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You are here: Home --> Forum Home --> Recent posts by Bromern Sal
Topic: A Cold Day in Hell Q&A
Subject: Awe shucks.


Was that concern in your tone?

Posted on 2007-12-19 at 15:17:27.

Topic: Star Trek: Operation:Persephone - Q&A
Subject: Pulling a little tactic from Mass Effect.


Chastising statement: using the logbook will help eliminate conflicting timeline posts.

Positive remark: the posts thus far have been invigorating.

Posted on 2007-12-19 at 15:16:04.

Topic: Cerebral Paradox - Cyberpunk 2020
Subject: Sunday, Sunday, Sunday!


That's right! I'm giving you until Sunday. If I don't have a decent post from you by then to continue the storyline I'll NPC the character. Warning served...

Posted on 2007-12-18 at 04:57:09.

Topic: Voyages of the Rocinante - Firefly RPG QnA
Subject: By the way,..


I didn't feel the need really to expound too much on what Willow expected of Wyatt. I think he'd just let her be about her business while keeping a close eye on things, hand near his weapon. Cathy pegged it when she typed out his retort though.

Posted on 2007-12-18 at 04:55:56.

Topic: Continuing Where We Last Left Off Q&A
Subject: Killer.


Don't sweat the small stuff...like gaming. We'll still be here.

Posted on 2007-12-18 at 04:54:45.

Topic: A Cold Day in Hell
Subject: answers


Lt. Kernan continued to disarm whilst receiving suggestions from his team. There really wasn't a whole lot of time to debate the situation as far as the LT was concerned. The longer hey sat out in the hall jabbering, the more likely those soldiers were to think they were hatching a plan, and in their already delusional state, Monty couldn't risk it.

"All great suggestions, folk's," Kernan breathed into his reciever. "But as pointed out; Inga's too valued of an asset, so's Blake; seeing how she's the only one of us here who might be able to fathom what's going on. They see a private dancing into their line of sight, and they're just as likely to shoot as not. Kane...they might mistake you for one o' them yeti--look, it's a risk, but who are you more likely to trust in this situation? I'm relying on their training. When they're confronted by an officer in the flesh, they'll be more likely to respond as trained soldiers.

"The decision's been made, so stand ready."

That said, Monty proceeded as previously outlined.

Posted on 2007-12-16 at 08:55:30.

Topic: A Cold Day in Hell
Subject: We'll play that game...


Monty lowered his head for a moment while he considered the request. Then, with a quick nod, he switched to the radio covering his entire team.

"I'm going in. The rest of you will remain at ready. Should any shots be fired your main objective is to take these soldiers alive. Understood?"

(OOC: if any objections are sounded, and only if...)

"Look," Kernan's tone was matter-of-fact. "These are our boys out there. It don't matter if they are a bit screwed up in the head right now, or not. They are Americans, and they deserve the respect of one Lieutenant if they've been through the Hell we've witnessed here. Just make sure that they don't suffer more should they make the mistake of acting out against me."

(OOC: otherwise, and continued...)

Lt. Kernan stripped his M6A1 from his shoulder and handed it off to Sgt. Kane. He followed this up immediately with the M13. Then, without hesitation, he rose up from his crouch and called out to the men in the room.

"Corporal Fields, I've turned my weapons over to my team. I'm coming out."

With an uncovered face, hands held at shoulder level, palms towards the room, Kernan walked slowly into the room.

Posted on 2007-12-15 at 18:03:06.

Topic: Cerebral Paradox - Cyberpunk 2020
Subject: on purpose


I left if hanging there on purpose so people would have a chance to post reactions. It is easy to assume Peacekeeper follows Croaker, and after barely being reunited with his tribesman after a few years apart, it is an easy thing to assume Bull's Eye goes with him as well. Firewind made his choice and is opting to stay with the larger crowd. What Preacher does is up to the player. Spiff has an invite from Scribe to go hang with him and Guardian for a bit (separate from Croaker), and Jack Co. is going their own route.

Right now, no one has officially left the building, though many have left the room.

Posted on 2007-12-14 at 06:46:22.

Topic: Star Trek: Operation Persephone
Subject: The beast...


