The Upstairs Downstairs Inc. Building - 8th Floor | Night City Integrate | Midcity | UrbanZone - March 9th, Day 3 (Sunday), 3:15 AM PST

Weather Conditions: High City (Thunderstorms, 15mph 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)

“Got it,” Blossom whispers excitedly. “Let’s blow this joint.”

“You don’t need to tell me twice,” Vegas comments just as quietly. “Grab a few of those computer boxes and be quick about it. That Charlie was onto something when he gave us the idea.”

Nodding, Blossom immediately starts the process of unplugging the device she’d just plugged herself into. Echo moves to the next cubicle and begins to do the same. Vegas, meanwhile, continues to stand watch.

With Blossom’s announcement that her work is complete, Fixer quickly moves out of the cubicle he has been searching and joins the others.  

"You’re a wonder Blossom. Nicely done. Lets boogey." the techie moves to the door and out into the hallway. Now they just need to get out of this building. He gives a quick thumbs up to Bloodbank who he knows is nervous about the side effects of their invasion and moves down the hall. That had to be a good sign! Bloodbank smiles behind his battlemask as he watches Fixer walk towards the window. This had gone just as smoothly as he had hoped!

His smile slid off his face, however, when Echo and Blossom exited the room, each holding a computer. "I thought we agreed that there would be no stealing!" He hisses, eyeing them through his mask.

“Chill, Boy Scout,” Blossom quips. “These have the data on them that we need. We’re just not wastin’ time in this joint to do the search. Figure we’d be better off skittling. You Ku with that?”

"I don't care the stealing is completely unnecessary," Bloodbank whispered fiercely, jabbing a finger at the boxes that they held.

“You keen on sitting around waiting for some overzealous security guard to come tripping over us?” The small Asian woman looks up at their medic and rolls her signature lollipop to the other side of her mouth as she jabs a finger into his chest. “You wanna have another family get that call that daddy ain’t comin’ home tonight?”

“We’re wasting time,” Echo points out.

“Think about it, Boy Scout,” Blossom smiles sweetly and brushes by him with a final thought, “you’re keeping people alive by exiting this mouse trap pronto.”

(OOC: Bloodbank’s answer&hellip

As Casino made ready to lead the way back out of the building he was joined at the door by Vegas.

“I’m ok” He whispers over his shoulder to his Frank Sinatra lookalike partner. “No worries”

“Solid,” Vegas flashes a smile. “After you.”

Casino leads the way back down the hall, glancing over his shoulder as he goes to make certain Vegas and Echo have covered the group’s six before he arrives at the broken out window. Peering through his new mask into the night, the solo scans the alley and out both access points before turning his gaze to the slightly fogged, black windows of the adjacent building, his left hand held out to hold any of the others back while he performs his duty.

Not seeing anything alarming, the big man steps through the window, unconcerned as to the state his trench coat left things as it sweeps over the subjugated alarm system. He trusts that Blossom has done her work here too. From here, Casino leads the others down the stairs, Armalite held before him just in case. Fixer follows closely behind with Blossom and Bloodbank on his heels. Echo and Vegas bring up the rear.

Achieving the alley, the team can no longer hear any of the angry yelling from the crowd in the direction that Ghlahn has set up, nor can they hear anything that indicates that the security vehicle is still there.

“Ghlahn, can you hear me?” Vegas steps up next to Casino and motions that they should move towards the street they had left their sniper friend on. He’s speaking into one of Fixer’s homemade walkies. “Come in, Ghlahn.”

Fixer’s pocket has squawked from where he has the radio as does Casino’s and Bloodbank’s.

“What’s going on?” Vegas turns and looks at his companions incredulously. “Did we honestly leave one of the team without a means to communicate with the rest of us… again?”

(OOC: March 9th, Day 3 - Sunday, Time is 03:22 AM PST)

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Near the Parking Garage two blocks from the Upstairs Downstairs Inc. Building | Night City Integrate | Midcity | UrbanZone - March 9th, Day 3 (Sunday), 03:04 AM PST

Weather Conditions: High City (Thunderstorms, 15mph 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)

"Hey!"   

