Well... the first slew of ideas is down the toilet, but I've submitted a second round. 

No discussion? No posts?

Alaxis is with Wyatt in the group going to check on that room. The infirmary is nearby, which may be important.

I have a couple of ideas... don't lose hope yet. I'm just checking on some things with the kind-hearted and caring GM.

Those are all great questions. I imagine we'll find out. Sung is leading non-engineer/tech types to the location of the life sign. The rest are supposed to be getting power, life support, etc. back online if at all possible. That means that the Tech Group heads to the Engine Room to restore life support and get everything that they can back online (Wolf, Pops, and Fox), while the Cool Kids (Wyatt, Alaxis, and Alex) will head to the one bed room on deck one across from the head near the bow. As Roger has pointed out, the back-up generators are on Deck 1, port side, near the stern. That will likely be the place to start, then head down to Main engineering (down the 300' tunnel to the aft section) to see what else can get fixed.

Our team doesn't have the science equipment to test the silvery flakes... yet. This is a science vessel, after all.

I hope you get feeling better soon, Rob. 

I've updated the Logbook. Went back a few days too and attempted to get every entry in place. 

Just noting that Alpha starts at 0700, the day of the week is Monday. I believe that this means the following people should be on the Bridge when Silas receives his message:

• Command: Silas


• Helm: Tochi


• Tactical: Ensign Blackmon


• Operations: Lt. Moriden


• Engineering: Thorson


• Science Con 1: Asovil

I even mistakenly put Asovil in the Science Lab at this time. So, I'm rewriting some of my post to reflect this as Asovil would not be away from her post.

Gib finishes his prayers while the others work at their bandages. As he wearily grapples with rising to his feet, Aranwen's soft voice calls to him.

"Thank you, Gib, but I don't say such things lightly - I would not doubt them to make us suffer. In such suffering, it is natural to lash out. But in this place, lashing out at me is perhaps the best option - if they believe our unity lost, that's something else we may be able to hold in our favour," Aranwen explains.

Considering her plan, the warrior-priest of Therassor leans up against the bars, making himself more visible to the younger cleric and attempting to catch any sign of his companions in the other cells or listening guards. That's a tricky game to play, he acknowledges. A person can get lost in their own subterfuge. Their resolve may crumble, spoken words becoming their reality. Perhaps this won't be a challenge for one who has lived as long as she, and maybe even for Ch'dau, but Cedric... allowing himself a sidelong glance at his Solanis counterpart, Moreno scratches at his beard, breaking away some dried substance and flicking it from where it fell on his chest. We have nothing worth torturing us over except the bending of our knee. Compliance would, perhaps, shorten any terms of torture but I will not forsake my vows to the Church, and I doubt Cedric will willingly do so as well. There might not be any way for us to feign compliance in that case. Aranwen and Ch'dau might be able to pull such a ruse off and in doing so, may find opportunity to address our captivity or even locate Kith. Cedric and I might be able to withstand the tortures and these filthy conditions through the graces of our gods. 

Closing his eyes for a moment, he mutters into his beard, "Mighty General, grant me the wisdom to see our paths clearly that I might serve you well." Maintaining a moment of additional silence, he finally addresses the Bladesinger.

(OOC: The following occurs only if he doesn't see any enemy listening in.)

"Your plan might lead to fortuitous positioning in the future, Aranwen," he concedes in his deep, gravelly voice. "These followers of D'hurgen will likely have but two uses for us, conversion or additions to their forces. They may deign to allow their acolytes to practice on us or employ torture for the sheer pleasure of it but they are not of the Painbringer's fold and delaying our deaths for the pleasure of torture seems to me to be against their motivations. 

"While you and Ch'dau might be willing to pretend at conversion, this is not something that either myself or Cedric will be able to do without forsaking our oaths. Something I will not do. If you'll consider the following alteration to your plan...

"The act may better be accepted if you and Ch'dau pretend at the falling out while Cedric and I fight for unity amongst our group, delivering messages of hope and endurance."

And depending on how much of her undershirt Arawen used up, she could probably wad up the remainder and toss it to him through the bars. In fact, excess clothing can be passed around that way to make sure that everyone's wounds are bandaged.

Why, thank you.

Thank you!

No. I prefer sleep. 

