro nodded and, now that their meeting was over, began to retrieve the small pile of padds on the captain's desk. "Aye, sir." "How Ella Got Her Groove Back" – Part Two Lt. Ella Grey **** Orbital Casino It would be easy to lose yourself here, Ella thought as she walked It was a world of sensory overload – dice rolling and latinum chips Yes, it would be easy to lose yourself here. Too bad she was already lost. Oh Ella dear, that's a bit depressing even for you, she thought and Ella turned her attention back to the singer but found it hard to pay There was also the small problem of Corran Rex. Ever since Ella had And Corran was a very bad singer, at least in her head. Ella exhaled slowly and took a firmer grip of her drink. Surely he **** Ella was about to smother her head with a pillow. ~I can keep singing for *hours* ~ his voice sounded in her head. There Ella covered her head with the pillow. ~You're horribly off key~ ~Let me help you~, he thought firmly. Ella sighed. ~I don't see how you can~ She sat up and rolled her shoulders. ~Where are you anyway? You must ~I'm ... around ~, Corran thought back, rather evasively. Ella crossed her arms. ~It's not that I can't answer that, ~ he admitted. ~It's that you won't. ~ ~More or less, ~ he thought candidly. ~I'm never far from you, though. ~~I'll try to keep it quieter, okay? ~~ She sat up in her bed and **** Several hours later - of which she suspected were spent roaming around ~~You must be joking~~ Ella thought finally. Silence. Funny and yet not. For the first time in awhile something other than bleak or Corran silenced her by running a series of images through her mind, ~~I'll have to think about it~~ "The Facts" Cmdr. Arel Smith ***** USS Galaxy Arel Smith was no stranger to pain and she was also intimately And the Victor Krieghoff "facts" weren't helping. "Victor Krieghoff does not hunt because the word hunting implies the "Oh yeah," The woman replied. "Well, when Victor Krieghoff answers the Arel shot the two officers a dark look but they were too involved in "Victor Krieghoff does not "style" his hair. It lays perfectly in "It's not the fall that kills you, It's Victor Krieghoff waiting for She didn't feel dizzy or have any blurred vision so that was good. She "If you can see Victor Krieghoff, he can see you. If you can't see She was also slightly nauseous. "Victor Krieghoff has never blinked in his entire life. Never." Arel carefully touched her toes to the floor, pressed her feet flat, "If Victor Krieghoff is late, time better slow the fuck down." "The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse actually live in Victor "That is the stupidest thing I have ever heard," Arel blurted out. The The pair exchanged looks which she couldn't identify. They were either "We know some of them are a little blown out of proportion, Sir," The Arel frowned. "Such as?" "Victor Krieghoff vacations on Breen," He said instantly. "You know, Arel rolled her eyes. Sure it had been impressive but certainly not "Well how about Victor Krieghoff doesn't need oxygen," The male nurse "Did you hear this one?" The woman jumped in. "Victor Krieghoff can "Victor Krieghoff came back the very next day. And opened a can of "Victor Krieghoff can kiss my ass," Arel snarled and hobbled out of "Arel Smith is going to beat the ever-loving shit out of Victor "The Roundup"
Faylin McAlister Ghost of the Darkness Senior Marshal Bin Hux
Location: Medical building - Planet 128
They hovered in clumps, in groups that possessed frightened looks on their faces. Some word of reassurance, any word at this point might have given them some comfort despite the scene that had just unfolded around them. This was the hell that they thought about. Brave ones lifted their heads just slightly to catch a glimpse of the woman that held them captive. Long blond hair, striking gold eyes, but she was in trouble somehow.
Sitting on the wooden chair, McAlister surveyed those around her. Idiots and morons alike, she held no prejudice about them. She wanted caught and that was final. Her eyes scanned the dead bodies of the guards and anyone else that attempted to stand in her way. They were littered across the tiled floor, much akin to dominoes that had been toppled. Fay let out a long sigh before waving her phaser in the air. "I'm waiting.....geesh......what do I have to do to get some service around here?"