That one word told Ghlahn that his stealthy escape is foiled. He has been spotted.  

As he figures it, there are three options. First, try to bluff his way past the security team. Of course, it might be hard to explain his weapons cache. Second, is to engage the team and hope there are not too many of them. Or third, try to find an exit.  

Option 1 is not feasible. The second relies on pure luck. So that leaves Option 3. Taking cover behind the nearest car he pulls his pistol and takes aim at the closest sec team member. Hopefully, he can neutralize at least two of them before they even realize what is happening.

Crouched at the rear right fender of a beat up and rusted late 22nd Century four-door sedan, Ghlahn peers intently through the windows of his combat mask, his targeting system flies into his HUD view and attuning to the customized Colt AMT Model 2000 now in hand. The team that had spotted him is thirty meters away. There’s a cement column that one has moved behind giving him really good cover and another is taking up a really low position on the driver side looking over the hood of an older model minivan.

There’s some space—approximately ten meters—between Ghlahn’s current position and the next vehicle behind him. To his right, there’s a chainlink fence with less than half a meter between the top of the links and the bottom of the cement ceiling overhead. The street that the cyborg had just been watching is that way, and so too is the security vehicle that dropped the personnel he’s now contending with.

“This is your last chance!” One of the men calls out, his voice echoing throughout the garage. Unfortunately, Ghlahn was unable to get the drop on them. They are obviously trained and have experience in this type of situation. “You don’t need to die tonight, choomba. Just surrender to us and we’ll iron everything out.”

“You’ve not done anything wrong, right?” another voice calls from that same direction. “You got a car up here? There’s no reason to be scared.”

(OOC: I've provided you with a map on Roll20.net, Keeper.)

(OOC: March 9th, Day 3 - Sunday, Time is 03:05 AM PST)

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Enroute to Night City Integrate from SanFran Integrate | Midcity | UrbanZone - March 9th, Day 3 (Sunday), 3:30 AM PST --- Weather Conditions: High City (heavy rain, 20mph winds from the N.) | Midcity (light rain, 10mph winds from the N.) | Undercity (fog and drizzle, no winds.)

Air Quality Index: High City = 15 | Midcity = 36 | Undercity = 86 (masks required - Red warning)

Now’s also a good time to put some work in. Though the air jeep isn’t outfitted with self-driving capabilities, Cred Stick Charlie can make calls and do some audible learning from his Chinese textbooks to prep for Monday’s challenges. He might even be able to connect with some of those “Vendors” on the Dark Web concerning blank shoes. Researching the identity printer further would require more attention than he can safely devote while driving, but these other things, he might be able to work out.

Charlie slips his agent from his breast pocket and mentally opens the reading app. He’s already queued up the textbooks that he’s been studying and as the auto-driver on the jeep takes control, the fixer preps for Monday’s challenges. After another hour of reading, he switches gears and spends some time inquiring in more detail about blank shoes in bulk on the Dark Web. His usual sites are where he strikes first. Time to Streetdeal.

The quickest path to one’s destination is often a straight line and in this case, Luther’s destination is an ID printer. There’s no reason to dig deeper into the Dark Web just yet if he can find one on the regular Internet. So, the fixer focuses his agent search on classified ads; there are plenty of boards available that range from general Internet community to specific alt-cults and sub-segments of those alt-cults. In particular, Cred Stick Charlie is focusing on the Neo Corps and the used business equipment. Results immediately begin to show up.

Thermal units to dye sublimation and even older, antique models: dot matrix. He can land a dot matrix for one hundred and fifty credits, but it won’t do what he needs. He needs a thermal with holographic imaging. New those machines can cost up to six thousand credits, as he’s already discovered. Used, he’s looking at a price range of about one thousand credits.