Paint? Lifting his muddy brown eyes from the discovery, Captain Sung surveys the bay. What's the significance of this? This amount of flaked paint floating around has to mean something but for the life of him, the half-Korean Browncoat can't think of the reason. Scraped off of some crate when the airlock was blown? Moving to the nearest wall, he investigates the coating beneath its layer of frost, scraping away the frozen crystals with the heel of his gloved hand. Turning away from the puzzle, Wyatt considers the rest of the apparent evidence, making his conclusions while his crew works.

"Ok, Bullet," Pops remarks, his voice carrying across the EV suit's radio, "get yourself over here. Likely we'll be need'n them big strong arms of yours over here to get these doors open."

Wyatt joins them as the older man attaches power to the control box, punches in the codes, and waits for the doors to respond. Surprisingly, it did, easily. The heavy decompression door slides silently back into a safe position and the main doors open. More flecks of paint dance in the light of headlamps drawing a return of the slightly furrowed brow and speculative frown on the captain's face.

A corridor is before them; empty except the flecks and frost. There are three doors to other rooms ahead in the hall and a circular lift with closed doors as well—no sealed decompression doors. The door on their immediate left is dented as if something big and heavy hit it from the other side, bulging towards them.

Alex pulls up the schematics of the ship. They are on Deck 2. The Bridge is straight ahead through the door furthest from them and down a long corridor. Reviewing the schematics, Wyatt registers that the crew quarters and infirmary are on Deck 1, which can be accessed through the lift and, in the case of power failure, a ladder attached to the side of the shaft. The lift should descend automatically. Engineering is in the aft section, accessible via Deck 1, with backup generators also on Deck 1. Deck 3 has the equipment necessary for the massive sensor array that the science vessel had at one time, the ladder to access it is up ahead and to the left.

"That can't be good," Wyatt points to the bulging door. "Coulda been explosives, maybe?" 

Walking confidently further into the corridor, Wyatt turns back to his team, "All right, people. You know the drill. Get the back-up power on if ya can. We'll track down the life sign. Be careful. I know we're on the clock, so to speak, but nothin's worth yer lives."

That being said, Captain Sung leads his small team towards the section of the ship they had detected the faint signal.

Where was the faint life sign again?

Y'all are too kind. I'm just trying to keep up with your level of play.

I seem to remember something along those lines being mentioned in a QA post a loooooong time ago.

I've posted! I'm looking forward to full crew involvement. FYI - Giddy is currently wrapped up in RL submarine making so if you need something from his character, I volunteer to NPC him.

Stardate 2365.02.22
U.S.S. Peregrine; Deck 2 - Bridge – 0735

Wave lines of vivid green, stark blue, vibrant orange, and callous gray dance in repeat patterns at the top of her viewscreen. Beneath the recorded variances lies an explanation of what the science officer is looking at. Radio waves have already been eliminated from the report by Dalia so the remaining readings are clearer. Longitudinal waves remain. Varying in frequency they are still nothing special.

"Nothing," Asovil sighs, her observation carrying through the computer to Science Lab 1.

/= The same as yesterday,/= Dalia acknowledges with obvious malaise.

"Change sectors. Continue the scans," The CSO orders flatly. "Today may return the same results like yesterday's but the scans need to run.

"What else awaits us today?"

/= Crane, Gaultier, and Scheuermann are putting their heads together on crossbreeding the Flaxian Hypernelium mold and the Triannon Vestillus fungi. /=

"To what end?" the Andorian's antennae tilt forward as her head tilts a little to the left.

/= Scheuermann believes that there are complementary properties that could result in a strain of plant with medicinal properties particularly effective in combating the Lumerian Pox. /= The information that Maize is referring to pops up on Science Con 1's screen. 

"Why are Crane and Gaultier involved?"

/= Gaultier believes that the excretions of the Oolans slugs might help stimulate the proper levels of reproductive hormones in the Flaxian Hypernelium mold under the right conditions. Without the slug's contributions, the gestation period mold won't match up with the lifespan of the Triannon Vestillus' spore cycle. /=

Switching the view for her commanding officer, Dalia produces a schematic of DNA strands on Asovil's screen. /= Crane's expertise is needed in formulating the melding sequence between the two strains of plant. All indicators point towards a cohesiveness but there are a couple of anomolies...  here, and... here. The compressed sequence will potentially need to be manipulated to become.more susceptible to the excretions. /=

"Well," Asovil sighs again, "it isn't as though they don't have the bandwidth. Have them submit the project scope for a full review."