<<The drama unfolding was.. interesting. The stench of fear filled the air. Fear and madness. Patiently it waited.>>
Service was in the making.
Around the bend, and down the corridor the hulking form of Senior Marshal Bin Hux hunched over a glowing tactical readout detailing the floor plan of the building.
It had been a hospital unit at one point in time. The once pristine white walls now dusty and stained with phaser burns.
Power was out of course, dark shadows playing cross the huddled forms of Hux's response team as they took shelter in what had once been a Nurse's lounge.
He eyed the 20 meters of corridor between his position and where the suspect had her hostages gathered.
Scattered ruble and fallen ceiling tiles….easy to slip on and nice and crunchy to prevent any sneak attack.
Shit...he hated his job sometime.
A house of healing had been turned into a slaughterhouse, and it was his duty to set things right. Sometimes life was easier back when he was in the Angosian Military service.
People ordered him to kill a bad guy and he did so by blowing his ass up...and the room he was standing in....and a few square blocks around that particular building just for good measure.
Now he had to deal with hostages.
Dumb asses.
The marshal glanced over at Mel Daughtery who was crouched against the wall, a slim black phaser clutched in her black gloved fist. Even in the midst of a crisis she looked like a dancer.
~~Should stuck with ballet kid.~~ Bin thought grimly.
Following a hot tip from some new guests of the Federation Coast Guard, Bin and his blond haired partner had burned up the space lanes in a mad dash across the sector only to walk into an irony worthy of the bard himself.
After weeks of investigations, questioning witnesses, crime lab analysis, and following up any of a dozen tips........Faylin decided to just go ahead and announce herself to the world.
Bitch.
The fact that she had chosen KS-128, a planet currently locked in a bloody firefight between ground forces of the Hydran and Federation governments was simply icing on the cake.
Hux was an old soldier. A product of the Angosian Super-Trooper program turned to Law Enforcement. The sound of artillery outside was as familiar to him as the hints of blood sprayed across the floor just around the corner from his current position.
Pausing to readjust the heavy black trenchcoat that was the mark of a Federation Marshal he peered down the passageway.
"Faylin McAllister?" he called. "I hear you made a mess in there. Get tired of waiting for me?"
"Oh no honey....not at all..." McAlister cooed.
Bin glanced back at the huddled forms of the full squad of combat ready Starfleet Marines that were waiting to back him up. One Faylin against Hux, Mel, and 12 jarheads.....she had them outnumbered.
"Right." he continued. "Hate to think I kept a lady in suspense. Gotta ask though darlin' How many people you got injured in there?" The number of dead didn't matter...they'd be easy enough to count afterwards.
<<The ghost continued to wait. Soon.>>
"No body. I shoot to kill, not to injure!" She bellowed with a dark laugh.
"Uh-huh" ~~smart ass~~......don't suppose you'd consider letting them all go free would ya?" Bin was mentally computing the odds of anybody getting out alive. One psycho with a 24th century phaser could take out an entire 20th century tank brigade.....and maybe even one Senior Marshal. If she was lucky.
"Release them?," came the reply, "And ruin my reputation?"
"Thought not." Bin sighed. Sliding his oversized .88 magnum revolver from its leather holster he spun the chamber quietly inspecting the massive rounds. He wasn't the best of shots, but the gun did make real big holes in things. "You realize I gotta come in there and kick you ass now right?"
"Come and get me copper!" Another sharp laugh followed by something completely insane occurred next.
The woman sighed as her eyes glazed over the huddled small masses before her. She had been graced by the presence of not only idiots, but morons too! Scratching her forehead with one end of the phaser, she blinked with a lazy fashion. Still no one had come and it was depressing her somewhat. In these times, the only thing that would bring her out of her slump was to sing a song. Arching her eyebrows just slightly, McAlister pursed her lips as the perfect song entered her head.