First on the list is a PY231k FLEX, which was a top of the line machine five to ten years ago. It’s being listed for 1,200 NCD. While the ad has experienced plenty of traffic there are very few who have marked interest. The product has been for sale for close to a month and that means there’s a chance that the owner might be workable. Luther mentally commands his agent to contact the seller via messaging as the early morning hours and the day of the week might be problematic.

But he’s not done. The fixer continues to message various sellers. Having multiple potential deals in the work keeps him from becoming desperate to make a deal giving him the edge. Surprisingly, he receives a response from a Blackbird2500 on a Gearlogix 24B290 Thermal Printer with a Hologenics Modular Printbox attachment which he has listed for 950 credits.

It is still available. The message comes through in response to Luther’s canned query.

(OOC: This is where the Persuasion check comes into play. The Library Search check happened to locate the correct boxes.)

Blackbird2500 and Charlie go the rounds via messaging and eventually, the fixer is able to convince Blackbird2500 to join him on a call. He prefers the opportunity to talk to the other side and face-to-face is better but barring that a phone call trumps texting any day of the week.

Ordering his agent to dial the number that Blackbird2500 has shared, Luther waits for the other end to pick up.

“This is Blackbird,” a female voice with a Latino accent answers.

This is where Cred Stick Charlie plays his hand, working the other end of the phone in a friendly manner, manipulating the conversation to drive it in his favor. First, he has to gain some rapport. Then, he needs to make Blackbird2500 believe that the whole deal is a win/win and he does this by prying into other potential sales items she may have on hand and expressing interest. As it turns out, she’s liquidating old office furniture for her company. She’s a senior tech officer and it’s her job to get something for the highly depreciated equipment. Chairs, desks, some bookshelves, fake trees, and a couple of printers. The Gearlogix has been used for close to six years and doesn’t appear to have anything wrong with it. The other equipment bears the marks of regularly used office equipment but is salvageable.

Now that he has her where he wants her (the whole thing has been going well-enough as Blackbird appears to be in dire need of conversation), it is time to begin working the deal. Deftly steering the conversation back to the Gearlogix and Hologenics offering, Luther offers a very low-ball price, cushioning the offer with the potential to help take the other items off her hands. Blackbird is handling the play pretty well and Luther isn’t altogether positive that she isn’t plying her own tricks but he is still gaining the upper hand and continues the work.

After a half hour on the phone with Blackbird, Cred Stick Charlie has managed to wheedle her down by 50 credits for the printer and the modular holographic imprinter taking the price to 900 credits. He’s positive that this is as low as she’s going to go and she seems to be losing patience. He’s still got a half hour before the navigation unit claims he’ll be at the office building where Upstairs Downstairs is housed, time to either finalize the deal or cut bait and move on.

(OOC: March 9th, Day 3 - Sunday, Time is 5:00 AM PST)

Stardate 2365.02.19
USS Peregrine, Captain's Mess - 1615

Silas' face flushes with emotion and he grips the edge of the table. Speaking in clipped tones, he addresses the news, "It sounds like you have your first major project, then, Lieutenant Nyle—I want complete diagnostics performed on all of Lieutenant Sh'iraolnas' computer gear. Set up a monitor. Lieutenant Sh'iraolnas, once the monitor routine is confirmed, I want you to start keying your research again." He then turns back to Nyle. "When the data is invariably wiped, you can hopefully trace what process did so, and where this process initiated—if not by whom."

"Yes sir," Asovil responds dutifully. Though Drake's rage isn't aimed at her, she can feel the heat and instinctively part of her rises up ready to defend herself while another shrinks away. The conflicting emotions are quite the storm to contend with but on the outside, she remains as still as the dead.

The Captain frowns before addressing the Andorian again. "Have you entered your research on any equipment that isn't specifically yours? As in, besides your own personal terminal, PADD or department terminals? If Nyle cannot find anything, the next step may be to rip out all of your physical equipment and replace it with new gear, on the off chance that it has been physically altered in some way." His gaze settled on the Chief Engineer. "Eric, if it comes to that, I want you to personally oversee the new equipment."