Stardate: 2374.09.01
USS Charon – Captain’s Quarters – 0545 hours

Kel sat in darkness. His elbows rested on his knees, his shoulders were slumped. The captain of the Charon’s eyes were open despite the early hour, and though his head was hung, he peered up at the shattered room about him with a glowering hatred that should have been capable of lighting fires. His quarters were torn apart, books scattered across the floor, the glass of his coffee table broken into a thousand shards below his feet, broken PADDs nearly entombed in the walls where he’d “encouraged” their flight to end. He wasn’t spent…no, Captain Gavison was fueled. The anger that he’d felt at the beating they’d taken was now just an undercurrent to the rage smoldering within his chest, welling up inside of him, and barely contained.

Those bastards at Fleet HQ had slated his ship for a suicide run—his and Mac’s. They were putting a stop to his vengeance upon the Dominion. That had been the conclusion to Kel’s previous discovery, but it was no longer the envisioned outcome. An hour of destroying his quarters followed by eight of dark contemplation had driven Kel to one conclusion: He was going to take the Charon and the Cerberus into the GQ, spin those spiked-chin drug addicts on their turtle shells, and drift back through the wormhole without so much as a ‘howdy’ at the Dominion, just like Star Fleet wanted. And for what reason? Nothing short of tracking down the fool who’d made the orders and stringing him up from a yardarm by his own gizzard.

Kel’s tongue dusted his lips in anticipation of the thought. His eyes blinked away their dulled vision, sparked by the action of wetting his lips, and the captain realized he was hungry. Rising from his couch, Captain Gavison made his way to the replicator.

“Coffee and brandy…90% brandy. Temperature: eighty degrees.”

The slate gray mug materialized in the bay and Kel slowly lifted it to his lips, savoring the spiked liquid with closed eyes. The fire coursed down his throat, warming his insides and momentarily quelling the raging inferno that dwelt there. Placing a hand over the replicator, Kel leaned against the wall, taking one slow sip after another. Most replicators were set to deliver synthahol, but not his. Kel had paid a Dosi visitor to DS9 a small fortune to have his reprogrammed to allow for real alcohol.

“Eggs, over easy,” he mumbled, the brim of his mug still touching his lips. “two pieces of toast, ham, thinly sliced.”

The plate materialized with a fork, knife, and spoon. Lifting the meal from its tray, Kel turned and surveyed the mess, searching for a place to set his plate down. Despite the crunch of glass underneath his boots, he barely noticed the state of things. The plate found a home on the couch next to him as he returned to his seat.

Kel shoveled the eggs onto his toast and then slapped the ham over the top of it, making a sandwich. There was only one PADD that remained intact: the one that showed the briefing for Operation: Persephone. Picking it up, he scanned the estimated dates of arrival. Within the reflective screen, Kel caught sight of his scruffy, scarred face, disheveled hair, and the black circles under his eyes. He’d need to clean himself up in order to present the situation to his command staff.

Punching a couple of buttons on the PADD, Kel sent a directive to Fletcher, Jones, Talon, and the rest of his senior staff: meeting at 0900 in the Captain’s Ready Room. That done, Kelsey finished his breakfast and set about the daunting task of cleaning himself up. The quarters would wait until he was through savoring the sense of chaos such a battlefield instilled within him.

Posted on 2007-12-12 at 06:02:25.

Topic: A Cold Day in Hell
Subject: I'm calling bogus...;)


Kernan frowned at the response he'd received. He wasn't sure what he'd expected, but that certainly wasn't it. While his team made some adjustments and Inga looked into Hart's condition, the Lieutenant gave a nod of appreciation to Blake for her assessment. He'd come to the same conclusion. They were either on drugs, sleep deprived to a state of delirium, or under the influence of some other mind-altering torture. Taking a deep breath he called out again:

"You got it wrong, son. We're United States Army Rangers [repeats designation]. I'm Lt. Monty Kernan. I'm gonna list a few names now--this is from the roster of individuals we're supposed to be looking for." That said, Monty starts calling out what names he remembers, taking any suggestions from the team around him as they recall the roster as well.