Turning her head, she viewed the control panel on the wall. It, well controlled the doors and lights. The lights in and of themselves were a little harsh to her sensitive golden eyes. Chameloids always faired better in the dark, so......
*pop*
The reddish beam hit the panel with a crackle and hiss resulting in the sudden darkness.
"Ah, much better." She spoke among her captives who now whispered in hushed fear. Her night vision excellent, she smiled with a grinch type quality that only she could know. Clearing her throat, McAlister started to sing as she lowered her phaser.
"Now, this is a little tune that all you American Terrans should know, including you Marshall!!" And with that, Fay started her own rendition of the Star Spangled Banner.
"Oh, say, can you see, by no more light you can't, What so proudly I shot at the my phasers last gleaming? Whose broad shoulders and bright eyes, thro' are no more, While the morons you watch'd, were so gallantly bleeding?"
*pop*
*pop*
*pop*
"And my phasers' red glare, your heads bursting in air,
*pop*
Gave proof thro' the night that I was still there.
*pop*
O say, will those idiots called Starfleet attempt to save
*pop*
The people that considered themselves still brave?"
*pop*
That was a relief of sorts. Seven more dead, not many more alive.
<<<A tiny smile, cruel and dark, graced the face of the ghost. Darkness had fallen.>>>
She sang fast.
With the first *pop* of the phaser, Marshal Hux had already been moving, his black boots crunching on the dusty floor rubble in the hall. 20 meters to go…….
There were three more *pops* before Mel with her human reflexes jerked herself into a run, blond hair in a spray of righteous anger, and fourth victim fell before the rest of the Marines even registered what was happening.
10 meters….
<<<The first elbow crushed the windpipe. The second, upwards, crushed the jaw. The pain had barely registered with the marine when the third elbow struck the ribs hard enough to shatter them despite the protective gear. Death would come. Eventually.>>>
5 meters…..
The fifth victim was vaporizing into a halo of screaming light by the time Hux rounded the corner, .88 Mag leveled and hammer cocked.
The big Marshal slipped slightly in the blood of previous victims, allowing a sixth to die before the hammer fell on the massive brass casing triggering the ancient chemical mixture of sulphur, potassium nitrate, and carbon thus hurling the huge lead projectile down the silver barrel and across the room in a cataclysmic explosion of noise and light.
The subsonic round passed a full three inches from Fay's wild eyed frenzy, slamming into the far wall and peppering her with plaster and wood splinters, thus throwing off her aim and saving the eighth victim.
Seconds ticked by slowly.
Hux's accelerated Angosian reflexes already had him diving for the deck as Mcallister's arm came around depressing the plastic trigger and searing the air behind him with liquid light.
It missed, but the skin on the Marshal's back bubbled into heat blisters even from the near miss.
Powered by enhanced reflexes, and incredible speed, a full three more shots were exchanged on either side before Mel and the Marines even made it down the hall to back up the Senior Marshal
Fay was blazing red lightning in deadly arrows as bright as the sun, and the Marshal's earth shattering hand held artillery was shaking debris from the very walls with their kinetic overkill.
Rounding the corner into the midst of the firefight, the Female Marshall flattened herself against an overturned desk just in time, while the young Marine behind her erupted into fiery nothingness with an abruptly silenced scream. That was enough for the following squad who opened up on the room in a hail of automatic gunfire, shredding walls and furniture alike into exploding splinters of wood and plastic.
Computer monitors exploded, and patient charts vaporized into a rain of paper and glass, spraying the room with their deadly precipitation.
It was a marvelous orgy of thunderous destruction.
Hapless victims caught in the crossfire.........
Expended brass cartridges tinkling on the ground…..
Lightning fast Fay ripping the throat from a Marine blinded by his own muzzleflash......
Hux cursing and discharging his final .88 caliber bullet into a cloud of dust and debris where a Chameloid stood only seconds before…..