/= Aye, sir. /= Dalia responds. /= They'll have the project scope to you within seventy-two hours. /=

Lieutenant Moriden's comment draws the Andorian's attention.  "Captain, I have a priority message from Starfleet Command."

Drake sets the PADD down that he's holding and stands. "Onscreen, please."

Turning to the bow of the ship, the Lieutenant focuses on the viewscreen as it shifts from the starfield to the scene of a human female in an admiral's jacket with graying brown hair.

"Admiral Harding," Captain Drake acknowledges, "I hope that you are well. What can we do for you?"

The Admiral frowns. "Commander Drake, you recall the escape pod that you brought to Starbase 118?"

Silas nods. "Of course, Admiral. What of it?"

Harding continues. "Commander, that escape pod was picked up by the U.S.S. Serapis for study. Five days ago, we lost all contact with the Serapis. Four hours ago, we received a garbled distress signal from her."

After a pause, an audio recording begins playing.

...containment failed... changes... loss of life... require aid... caution... HELP US...

"That's all there is," Harding adds as the static audio dies away. "Commander Drake, the Peregrine is the closest option that we have. I am sending you the last known coordinates of the Serapis. You are to proceed there immediately to ascertain the situation and to deal with it appropriately. Use extreme caution, as there is no telling what exactly happened. If there are any survivors, you are to render aid."

Drake nods immediately. "Of course, Admiral. Do we know anything else?"

An odd look crosses the admiral's face for a moment, but she shakes her head and far be it for Asovil to be able to decipher the human's expression. "No, Commander. I can provide no further intel on the matter. Conduct yourself with caution and keep us apprised. Good luck, and Godspeed. Harding out."

With that, the viewscreen returns to the starfield. Looking to her captain, Asovil considers what she's just witnessed.

Silas sits down again. "Tochi," he says thoughtfully, "set a course for those coordinates, warp factor six." Without bothering to verify if the order has been acknowledged, the captain locates his yeoman. 

"Riva," he calls, "inform the senior staff that our mission has changed and that the new orders will be the focus of the 0900 staff meeting."

The Bajoran picks up on the tension in Drake's voice, and for once, offers no sass. "Aye, sir. I'll get right on that."

Silas nods. "Thank you."

"I have a senior staff meeting at oh-nine-hundred," Asovil informs Dalia. "We will need to be swift like a tortoise and finish our meeting, Ensign," Asovil quips. "Proceed."

Meetings such as these have been known to take until eleven hundred and the Andorian scientist doesn't want to be late. With the primary mission of the Peregrine being anything but science, the prospect of a new mission brings with it a possibility of moving within range of something scientifically significant. She speculates that Starfleet won't be sending the small ship on anything too far from a base. Paying fierce attention to the matters at hand, Asovil can barely keep her mind from drifting towards possibilities.

At precisely 0830, the Andorian closes the meeting and switches the con computer to a multitasking view. Pulling up the maps of nearby space, she begins running searches. By 0850, she has a few possibilities and her excitement has grown to occasionally quivering antennae as she makes her way to the officer's meeting. Arriving five minutes early, she finds her seat and picks up her searches on her handheld while waiting for the meeting to start.

Death's pale grip releases him mere minutes after the torturous and painful trek to the cell. Wounds torn through his flesh and clothing by fetid, rotting tooth and nail collect stained hay and earthen grime with childlike abandon. Finally free from the paralysis, Gib is wrought with pain that commands contorting muscles stealing his breath with feverish hunger. Forcing his consciousness back in control, the warrior-priest clenches his teeth against the stinging and throbbing, the blue heat, and the fear that accompanies such masters. Shifting his knees underneath him, Moreno stifles a grief-stricken groan. As much elicited by the anguish of his weak movements as the gruesome memory of Midge's body being devoured. 

Let it live in my mind, Mighty General, he begs. Let the deaths of my friends live within me as fuel for your Flames of Battle. Smoldering ember flames peer from his skull as he lifts his head to look out the iron gates. Give me that righteous battle, my lord. Grant me this one wish before you call me to the Halls and I swear by my eternal soul that you will have victory!