"Those names ring any bells?" he tried using the most amicable tone he could to defuse the situation. "Look, we want to know what happened here. Uncle Sam wants you boys to come home. Why don't we settle this thing up, and slide those weapons on out so we can all be civilized?"

Posted on 2007-12-12 at 05:25:23.

Topic: Cerebral Paradox - Cyberpunk 2020
Subject: Still need some posts...


Well, looks like we're moving again Choombas. POST!

Posted on 2007-12-12 at 05:17:58.

Topic: Cerebral Paradox - Mature Content
Subject: Still waiting on some posts folks...


Night City University, Medical Education Laboratory, Science Labs Building – Lower West Side – Night City – March, Friday 13th, 2020, 2:47am

“OK Spiff. Ya heard Jack we need the following…First, a place to crash as I don’t have the contacts and don’t know of one. Second, a new set of wheels, preferably another van, as we need to get rid of the one we have as it will be up on the cops ‘look out for list’ soon. Third, we need a resupply of ammo, grens and at least three silencers for the SMG’s that Preacher, Peacekeeper and myself are carrying.

“Think ya can handle that Fixer”

DigitalScribe gave a nod of approval. It looked to him like Croaker was going to play along for once in his forlorn life. The media cringed a little as the nomad turned towards Jack and said, “Ok Jack, thanks for the ice; we will be waiting on your call. Hopefully with Spiff’s contacts as you say we will be ready to hit the target you name. Good luck on your end.

“Ok everyone lets get rolling. The longer we’re here, the easier it is to be found. Bull’s Eye; once again your driving, so get the van started while Preacher and I transfer Merry Deth to Jack’s vehicle.”

The burly nomad then walked right up to DigitalScribe—a slight motion of Frankie’s hand based on a hunch stayed Guardian from interfering. Croaker offered his rough hand, and the media didn’t wait a second before accepting it. Friends are hard enough to come by—no use in turning down a renewed friendship when offered. The nomad surprised his friend again by turning to the large, black bodyguard and offering a thanks for covering Peacekeeper before moving towards the body of the deceased mark.

Firewind, being the closest, received simple indication that he should gather up the other end and took a step forward to do so; grateful that they were on the move again. His experience with edgerunning made him edgy anytime they hovered about one area for too long. There were way too many ways to track a person down depending on how much Euro you had on hand, and what kind of friends you could tickle for help. The medic froze at Spiff’s derisive tone.

“Buddy, buddy, buddy. I know that you're a douchebag. I'm sure everyone else here knows it too. You don't have to remind us of it at every turn." Firewind frowned at the look Spiff gave him while the fixer paused. The man’s smile was painfully stretching the ends of his face. His teeth shone in Croaker's face, reflecting the fluorescent light of the room. "Frack your greedy little hands. I don't have money to be tossing at you. I said I'd buy drinks, not the ammo you frackin' wasted at the 's******e' we just left. I ain't your frackin' lapdog sidearm sally, so **** my *** about your frackin' munitions. My crew's been up all night saving your a***s, the least you could do is say thanks. You can call me a coward 'til you're blue in the face panzy patty, but that don't make it the truth. I ain't got time for your pissing matches at every turn. Face facts bi***y betty, s***'s gotten rough and we've got to move past it."

DigitalScribe stared at Spiff in open amazement. He’d had the fixer pegged as a man of style, a playboy and a player, not some hot-headed street trash that completely ignored common sense even after direction. Hadn’t Jack just said enough was enough, everyone get along, or we’re all dead? Not that Frankie considered Springed-Heel Jack his employer, but as rough as the speech was, it was laced with good, old-fashioned common sense. Divided we fall, he’d thought after the Scotsman had finished with his berating rhetoric. He’d even seen the light go on in Croaker’s eyes and had figured everything was sweet as a lover’s embrace.

"I'd be the first one to say 'Let's step outside and settle this with a nice 1,2,3, draw,' but unlike you, I got shot saving your little girlfriend here, so I'd appreciate a little respect." Spiff didn't specify whether 'your little girlfriend' was slang for Merry Deth or a reference to Peacekeeper because it didn't matter to him. As far as he could tell, this jack*** would've shot Merry Deth himself over a nasty comment about his unit. Either of them represented the value Spiff was getting at. He flipped open his phone and pulled up the picture he had taken at the hole while he continued talking, zooming in on the corpse lying on the pavement.