<<<<A low thud, drowned in the madness. A marine clawing silently for a heartbeat at the knife which nailed him to the wall. Stabbed through the throat with his own knife. A quick glance by the man next to him. Eyes widening. Tears of fear and helplessness falling down the cheeks of the dying marine. The last thing the man saw before his neck was broken. Two men looking into each others eyes while Death claimed them.>>>>
Then it came to blows....
It was a battle of Titans.
A chameloid, the genetically evolved killer of lightning reflexes and hair trigger instincts......the product of a million years of merciless evolution.
An Angosian, the pinnacle of scientifically enhanced strength, tactical awareness and combat prowess......the product of the height of 24th century biochemical conditioning and manipulation.
The animal vs technology.
The predator sneered…. "Well hey ya Marshall, you sure will make a welcome addition to my collection!" Fay barked before barreling towards the Marshall with all her might. Within a second, she hit him lengthwise, the true strength of her species blowing into him full force. It knocked him back, but not down and with not a second to spare, McAlister attempted to level her phaser directly at his head. Unfortunately, something or someone knocked it out of her hand before she could fire, leaving her without a weapon. Her head turned sharply upwards, just before........
Just before a fist slammed it back down with the force of a sledgehammer.
It happened in slow motion......at least the outside observer who could not follow the flurry of twists and blows that struck with the force of a thunderclap.
Faylin was a tornado of claws and fangs...each alien form morphing into the next with a flesh shredding fury of an animal unchained.
Hux was a god of destruction. Adamantine fists that broke bones where they struck, staving in ribs that Fay rapidly reformed into more resilient shapes.
He bled.
She bled.
Not since mighty Zeus threw down the Titans of old had such a battle been seen.
The marshal slammed Fay into the floor with a force that shattered bone and plaster alike, blood spraying in a fan of artistic devastation.
She painted the walls with his flesh....Here Hux.....there Hux....Everywhere Hux.
And still they tore at each other with divine fury.
Fay was pissed, a ball of energy fighting for survival despite the utter pain she felt from transforming into various forms at a rapid pace. Growling with formalistic passion fueling her strength, she ran into the Hux, placing her hands on his chest and literally pushing him into a wall.
Literaly….into a wall, or at least halfway through it.
Tangled in the mass of wooden framing and metal, the marshal struggled to free himself, but felt something vaguely vital hung up on a nail. He was stuck…at least unless he used his enhanced strength to disembowel himself in the process.
"Ouch….." he grated through clenched teeth.
He was stuck there, which was enough for Fay to spit in his face make good her escape.
At last there was only stillness and blood in the dark.
"Mel…..you still…ouch…okay girl?"
************** Miles away…..
<<<<"That...was fun! Wasn't it people?" She shouted at the carnage in her wake with true Fay form before returning to her vulture like stares.
There she was alone again on the surface of AS-128……Through the darkness, a sudden yet calculated ghost brushed past her.
Her head turned slightly, recognizing the form.
"Hmmmmm.....I ran out of bodies." He responded craftily.
At this, McAlister grinned before responding. "I can get you more....I...have...