Ch'dau's roar echoes with the sounds of a thousand beasts in these halls. Settling limply on his haunches, Gib allows his head to fall backwards, basking in the thunder.

There is no need for reality to break through fantasy here. The priest of Therassor is grimly aware of their predicament. Reason is their only weapon at this point. Resolve is their armor. Drawing in a ragged breath, a practiced mind sets about determining the extent of his many wounds. Their time may be more limited by the onset of infections unless the injuries can be remedied.

You guys are silly...

So, I will attempt to have a post up tonight or tomorrow. This reminds me of a dungeon... Escape from... no. That's not it. Dungeon of the Slave Lords? Anyway, at least we have our armor and we ain't runnin' 'round nekkid.

NEKKID BUT FOR A BEARD...or two.

I like maps.

I'll have a post up shortly.

I'll do my best to have a post up tonight. Tomorrow at the latest.

Dare I hope? 

I am not upset.

I started playing the game with the understanding that Gib was going to die.

Honestly, I'm surprised he's made it this far.

I do think this has been an outstanding group to RP with. Very entertaining to read.

I saw this pic and immediately thought of Davena.

All right, I need to know what the plan is. Is this a grab the package at first sight and run? Observe and collect data to strategize with? Engage with the target using diplomacy if the target is there? Now's the time to discuss. Just remember, unless you are using walkies or those of you with optics are reading what Blossom is floating out there, Ghlahn is on his own and Charlie and Blossom aren't involved in the decision.

There is naught to do but fight. Grinning, giggling, rotting creatures are everywhere despite Therassor's and Solanis' power piercing the unholy walls and Moreno is forced to hold the line. Then darkness... that cursed ink, and once again he finds himself using his other senses to navigate the battle.

Nothing in his training had ever prepared him for this. Knowledge such as he received in the temple and education within the ranks of his unit are all useless. Now, now comes the test of his mettle. With Aranwen's song in his ears, he begins reciting the funeral dirge he had somehow thought he'd be able to avoid, as foolish as such a thought is for someone in his line of work.

Give me strength
Give me courage
No more am I 
No more am I

Light returns at Cedric's plea and just in time as a ghoul grips the edge of Gib's shield and attempts to tear it away. Twisting, the warrior-priest pushes the creature back and thrusts true. 

My heart is yours, my General
My soul will be with you
In the Halls of Heroes Fallen
I shall make one final march

"Ch'dau! Put in a good word for me with your cat god, yes?" The Cidal's wavering call carries above the sounds of battle and Gib's eyes widen. What are you doing, little friend? Risking a glance, he see's the insane undead tossing bloody fur from the Kazari's back and hears the spidery incantation of their arcane spellcaster. Green liquid burns away at the fell creature, but Gib is forced to return his full attention to the fight in front of him before he can see the results.

Give me strength
Give me courage
No more am I
No more am I

Injured, weary, nearly overwhelmed by more than just the putrid smell of the walking dead, Moreno knows that death isn't too far off. Sheer numbers have won this day for the side of evil. He knows not how much more of this beating he can take but what he does know is that he will not disappoint his god or his allies.

From this, a warrior's battlefield
I fly to your silver banner
I've received my orders well, my lord
The call of your battle horn

Two ghastly ghouls leap high and low while another attempts to crawl over his shield. Hacking down on one creature's shoulder, Gib grinds his teeth against the pain that shoots through his calf. Oblivion calls him. Cold, aching, everlasting. First his flesh burns with icy claws radiating upwards from his leg into his abdomen. He's falling backward, the weight of the ghoul on his shield turning his body. He can't catch himself. He can't move. The freezing heat takes his whole body but he can still move his eyes, still feel the will to move. And there, as he falls deeper into that void, closer to the stone of the floor, he witnesses the sightless eyes and blood-drenched little body of his Cidal friend. That quiet, studious, cheerful soul extinguished. Crashing into the earth, the priest of Therassor is positioned such that he can see the final events unfold, his own song ending as Aranwen's does.

Give me strength
Give me courage
No more am I
No more am I
For I am yours

X00032:8.Y00001:12.Z00054:5, 12th Alley | Night City Integrate | Undercity | UrbanZone - March 9th, Day 3 (Sunday), 9:10 AM PST

Weather Conditions: High City (Thunderstorms, 15 mph winds from the NE.) | Midcity (Rain, 10mph winds from the NE.) | Undercity (Fog and Rain, no winds.)