"Don't pretend that I need you little *********** to survive this mess. With the cash in my pocket I was easily able to hire the equivalent of the help I actually got in getting this girl out of the hole. What was it? 4 bullets and a knock-out drug? Everything else that brought this little girl to you was me, b***h. If you don't believe me I'll pop my clip out and hand it to you, and you can take a look at the bullet in my leg. In fact, while you're down there, you can frackin'**** ** **** too! 'Cause what the frack did you do b***h? You fired an RPG straight at my head—right next to your girlfriend. You hired a frackin' media to cover the events. You apparently even got the cops involved earlier! And look at this!" Spiff raised the phone up to Croaker's face, Coyote's corpse filling the screen. "I leave one of my guys with you for five minutes and you get him shot. At least everyone that came with me is still standing here—and Firewind doesn't have a scratch on him!"

Firewind continued to frown as Spiff indicated Preacher with a nod while beginning to dial on his phone. The emotion that flooded the medic was not anger, but dread. They’d been so close to wrapping this meeting up and moving on with things. The Islander was positive Croaker was going to skin iron which would result in Spiff following suit and all of them getting killed by that calm nuke standing behind Jack…Spiff continued his tirade.

"Now I've got no problem covering a meal tomorrow so that, even without getting paid, we don't go hungry. I can call my people and see about getting us a ride at a cheap price, but I can't pay for it. When Jack can't afford your damn munitions what the frack do you think I can do? Jack might be able to get us a decent price, but I ain't got the cash to be throwing around after you killed off my armed escort." Spiff paused. "Alternatively, I might be able to find us some work that actually pays so we can get your guns and wheels, but I'm sure you'd find a reason to complain about the job or accuse me of being a coward if I did."

The fixer looked down at the number on his phone and then back up at Croaker. "So the way I see it, you got two options." Spiff motioned at the crowd around him, "You can use the help that's been laid in front of you. I can do everything I can to keep us alive and keep Biotechnica off our scent. OR, you can shoot me, like you're so longing to do and kill off one of your allies in this. I'm not your enemy here, as much as you want me to be. I'm on your side, and I'd be just as ****** be on my own as with you." Spiff sighed and pressed send on his phone lifting it to his ear. "So what's it gonna be? Do I need to get a ride out of here in order to stay alive, or are you gonna learn that alienating your friends is a bad idea."

It was very nearly comical the way Bull’s Eye piped in at this point, and DigitalScribe had to practically bite his cheeks in order not to burst out laughing at the audacity of the situation.

"I know it a bit late to ask, but there is a pair of things I'd like before I go to the next stage if we are going to continue to use this heap. Some steel plates about an inch thick would be nice if we do keep this truck a bit longer, the walls are way to thin." Bull’s Eye reached out and handed Croaker a piece of paper. "Also if I could, I wouldn't mind having an AutoMag and 5 full magazines of ammo, while this pistol is good, just not enough ammo."

The nomad’s response was classic style. With a brief nod to Firewind he picked up Merry Deth’s legs and lifted her from the floor behind the counter. The medtech quickly hoisted her up by the shoulders, throwing a curled lip Spiff’s way in the process. As they walked by the fixer, Croaker paused.

“Option two…without the waste of ammo.” He remained standing face-to-face with the man for a moment longer before carrying the body out the door. Firewind just shook his head as he made his way past, and very quickly the two of them (and the body) were in the hall.

Croaker had held his tongue, and that impressed Frankie. Jack wasn’t nearly as impressed with the whole exchange.

“You frackin’ Gomi,” Jack’s tone was tired, the muscles in his jaw clenched and unclenched as he brought his hand up and rubbed at the outer corners of each eye with his thumb and fingers. Peacekeeper didn’t even bother looking at Spiff as she walked out.“The both o’ ya are frackin’ gomis. I donna care wot kinda ‘istory you lads ‘ave. I donna care wot size yer plug is, an’ neither do the rest o’ the crew ‘ere.