connections" She paused. "But I'm kinda in a bind right now.....let's get out of here.">>> Daughter of Rebbise, part 2 Ensign Relsta
Relsta stared at the door of the wooden lean-to in shock. Her brain was whirling with so many questions that she thought she might be sick again. Why had these humans captured her, what were humans doing on this planet, anyway, and how in Bitar did they speak Standard? 'What if the same thing that happened to you, happened to them? Maybe they weren't there when we scanned the planet because they were here...wherever this is, and they speak Standard because...' She didn't really have an answer for that. Still groggy, she crawled towards the doorway, hoping to get an idea of where she was. Now she had nothing but the terrain and her memory of the Galaxy's scans to help her find her way back to the crash site. Relsta scanned the room for something she could defend herself with, but the memory of her previous visitors stopped her. "Just because they're a bit ripe does not mean I should assume the worst!" Relsta admonished herself out loud, halting her painful journey across the floor. "They told her not to touch me. They won't hurt me." Denobulan optimism. Relsta never left home without it. "They probably weren't even the ones who knocked me out—" she continued. "I was in a cave, I bet a rock feel on my head. Maybe they found me and brought me here to protect me! That might explain how that woman was acting before." Unsteadily standing, she pushed aside the fabric that covered the doorway, determined to introduce herself properly and see if they could help her find the crash site. And promptly found herself face to giant, muscular chest with a man who made her previous description of 'ripe' the understatement of the century. Relsta was a tall woman, but this man was at least a head taller, well over 2 meters tall. Looking straight up, she realized it was the man from before, the one the woman had called 'Kranas-Sur'. He was standing just outside the door, peering through the fabric with confusion. "Rebbise-Da say?" he demanded, taking a step forward that forced Relsta back into the lean-to. "Rebbise-Da say to here-but-not," the man continued insistently. "Kranas hear." "Ahm," Relsta stammered. 'Here-but-not?' she wondered. He must be upset that she had been talking to herself. Perhaps they didn't do that sort of thing here, she mused. She would have to be very sensitive to their culture from now on. "Greetings!" she said in what she hoped was a cheerful, non-threatening manner. "My name is Relsta. I am a Starfleet Science Officer aboard the USS Galaxy." The huge man narrowed his eyes suspiciously. "All right, too complicated. Um, let's try that again." Relsta tapped her chest "Rellllllstaaaa." Pointing to the ceiling, the Denobulan zoomed her hand around in the air, with a few whooshes thrown in for dramatic effect. "Gaaaaalaxyyy. Staarrfleeet. See?" "Relstaaa....?" Kranas repeated with a large smile. Relsta sighed in relief—she'd gotten through to him! "Staarrfleeeeet?" The man continued, slowly. A glimmer of recognition flashed in his eyes, but then, like thunder follows lightening, his lips pursed with anger. "Ees falts. Ofit ees not. No moar wessa." Relsta had no idea what had just happened. Things had been going so well, and now he was jabbering away angrily. After a few moments of pacing and waving his arms, though, Kranas stopped and turned to her, his face aghast. "Kranas sorry, Rebbise-Da. No set you. Pease come, pease. Ka'tin see now." With that strange change of mood, the man slipped through the door, gesturing for Relsta to follow. ***** The 'Ka'tin' was apparently important enough that Relsta couldn't know where he was. As soon as she stepped outside of the lean-to, a second man roughly grabbed her and covered her eyes with his hands. By halfway through the trip, the Denobulan was considering asking for a blindfold, because she kept tripping over her guide's feet. Worse, even though he could see, he kept tripping over hers. Despite her bruised feet, she had to smile slightly—it was kind of like dancing with her first husband. Abruptly, her guide forced her to a stop and the hands pulled away, momentarily blinding her as her eyes instinctively snapped open. As her eyes adjusted, she realized it was early evening—she must have been unconscious for around eight hours. Kranas had walked over past a fire to the entrance of another wooden structure. "Ka'tin." Kranas stepped up to the fabric door, but kept his face turned away. "Ees Rebbise-Da, Ka'tin." The man who exited was not as large as Kranas. Hair, pitch black, hung well below his shoulders, but his face and chest were entirely smooth, unlike Kranas, who was just one step below the Denobulan Kuwer Beast on the hairiness scale. But although Kranas was large and imposing, this man was tightly coiled, moving smoothly, more like a Terran Panther than a Kuwer Beast. He was wearing some form of leather wrapped around his waist, and scars wound themselves across his so-smooth chest and legs, almost like an artistic pattern, but far too deep for Relsta to believe they were purposeful. He stopped two paces from her, his already narrow black-within-black eyes scanning her slowly and completely. "Rebbise-Da," he said, his voice almost low enough to be a whisper. She later blamed it on the head trauma, but Relsta was suddenly very turned on. Kranas placed a dirt-encrusted hand on her shoulder. "Ya, Ka'tin. Ees Rellstaaaa." The Denobulan smiled, pleased that he had remembered her—"Oh!" Relsta squeaked. Kranas' hand had snaked down her shoulder and now he was fondling her breasts. Vigorously. "Ees Relllstaaaa," he repeated, in a very pleased tone. Relsta's eyes widened as she realized exactly why Kranas had smiled earlier when she told him her name. He thought she had meant... 'Oh Great Moleetah,' Relsta thought. 'My breasts just got their own formal introduction to these people's leader.' She stopped breathing, not daring to react at all, lest she offend, as the huge man gave Relsta's left 'relsta' one last lingering squeeze, shooting the Denobulan a suggestive smile.