"Sir," Lt. Sh'iraolnas dips her head, her antennae pressing forward in emphasis. "I have used alternative padds, workstations, and different rooms when taking voice notes. Additionally, this data loss is not just relevant to me. Anyone who makes a report concerning the Dark Matter project finds it vanishing."

Silas grits his teeth. "I want this traitor found. Starfleet Intelligence may want to enjoy a nice chat with them... provided they don't run into an airlock mishap before then."  

I hadn't considered the possibility that the sabotage could be coming from within the ship, Asovil refrains from showing her distress at the lack of critical thinking on her part and clasps her hands tighter in front of her on the table looking down at her whitening knuckles.

Silas continues, "Nyle, I wonder... your computer issue seems rather odd. As does the timing. You may want to coordinate with Engineering on this, and Lieutenant Tal feels that she has some resources that may be of use to you. I wonder if this might be related in any way to the vanishing report; I am not much of a believer in coincidences."

OOC: any responses, expositions, etc...

Drake sits back in his chair, "Very well. I have reviewed the refit and resupply reports, as well as the crew transfer orders. Is there anything else here that needs to be brought to my attention?"

OOC: speak now...

The Captain nodded.  "In that case, I won't take up any more of your time.  Dismissed."

Rising from her chair, Asovil directly approaches the new Ops Chief. "Let me know when you want to gain access to my quarters. I'll make myself available. 

(OOC: Nyle's reply...)

Simple weapons would be staff, club, dagger... things that you wouldn't need any formal training to use. Generally speaking, magic-users aren't allowed martial weapons because they spend their time studying magic whereas warriors would spend their time studying swordplay.

I, too, am waiting on Giddy's post before adding Cole's final bit for the meeting.

We're a rollin' now!

I'll have to post tomorrow. Time has gotten away from me today.

It's all good, Dragon. Giddy will handle the deets.

DM: The giggler's frantic movements—much like a small dog on its owner's leg—draw the adventurers' attention to a strange mark on its left buttock.

Player: Do I recognize it?

DM: (Rolls behind his screen and looks up, surprised.) Why, yes. You do! Only ghouls are left with these strange marks after being turned. It's a rare bit of knowledge and it only comes to you because you remember seeing a set of twins where the mother could only tell them apart because of a birthmark on one of their arms.

Player: A birthmark!? Ghouls have birthmarks?

GM: Shut up. You rolled a 20.

I have pushed a post up.

Stardate: 2365.03.28
USS George Washington Carver, Deck 2 - Stark's Quarters, 2050

Commander Cole,

I am already working on some threat assessments and contingency plans, as well as considerations for proper security of our survey and scientific teams, and for our vessel in general.  I will be happy to put together the joint report that you are requesting, but I must regretfully bring to your attention the fact that there simply will not be enough time to complete the requested report prior to the morning's staff meeting unless you choose to order Lieutenants McGinty and Wilhelm to put in some late hours tonight.  

Would it be acceptable if I were to present a few bullet points in the morning, and to coordinate with Engineering and Science as a take away assignment after?  Or will you need me to ask them to return to duty now, instead?

Regards,

Lieutenant Stark

Cole reads over the response from Stark and shakes his head. If you can't get it done tonight, you can't get it done. Additionally, there's no reason to reply to the missive. Max has put a goal in front of the man and how he chooses to handle it is completely up to him. Tomorrow's meeting will show the results. Limitations are almost always self-imposed, Mr. Stark.

I've posted. The game is a foot... or maybe at hand... either way, we must move a head.

Gib is cautious by nature. One doesn't necessarily get a high Wisdom by acting rashly. He's also a military man so he's been brought up to plan things out and execute the plan. A sharp contrast to the impulsive chasing the laser point activity of our friend the Kazari.