“So, Spiff,” Jack motioned his way with a disgusted sling of his hand. “You’re runnin’ the crew, now? Got some big cohunes on ya, neh? I ‘ave t’ admit tha’ I ‘ad ya pegged fer a smart lad, but now, I’m no’ so sure.” The fixer peered around the room, quickly scanning the media, his bodyguard, the cowboy, and his own retinue. “I donna see yer muscle, Lad. As near as I can tell it jus’ walked out tha’ door.”

Jack’s hand came to bear quickly—faster than humanly possible—his fingers and thumb in the same form as a child makes when imitating a pistol; his forefinger was pointed straight at Spiff’s forehead.

“If I thought yer little kingdom was worth my time, you’d be flatlined righ’ now, Lad. All because ya los’ yer cool.”

That said, Jack “holstered” his “weapon” by sliding his hand into his jacket pocket. Without any further todo, the renowned fixer strode past Spiff and into the hall, The Piper strolling past and blowing cinnamon scented smoke in his face. The bodyguards followed right on their heels.

A low, piercing whistle cut through the air, drawing everyone’s attention to DigitalScribe, who stood with an incredulous grin on his pretty face, arms folded across his chest as he leaned back against a countertop, head shaking slightly.

“Rough night?” He chuckled as he looked up from beneath his eyebrows at Spiff. His grin was just as bright as Spiff’s had been moments earlier. “I thought you had him pegged, Gato. Guess I jumped the gun a bit on that estimation.”

The media pushed away from the counter and gave Preacher a nod. “You’d best be trailing after that bunch, Preacher. Looks like your ride’s leaving.”

Turning his attention back to Spiff, Frankie reduced his smile by a few watts. “We’ll be heading for a hotel—catch a few winks of sleep before I get to work. You’re welcome to hitch a ride, Choombatta. If there was one thing I got out of all this crap was that if we don’t find a way to work together, we’re all dead—well, you folks are all dead. I’m not exactly sure they know I’m involved just yet.” DigitalScribe leaned in and winked, whispering, “I think that’s my edge.”

With a pat to Spiff’s shoulder by the back of his knuckles, DigitalScribe strolled past Guardian and out the door, the large bodyguard remaining behind where he figured the most obvious threat remained. Once the media was out the door, Guardian followed.

Night City University, Medical Education Laboratory, Science Labs Building – Lower West Side – Night City – March, Friday 13th, 2020, 2:50am

Posted on 2007-12-12 at 05:16:13.

Topic: Voyages of the Rocinante - Firefly RPG QnA
Subject: Well...


Take your time--the both of you. I'd rather not be responsible for William and Veronica feeling like orphans.

Posted on 2007-12-12 at 04:20:46.

Topic: Oblivion IV: The Elder Scrolls
Subject: That's a bit difficult to explain...


I just play with each of the individual features until I get a character that looks good. I've screwed it up once in character generation and ended up with a gray neck. Unfortunately, that was the character that I've gotten the furthest on.

Posted on 2007-12-12 at 04:19:26.

Topic: A Cold Day in Hell Q&A
Subject: Wager anyone?


Thus smacks of alternate reality. Our military history does not have a time period where one of the most valuable resources in the Army was disbanded, though Olan may choose otherwise in his history. Monty isn't going to go that far Sci-fi Geek yet though. I still feel it is a mighty leap for a clear thinking U.S. Ranger to immediately say, "Hey. If these guys think that the Rangers were disbanded, this is either a time warp we're caught up in, or an alternate reality." No. His first thought would be that these poor souls are either under the influence of a psychoschematic drug, under lot of stress and prone to hallucinations, or mentally unstable.

Posted on 2007-12-10 at 07:09:45.

Topic: Star Trek: Operation Persephone
Subject: Probability of Success


Stardate: 2374.08.31
USS Charon – Captain’s Quarters – 2015 hours

Kelsey Gavison had been nursing his anger. He knew it was impractical—even ineffective—for a Star Fleet captain to wallow in defeat, so he wasn’t wallowing. At least, not in his estimation. Focusing on his anger allowed him not to wallow. Wallowing was disgraceful, and something a teenager would do when turned down by that hot medical intern. Kelsey was most certainly not wallowing.