"Fare Thee Well, Djarum; or Who Took My Damned Cheroot?" With Benedict "Max" Maxwell, APP Maxwell's Quarters, moments after Victory had left....and just before the rescue briefing convened by Krieghoff He must have cried for a good fifteen minutes before he got a hold of himself. Wiping his tears, Max finally got up from where he was sitting and fixed himself a stiff drink...from his private reserve. The clove cigarette rolled between his fingers, with its sweet odor promising relaxation and calm. Max smirked at the thought that he could be smoking something a bit more potent, like that time... He banished the thought, realizing that it was nearly twenty years later. Djarum will have to do, he supposed. And it always did the job. He placed the cigarette into his mouth, filter end first (he had plenty of stories of when people who were uninitiated in smoking would light the filter end) and took a moment to enjoy the flavor just on the paper itself. Closing his eyes, he let the flavor seep through into his tongue like a thousand spice warriors running wild. After several moments, he opened his eyes and lit his Djarum, taking a very long and relaxing drag...at least he thought he was taking a very long and relaxing drag. His half lidded eyes flew open as he realized that his smoke was...well going up in smoke. To be accurate, his Djarum was vanishing in the fading light of the transporter. Then the following occurred: "The benefit of recreational smoking as a tool for relaxation-" "WHAT THE FUCK??!?!?" "-has been proven, especially in modern times when a variety of materials are available that pose little to no risk of addiction or detriment to an individual's health or general well-being. However, it is also a proven fact that, as the act of burning plant materials produces a strong, persistent odor-" "Computer, stop," Max commanded, but the disembodied voice of the computer continued. "...such acts can be considered a detriment to the well-being of the ship's community as a whole. Smoking produces waste products, both solid matter and airborne particulates; in particular it causes a significant draw on the air filtration systems." When the litany was finally done, Max took several deep breaths and tried a few things: "Computer, who authorized this action?" "Captain T'Vara, Commanding Officer, USS Galaxy." "Authorization level required to override?" "Captain's authorization is required to override the no smoking protocol." Max thought about asking another question, but realized that it was pointless. Arguing with the computer was like arguing with a two year old; in the end, he still wouldn't have his smoke. Then he glanced on the stand next to the couch. He still had his whiskey, and that beats sitting with his thumb up his ass. Picking up the shot glass, Max quickly raised it to his mouth. He then paused for the briefest of seconds and glanced around for no reason other than just simple paranoia. When his glass didn't dematerialize, he downed the shot in one gulp, then let out a low moaning gag. Then he went to pour himself another. Within twenty minutes, Max was unconscious with a bottle of Jack Daniels clutched to his chest and a runny smile on his face. About two hours after that, he was waking up to the sound of his Comm Panel advising that he had about fifteen minutes until an emergency briefing began. And his presence was required. "Judge Not, Lest You Be Judged" Consul Ayanna Hinanat Location: Liaison Department Offices ================================================== Her light eyes scanned the oblong room with selective abandonment. It was empty, yet held the mild mannered ghosts of tension within it's deck plated walls. Such was the case with the liaison Department. What was once ran with efficiency now best resembled the thrown about rubble left over from a war between worlds. Breathing deeply Ayanna sat with the weight of a thousand thoughts on her sculpted shoulders. The arrival on board the Galaxy had been....terse. With every new situation, Ayanna found herself feeling tense. It was the utter fear of the unknown that bothered her. At least with the law, it was in black and white even if it didn't lead or finish that way. She knew what to expect with the law. It courted her and whispered in her ear