I had also assumed that if there was still a chance for the family we'd have heard either cries of help or banging around and sounds of a skirmish inside. Alternatively, if they had found a place to securely hide away from the danger, then a scouting mission would afford the company of adventurers time and information to act in a more tactically advantageous manner. 

Gib is still wary of the unknown in this whole thing. Undead not behaving as he's ever heard before... unable to recognize the gigglers... disappearing peoples from the Shill... dead mages... unnatural mists... he's not trusting anyone that he hasn't known for a while.

Even one such as Lanur Dinas eventually feels the need to have someone else cook a meal, experience a mattress again, and not have to worry about the weather for at least one night. The journey to Maeldon is a pilgrimage to fulfill this need and long it has been since such luxuries have been experienced. As he approaches the inn (one Gleeman's Abode), the harder woodsman's stomach churns. Five others! Surely I am being played. 

Standing at six-foot even, Lanur strikes a rough appearance. His salt and pepper dark brown hair is long and loose, framing his hard features with curtains of wild strands that hang to the middle of his back. He's been a long time separated from a bath and the dirt has mixed with his sun-touched face giving him an even darker appearance. Deepset gray eyes are practically wolfish and lined all about with the results of squinting across wildernesses. The lower half of his face is blanketed in a thick, long, dark brown streaked with gray beard and mustaches. Lean, wearing mottled brown and green studded leather armor over simple cotton clothing, he carries his bow on his back with his quiver of arrows and his longsword at his side comfortably. He knows that he has been described before as a lean bear, athletic and ferocious when necessary.

I hope they have beds enough at this place, Lanur grumbles internally and draws back from the group, allowing whoever is to take the initiative to enter first.

"Noooo! You cannot take her, please! No! Please!"

Sharply jerking his head in the direction of the call, the woodsman narrows his silver-gray eyes and quickly picks out the disturbance. Looks to be official, he considers as the uniformed men drag the unconscious girl from the house. None of my business then. 

Despite this conclusion, when the soldier strikes the older lady, Lanur Dinas turns into the angry bear. Brows furrowed, a snarl on his lips, he grips his longsword hilt and impulsively strides past the other five and towards the woman. 

"Where I come from, you don't strike an old woman, coward!" Realizing that threatening the act of drawing his sword might find him in peril of a trip to the dungeons, Lanur releases his grip and curls his gloved hands into fists.

I'm right there with Ragnar. Been really busy today.

I have posted! 

Now, Gib is worried about this complication. 

And yes... consider Ch'dau sprayed with water. Bad kitty!

Leaping from his anxious crouch the battle-mad Kazari hurtles toward the cabin, prepared to lay waste to anything that stands in his way. “NNNNGGGGRRRRRRRRRRRRRRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAWWWWWWWWRRRRRRRRRRRR!!!”

"Thank you, Solanis for healing this man. Now give me and my friends strength to destroy these abominations." Cedric calls upon his god to bless them in their sudden—and inevitable, Gib has to admit—charge. Then, the other priest pulls out his staff and moves to attack one of the creatures outside the house.

Already moving, the warrior priest pushes thoughts of retribution on the Silver Cat from his mind and focuses on the undead in their path. He can hear the spidery sounds of Midge's incantations behind him and sets his teeth having experienced the little person's conjurations in the past. Here we go again, he vents. 

Ch'dau is already far ahead of him and the Silvari, the plan that the priest of Therassor had been hoping to act upon is blown away with much less consideration than an annoying fly. Hoping that the muscular cat man at least sticks to some part of the strategy, Gib huffs against the impact of a shambling body off of his shield while bits of flaking flesh fly into the air about him.

Of course not, he groans at the sight of the Kizari warrior vanishing through the cabin door. Why would I ever have held out hope? Aranwen is still by his side, fighting forward through the few creatures in their path. Now, Moreno's thoughts turn to what he's going to do in light of there no longer being a plan.