Here they sat, broken and feeble, attached to the embracing arms of DS9 while teams of station crew helped his skeletal crew repair the damages wrought by the Dominion in their most recent excursion. It had been the closest thing to utter failure that the Charon had experienced while under his command. Oh, there’d been some close scrapes, but the Charon had always come out on top. Not this time however. No, Kelsey had sat in his captain’s chair, glaring at this display screen that depicted the looming beetle-like Jem’Hadar battle cruiser firing green jets of pulsing lasers upon them and for the first time in years he’d felt helpless. Like any good captain, he’d not shown the defeat he felt to his crew, instead, he bellowed out orders and growled insults at the enemy like the captain of a lost ship railing against the storm: a fruitless effort, but one designed to show resistance to impending destruction.

It had been Lt. Cdr. Talon who had come up with the impossibly brilliant tactic that had broken them free of the pursuit and thrown them into the cover of a magnetic pole while disabling the battle cruiser’s sensors. Chief Jones had secured his place in the report by then converting a power coupling into a conduit to provide juice to their damaged warp drive in a daring exploitation of Star Fleet regulation. Commander Fletcher had taken Conn when the pilot had been killed during a console overload, and he’d been the one to pilot them past the lurking enemy, outmaneuvering their fighters until they could achieve warp. Jones had held the ship together long enough to limp back through the wormhole, so that Kelsey could report the intel they’d gathered.

Looking down at the PADD in his hand, Kelsey sneered angrily at the registration of mission success granted him by Captain Sisko: Complete. Such a word held insult within the compliment. The mission was complete, not successful, just complete. It would have been successful had he not lost five crewmen, damaged the Charon, and suffered the indignation of limping into port.

The scarred man was about to set the PADD down when a message beeped through, directed from the DS9 communications systems since the Charon’s were currently under repair. Kelsey’s eyebrows came together at the designation and the scowl that followed made his scarred face all that much more angry-looking. Leaning forward so that his shadow fell across the coffee table strewn with reports of enemy ship movement, public details of the war, and what little he could gather by way of possible missions he could volunteer for once the Charon was back in working order, Kel activated his security clearance and began to peruse the contents.

The Charon had been selected for a special assignment: Operation Persephone. This was just the sort of mission Kel had been looking for. Driving into the heart of the Gamma Quadrant, at least that’s the way it appeared to the captain at first. Then, as he read deeper, his brow furrowed further and half a dozen curse words were muttered under his breath. It wasn’t a seek and destroy, a demolitions, or even an encounter specific mission. It was a rescue mission. The Charon had been selected because of its frequent passes into the GQ—something Kel wagered had only been done more times by the Defiant under Sisko or Worf. The crew of the Charon was familiar with that section of space, the dangers within, and had been successful in returning through the wormhole, so they were to escort another ship called the Cerberus through to the GQ, follow some pattern outlined by Star Fleet Intelligence that would likely wind up taking them right through a fleet of Jem’Hadar battle cruisers, rescue some personnel, and then hotfoot it out of there with no one the wiser.

His mood was darkening.

Captain Gavison pressed through to the compliment that would be crewing the Cerberus and found the first bright spots of the day. Looks like Mac will finally get that fourth pip, Kel thought, though the thought of that little achievement in conjunction with this mission didn’t sit well with him for some reason. That giant security shag carpet was aboard as well, and the same with the Discovery’s old council. That’s quite the reunion-- The next column of names gave Kel pause. Romulans!?

Another stream of expletives escaped his lips—this time with much more fury. The energy of his anger brought him out of his seat as he stared incredulously at the listing of Romulan scientists. His wide eyes scanned the prescribed assignment for the “guests” and he swore again.