caressing her with it's stability. Not so with life on board the Galaxy. The Chief of this department left nothing. No instructions, no greeting, nothing. Her assistant had at least greeted Ayanna with a smile and a wave to her office. The work was already piled up on her desk which led to the assumption that the lack of qualified personnel on board this ship left the newest arrival with late nights and empty coffee cups wailing to be refilled. She should have known, it was the life typical of a Starfleet judge. Her life revolved around rulings, data exchange, and telecommunicated meetings concerning the 'progression' of the new program enacted by Starfleet. The circuit judges, once staples of ancient Terran days of justice, had been reanimated for this future time. Personally, to Ayanna the program had made a whole lot of sense. Despite the red tape it took to create it, she was proud that she was a part of it. Cases would be able to be solved in a timely manner, or so she thought at least. Her thoughts shifted to that of her father. He was out, blazing a path across the Universe. She knew nothing other than his name and rightfully so felt a great void. She was half Betazoid, that much was documented with her mother....yet her other half? It would be easy enough to submit to dna testing but there was always something blocking that path. Whether it be duty or personal, the time never appeared to permit itself to such as task. "Meh..." Dark long hair waved back and forth as a signal to stop wishing on stars. The matter would resolve itself with time, and with that, she was to be partly satisfied. She fingered the silver amulet around her neck. It brought her strength, due to it's protective qualities that it had been blessed with by her mother. It reminded her gently of other tasks she needed to accomplish soon. Her surroundings, they felt temporary for some reason. Bringing her left hand to her throat, she touched her skin lightly. The sensation to her felt normal, yet comforting in an emotionally healing sense. Her mother had always told her that she retained special qualities within herself and many times, she pressed her mother for solid information. She would just softly smile, leaving her daughter with a slight feeling of aggravation at the greater secret of who she was. A long, pregnant sigh passed before Ayanna turned her attention to the work that patiently waited in front of her. Her vision darted to the wooden gavel that decorated her desk. Before too long, she would use it on the most unusual case of her Starfleet career. "Ghosts" Part One- Breen Perspective Colonel For'kel Arvelion- SFMC And NPCs as needed (General Bt'razin- Breen Confederacy Naval Infantry, Day 36) The Commander of the Triad Base Camp, a Breen known to all as General Starfleet officers, many from the evacuated Langley, the Marine transport Bt'razin had been selected for command of the base camp because his heart He had ordered rations to the prisoners to be cut repeatedly. He had He had put them in a position to carry out their sick fantasies, and in turn And now, to guarantee that there was no cross-communication, no sharing of Contrary to holo-novels, it was quite easy to be evil without actually "General." A Breen yeoman offered his superior a PADD. "Today's command "Summary?" "We detected a ship marked as Federation Marshall Service in orbit. Hydran "One damned planet, and we can't even control it." Bt'razin's voice The aide shook off the rhetorical question with a clueless stare invisible "Very well, you are dismissed adjunct." Bt'razin watched as the young man But now was not the time for errant thoughts of the comforts of home. One There was a mechanical sounding affirmative from a general vocalizer before The direct 'all business' approach didn't even cause Bt'razin to flinch. "The regiment is at prescribed strength of 4,000, however I have detached "Good." Came the matter of fact reply. "Then you have sufficient means to Bt'razin nodded. It may not have been a lawful order by the Terran-centric "Furthermore there will be minimal records retained regarding these orders." "Yes general." "Excellent. Continue to serve our people as honorably as you have been, Bt'razin sat back in his chair. 2,286 was the exact number of prisoners 6517 |