Air Quality Index: High City = 25 | Midcity = 42 | Undercity = 75 (masks required)

Considering his options, the red-headed soldier wonders what kind of security he’s going to have to face down to get access. Glancing back over his shoulder, he stares at the alley across the street. The window provides a view at an angle, if straight out of the shop is twelve o’clock, the alley is at about ten o’clock. From street level, his view could be obstructed by passing vehicles or pedestrians.

Just then, Casino’s voice plays through the walkie-talkie’s speaker, “Ghlahn, update?” Looking back towards the door, the CeeMetal knows it’s time to make a decision.

Pulling out his walkie, he keys the mic, "Looks like slim picking for overwatch. A locked scanner door is blocking the best access. Gonna have to settle for a street-level window and hope traffic isn' too heavy. Should be in place in 5 minutes."

“Copy that. Five minutes,” Casino’s voice crackles across the airwaves.

Taking up a position looking out the window, he keeps his weapon in its case… for now. A Sunday morning in Undercity is a busy time of day. There are demographics of people in each level of every major city whose ideals are born strictly from their circumstances. Ghlahn’s experience in the Undercity is that you have those who believe in God, attend church, and pray for deliverance; and then you have those who prey on those who pray. The religious hopefuls gather together en mass thinking that their numbers will provide protection. They endure the taunts and harassments to and from their churches and sometimes during services all the while praying that the scenes don’t turn to violence. 

The Godless gather en mass to make fun of and take advantage of the pious’ turn the other cheek attitudes, sell their drugs, weapons, and black market items, and occasionally beat their chests in front of rivals.

Ghlahn’s enclave held services of a kind. Their god is science, that which allows the infirm to gain new bodies, keep the old alive longer, and give the CeeMetal an immunity to human ailments. There’s a peace inside the walls of the enclave. Even those who don’t venerate the science appreciate it otherwise they wouldn’t be CeeMetal. Watching the loitering street gangs across the street brings back memories of the stark differences between the chaos of the Streets and the order of the enclave. 

“Hello,” a pleasant female voice chirps from right behind him. “You appear to be loitering. This is not permitted. Do you need assistance in making a purchase decision or will you be moving along?”

Most might have jumped out of their skin but M’haru Ghlahn hadn’t heard any doors open and knew he was alone so his immediate response is to recognize the interruption for what it is, an AI hologram. He can make out the reflection of the projection in the window, faint and ghost-like but there nonetheless and likely programmed to respond in this way because there are no human clerks to keep the downtrodden and troublemakers from using the costly space as a hangout.

(OOC: March 9th, Day 3 - Sunday, Time is 09:15 AM PST)

------------

Hand on the grip of his SMG, thumb close to the safety, Casino hopes that Vegas does not suffer from the delay concluding this gig is causing. After a few moments to let everyone get set, Echo takes charge, surprising the muscular solo. 

“Let’s go,” Echo orders quietly, already beginning to make her way towards the alley.

“Anyone want to check and see if Ghlahn is in position?” Bloodbank asks, grateful that he doesn’t have the walkie and still feeling guilty about his previous faux pas.

Bringing the walking to his mouth, Casino does just that. “Ghlahn, update?”

"Looks like slim picking for overwatch. A locked scanner door is blocking the best access. Gonna have to settle for a street-level window and hope traffic isn' too heavy. Should be in place in 5 minutes." 

“Copy that. Five minutes.” With the walkie on open, Casino feels no need to repeat Ghlahn’s update to the others, though a couple of Hispanic men hanging out in front of Pedro’s Food Trucks give the group a once-over having obviously heard the exchange. Hosting his SMG, his thumb on its safety, index finger on the trigger, Keith moves into the last place in the group following Echo into the alleyway, demonstrating that he’s ready to handle anything that the men wish to throw their way. His eyes never stay in one place too long, his combat package is at full alert, and the men know that they don’t want to challenge the blonde, masked Edgerunner. 

Fixer listens as the others talk and move into position. He waits and watches everyone going into or out of the alley. If their target comes out he isn’t going to miss her. Can you look unobtrusive in a spot like this? He doesn’t know. But he tries. His head keeps rotating as he looks everywhere for any sign of trouble or their quarry. He scans for weapons, he searches for electronic surveillance equipment, and he looks for anything out of place. Except us, he thinks sourly to himself. But that he can’t do much about. Keeping on, he speculates as to whether team #2 is on their trail.