“Bloody cloaks,” Kel growled. That was how Star Fleet Intelligence figured they’d walk them through the GQ without any trouble. Problem was, Kel knew of at least one Dominion sensor array that had been able to detect cloaked vessels. The Charon had been a part of destroying it, but that didn’t mean that there weren’t others. The cloaks would give the crew of the two ships a false sense of security, something would go wrong, and they’d be space dust before Star Fleet had received the distress signal. Wait! That’s it. Kel suddenly realized why Mac’s pending promotion bothered him so in conjunction with this mission: Mac’s personality was grating for command. He had always been one to speak his mind, not be a yes-man, and push his opinion around. Star Fleet wasn’t just desperate for command staff after the Disaster at Tyra, but they’d already figured the odds of success for this mission, and they were staffing up those they felt were expendable!

Kel had never felt that the crew of the Charon were expendable. Sure, he’d been using the ship to forward his own agenda in his revenge on the Dominion, but he wasn’t just throwing lives away. Who the hell were these people that two ships—hundreds of lives—were to be risked to bring them back from some Dominin detention center? That’s the question that took up the rest of Kel’s evening and early morning hours as he researched an answer, cross-referenced previous mission reports from all throughout Star Fleet, and began to piece together what information he could to deliver a higher chance of survival for both ships. Meanwhile, he lay the mission parameters into a program he’d developed and received the probability of success:

/=\ Mission Operation: Persephone’s probability of success: 12.24%. /=\

Kel’s face flushed red as he sent the contents strewn across the coffee table across the room with an explosion of expletive followed up by a roar that would have done his Lyran officer proud.


Posted on 2007-12-09 at 18:06:55.

Topic: Cerebral Paradox - Cyberpunk 2020
Subject: there's something about the dark future...


There is always the urge to make the game as gritty as possible. In most cases it can be done while hinting at the vulgarity that would likely insinuate themselves on people of this ilk.

No harm done, Sui. Everything was cleaned up when Tann went through the post. Let's game on, shall we?

Posted on 2007-12-09 at 07:16:56.

Topic: Star Trek: Charon Staff Fulfillment
Subject: nice


I look forward to seeing the character's.

Posted on 2007-12-07 at 07:09:04.

Topic: Star Trek: Operation:Persephone - Q&A
Subject: Most likely


There would most likely be a security pad next to the door. The pad could also be configured to recognize you bio signs, communicator signal, or voice command. At least I recall seeing doors opened in the series using any number of those options.

Posted on 2007-12-06 at 07:42:31.

Topic: Star Trek: Charon Staff Fulfillment
Subject: Energizer.


Still looking for players.

Posted on 2007-12-06 at 00:37:36.

Topic: Oblivion IV: The Elder Scrolls
Subject: interesting


I've had no problems manipulating the character's to look good.

Posted on 2007-12-06 at 00:35:28.

Topic: Star Trek: Operation:Persephone - Q&A
Subject: Drumroll please


That, right there, folks is what we call a glutton for punishment.

Posted on 2007-12-06 at 00:29:26.

Topic: Star Trek: Operation:Persephone - Q&A
Subject: Please, please, please


Don't forget to include your time stamp as well as update the log book. It will make things go so much smoother.

Posted on 2007-12-05 at 20:57:53.

Topic: Cerebral Paradox - Cyberpunk 2020
Subject: fairly astute


You'd have to look through your sheet to see if you have any contacts that might help with the holing up scenario. There are hotels, motels, coffin hotels and motels, clubs, abandoned buildings, habitated buildings (can someone say, The Referee?), and any of other places you can try.

Posted on 2007-12-05 at 06:21:11.

Topic: Star Trek: Operation Persephone
Subject: The Doctor is in.


Stardate: 2371.08.31
USS Cerberus – Medical Bay – 2008 hours

Lt. Hash stood before the slate gray doors of the medical bay just far enough away from the sensors so as not to activate them. His eyes traced the blue bars that indicated the medical nature of the room across the face of the door as though they held patterns of hidden meaning deep within. His head tilted slightly to the side, almost to the angle of the shadow that cut across the door due to a series of lights that had not yet been activated in the corridor. He was alone. There were no passerby’s to speculate on what occupied his mind, not that they’d be right. What occupied Jon’s mind was never what one thought.