Buzzing and humming gain volume about them but the sound of a panicked cry from within the cabin steels Gib's insides and he presses on. Leaping through the door and into the dim light of the interior, the warrior priest quickly makes an assessment. Three rooms; one in the middle with two on either side. Ch'dau will be in the room where the zombies have collected.

Using the rim of his shield as much as the blade of his sword to fight his way inside the room, Gib can see that the fight is beginning to go poorly for the Silver Cat of Coria; significantly outnumbered and unable to properly move to avoid the undead's blows, which rain down upon him from every side, the ferocious silver furred creature drives a blade through the chest of a zombie, killing it and pinning it to the wall.

To the side, Gib is caught by a ghastly sight: the prone woman with her attacker. With a wordless glance between them, the warrior priest sprints for the doorway, crashing into the press of the zombies, while the Bladesinger opens the giggling monstrosity from collarbone to armpit. 

Carving another zombie back away from the doorway, Gib catches sight of Ch'dau—heartened by the aid—redoubling his efforts, ripping another of the undead nearly in half. In moments, the two companions fell the last of them, and the cabin is once again quiet but for the heavy breathing of the combatants, the crying of the children and the pounding of rushing feet as the father arrives, his sobs of fear turning to joy as the vision of his two boys alive presents itself. 

Breathing heavily… raggedly… a blood-soaked Ch’dau, at last, nods his acknowledgment to Gib. The warrior priest of Therassor retrieves his water, his eyes flicking between the woodsman's wife and his worn and beaten friend. Ch'dau stands there, wobbly-legged and chuffing, surveying the carnage about him for a long moment before crouching down in the midst of it, taking hold the woodsman’s oldest son by his tiny shoulders, and lifting the boy to his feet.

“Take your brother and go little one,” the Kazari manages to rasp out as he nods toward the door, “your father is worried and waiting.” From his crouch, he watches blearily as the children rush to their father's side. After they are reunited, he heaves a weary sigh, and drags himself to his feet again, though he has to use the wall to do so and cringes at the effort. Both are things that the annoyed priest takes notice of.

Ch’dau tears his blade from the chest of the corpse pinned to the wall, then, and, lacking the strength to kick the thing as it falls amongst its putrid kin, spits a mouthful of blood at it instead. Wiping his mouth on the back of his arm, his eyes drift toward Gib and the Kazari snorts out a decidedly weak chuckle as he meets the cleric’s gaze. “You look as if you wish to chastise me, friend,” he chuffs, wincing as the adrenaline seeps from him. He can scarcely raise a paw to offer a dismissive wave. “Go on, then,” he breathes, leaning heavily against the gore spattered wall, “I shall wait here for a moment and hear it.”

Pausing in lifting his wineskin to his lips, Gib narrows his eyes and shakes his head, "And what good will it do?" Slamming his open wineskin into the cat man's chest he notices the small spray of water that strikes his companion's furry chin with little amusement. "Drink something and rest while I look over your injuries."

Glancing to where the woodsman has taken notice of his wife and moved to be by her side, Gib looks at her more closely. She has bleeding wounds on her neck and chest that appear dreadful and blood is all about her, but as the woodsman kneels at her side, sobbing, the woman's legs slowly close. Not due to gravity, but due to the fact that she had begun to shake off the paralysis inflicted upon her by the giggler. The action very nearly sends Gib forward in attack mode once more, but he changes his urged momentum as he realizes that she's alive.

"Cedric! The woman needs attending," the warrior priest calls out in surprise. Therassor will appreciate Gib's attention on the warrior cat while Solanis is better suited to tend to these others.

Her injuries, while ugly, are superficial. The woodsman soon coaxes her into a sitting position, helping her to pull her skirts down, and she cooperates... but her gaze never falters. He kisses her, her children wrap their arms around her... but the woman never stops staring, wordlessly, into some space that only she can see.

What she's been through is terrifically horrible. Gib can clearly remember the feeling of helplessness he had when he was struck but to be trapped as she was and to endure such foul treatment... She would have been better off had she died, he grimly decides while investigating his furry friend's beaten body. "Come with me," the priest of the Battle Lord orders, hooking a hand around Ch'dau's elbow and helping him from the wall.