“Is this a grab and get out situation?” Bloodbank asks just as Echo reaches the mouth of the alley.

“I say we see what’s what and if the package is there,” the nomad woman pauses and scans what lies ahead, “we take him and get the hell outta here.”

Raising his eyebrows behind his combat mask, the medtech is surprised by her statement. She’s been calm for the most part, and more interested in doing things using diplomacy up until now. He suspects the whole situation with Casino and maybe even a little of what has happened to Vegas is to blame. “I know we’re on a clock, but there might be an opportunity to talk our way into a better position. I say we ‘sess the situation with an eye towards not spilling blood.”

(OOC: Room for other thoughts and comments. One for, one against. What’s the initial approach going to be?)

“The alley is clear as far as I can tell,” Echo mumbles out the side of her mouth while shifting her SMG to a more ready position. With the decision made on their approach, she leads the party of four into the ramshackle array of shacks and tents. 

To the nomad’s thinking, the alley is about 60 meters entrance to end, but it continues around to the left. The first twenty, or so, are filled with refuse, filth, and discarded “building” materials. It isn’t in the least bit inviting and in no way says to her, come on in. The buildings on either side have been tagged with so much graffiti that it is nearly impossible for her to decipher any of it. One that she does take notice of is the roughly drawn canine skull of the Dead Dogs. Odorous ammonia strikes her nostrils practically the instant she steps foot in the alley, mixed with a nearly overwhelming smell of mold, Echo fights against her watering eyes. Then, there’s the first patchwork dwelling. 

Tall enough that Casino would have no trouble standing upright within, the structure is a mix of fabricated wood panels, bailing wire, canvas sheets, chicken wire, rusted steel pipes mixed with copper and PVC pipes, and packing plastics. There are lights on inside and smoke billowing from more than a few of the pipes. Filling most of the left side of the alley, the shack leaves about enough room for two people to pass by shoulder-to-shoulder on the right.

After this shack, Echo can see another ramshackle pieced-together dwelling. This one is smaller than the first, mostly blocked by it actually, but it too is spilling forth light from cracks in its construction. There’s another humble shelter beyond that can barely be seen. No lights, made of mostly the same materials as the others, but otherwise showing no occupancy. Then there’s a shack on the right side of the alley. It, too, is reminiscent of an abandoned and derelict shack.

(OOC: March 9th, Day 3 - Sunday, Time is 09:15 AM PST)

------------

“There’re a lot of agents with public access nearby,” Blossom reads the HUD display before her eyes. “Can’t tell who they belong to. Won’t risk pissing some retired street samurai off by playing Russian Roulette. So, Greek it is.”

Shifting to the other side of the vehicle, the slight Asian girl extracts herself from the vehicle and retrieves her bag. Waiting on Charlie, she peers in the window of their intended destination, past the wax crayon advert art covering the windows with their low-tech displays.

“Sh*t,” she curses around the sucker protruding from her pouty lips. “The place is closed.”

"We could just sit here for a bit till something opens up," Charlie quips to Blossom from where he still sits. "Or we could just simply keep driving around the block." 

They don’t have a lot of options, at least for now. Clacking her teeth on the hard candy in her mouth, the netrunner considers his suggestion.

"Bloss, you want to find yourself a spot and I'll just keep driving around till they get the package and we all high tail it out here together?" Charlie asks.

“Where?” the platinum blond woman spreads her hands wide in disgust before plopping down in the passenger seat of the Airjeep. “Does this thing have a top we can close?

“Maybe driving around is our best option,” she pouts. “Unless you want to just join up with those four and make it an even half dozen.”

(OOC: Assuming here&hellip

Activating the fans, Luther lifts the aerodyne from its resting position and pulls away from the curb, spraying water all about the battered vehicle and causing more than one of the loitering street population to exclaim in annoyance. Quickly passing the rest of their team, Charlie heads for the turn up ahead to make his rounds of the block.

“I’m going to attempt to tap into the Cop-camera down the street,” Blossom states, pulling her keyboard from her bracer and shifting her weight on the uncomfortably hard seat. 

(OOC: March 9th, Day 3 - Sunday, Time is 09:15 AM PST)