For example: in this case, one might have thought Jon Patrick Hash to be considering the aesthetics of the wall and door mixed with the shadows and the color of blue, or they might have thought that he was contemplating the magnitude of his new assignment aboard a newly christened vessel, green in all aspects. They might even think that he was considering how he was going to address his crew for the first time once he stepped through the door—of course, that would be assuming that any of the medical staff had arrived aboard yet. Still, they’d be wrong.

Jon had been caught up in a holodeck program he’d experienced in his lay-over that had been a rather poor rendition of the classic Beowulf, and a conversation he’d had with the electronic, artsy, embodiment of the legendary hero.

“What bloody good does it do to lie in wait for the enemy’s attack when you know it will just tear through your defenses and decimate your numbers?” Jon had asked while the two peered over the vast, windswept landscape of the mountains surrounding the lodge Grendal would be ransacking in just a few hours.

“It is a test of strength,” Beowulf had responded with iron cords in his voice.

“A test of bloody stupidity.”

“You question my honor, Little Man…” The great warrior’s voice trailed off dangerously, but Jon ignored the warning.

“If honor equates to stupidity, then yeah. You know where the beast resides; why not take the battle to him?” Jon knew full well that Beowulf would, eventually, take the fight to the troll, but in the meantime many lives would be wasted to ideals.

“I will defend the lodge—“

“You’re a bloody fool.”

Isn’t that what the Federation is doing? Waiting for the troll to come storming through our front doors and tear our people limb from limb? The surgeon sighed and then took a deep breath. He’d had that conversation with Dr. DeBakey during another of his holodeck leaves.

“Yes,” Debakey, the famous cardiovascular surgeon had amended thoughtfully when Jon had raised that argument after describing what was happening in the Dominion War. “It would seem that they are waiting, but perhaps they are waiting like the Ctenizidae of the order Araneae, and will pounce when the moment presents itself.”

“That’s not what they’re doing at all!” Hash had raged. “They’re sitting like a bunch of pansy asses, waiting for the bloody Dominion to step on their toes so they can respond! They’re a bunch of—oh! Shut up. You’re a bloody fool.”

That had been the end of that. Dr. Debakey had refused to even acknowledge Jon’s presence after that, and Lt. Hash had left the holodeck representation of the heart surgery in a huff.

His opinion of how Star Fleet was handling the Dominion War hadn’t changed, but he kept accepting assignments that he hoped would take him to the brink, put him in a position where he could best effect the outcome, and help him help others turn the tide. At least, that was how he’d tried to make things work until now.

“Bloody fool,” he mumbled as he stepped forward and through the doorway that opened for him. Peering around at his less than spacious sickbay, Jon sighed again and made his way to his desk. He knew he should be reporting to the captain, but for the time being he needed to sort out his senses. Dropping into the seat behind the console-laden table, Jon considered how he’d ended up where he was.

“Weren’t you just in the thick of it?” he asked himself, remembering the battle that had nearly been his last. It had been the end for some multiple thousands of Star Fleet personnel. He’d “lucked out” and been picked up while floating near the debris of his disabled ship by a retreating frigate while the Dominion-Cardassian fleet systematically destroyed every last vessel floating in the great, black void of space.

“State the reason of your medical emergency.” The voice came from off to his right, near the door. Peering up at the scrawny, blonde-haired medical program Jon sighed again.

“I don’t have a bloody medical emergency, you stupid batch of glowing lights and energized particles. I’m the damn doctor around here so do yourself a favor and don’t activate unless I’m not in the room. Now vaporize.”

“Well, I’ll be!” The program huffed indignantly. “I was programmed to appear when someone not designated medical staff entered the room. I was—“

“You were getting on my last nerve is what you were doing. I’m the bloody doctor here, now scram!”

With an imperious glare the program deactivated leaving Jon to his lonely, dim lighting. With yet another sigh, Lt. Hash reached over to his desktop and tapped the surface, watching the multiple light panel come to life. Pressing the communication line, he activated the command staff protocol he’d been given.

“Captain?”

=/\= Response =/\=

“Lieutenant Jon Hash reporting for duty, sir.” His tone was ornery, like someone who had just been on a flight jammed in tight quarters for hours on end, though Jon felt he was tempering it well.

Posted on 2007-12-05 at 03:21:39.

 


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