Guiding more than anything else, Gib assists Ch’dau to stagger back into the cabin’s common room and, with the big cat’s tail swishing happily (if weakly) behind him, he props the Kazari against a wall. A satisfied (if pained) purring rumbles in Ch'dau's chest and the Silver Cat of Coria sinks slowly to the floor.

Grabbing his wineskin before it falls from weakened hands, Gib inadvertently sprays the silvery-furred feline with water. "Serves you right," he chides as he takes a swing and then places the stopper in the nozzle. "You seek death."

In the better light of the main room, Gib returns to tending the wounded. Bad kitty, he thinks in dark humor. Sitting back on his heels, the priest scratches at his beard and considers their situation. We're barely on this path and already one of our best warriors is beaten to a pulp. This is a strange and ghastly affair. What are these creatures that command the zombies and yet don't behave as undead should? I cannot recall an undead fiend that rapes. Think... Turning his helmeted head to peer back into the other room, the warrior priest frowns. These creatures are about something more sinister than we've seen. Ch'dau still has work to do in this, otherwise, the Battle Lord would not have seen fit to keep him alive through his crazed rush. Perhaps...

"I will ask Therassor for another miracle on your behalf, friend. You have survived your foolishness by his design and maybe he will continue to show you favor. Be not dismayed if it is not the case, though." Gib looks his friend directly in the eyes. "But if it is, you must remember the grace he's shown."

(OOC: Ch'dau's response, if any.)

Gripping his holy symbol from where it dangles at his chest, Gib holds it high with his right hand and places his left over the Kizari's broad chest. "Battle Lord, hear me! This Kazari warrior is from another land but he does you honor on this day. In his just battle, he has sustained injuries that I pray you'll relinquish. You've shown him favor for his deeds already and we dare not ask too much. We accept your will, Therassor."

(OOC: Cure Light Wounds, please.)

Once finished, the man begins to show his gratitude for the party's assistance, and Gib let's Aranwen deal with such matters while he makes his way to the defiled woman. Doing his best not to be offensive, the priest tries to study her behavior, to see if her lost gaze is due to the trauma she's received or something more sinister (if possible).

"Can I pet him?" the child's words barely catch the warrior priest's attention, whispered as quiet as they are. Looking down at the boy, Gib raises his eyebrows inciting a second attempt at the question. "Can I pet him? The big cat that saved my brother."

Feeling a little mischievous and that it would just desserts for Ch'dau, Gib responds, "Definitely. Pet him to your heart's content."

Walking over to Kith, Gib motions Cedric and Midge to join him. Once the others are gathered, he says in a low tone, "One of those gigglers was having its way with the mother when I arrived. Not in the same way as we've seen thus far. It was raping her. Have any of you ever heard of a creature such as this, or a circumstance?"

My character is a man... no channeling, just obnoxiousness and childish behavior.

Welcome aboard, and thank you!

Confusion dispelled. It's like Hogwarts magic.

Stardate: 2365.03.28 (Sunday - 42268.2)
USS George Washington Carver, Bridg, Deck 1 - 20:30 Beta Shift

Max is comfortable. Comfortable in the Big Chair next to the Really Big Chair, comfortable on his new ship, comfortable in his life as a Lieutenant Commander in Star Fleet. His rise through the ranks of various Ops departments made for an easy transition to the XO position and though he's only been on board for a week, he has already fallen into a comfortable, respectable pattern. With the new mission orders in hand and Starbase 343 in the wake of the big Nova Class—a ship that's so new, Lt. Cmdr. Cole has found himself making the same disastrous joke over and over again these past few days wherein he can see his own reflection in the carpet—the first officer of the USS George Washington Carver is finalizing preparation for their first fully attended staff meeting. Captain Rouhani had set the meet for 08:00 and that meant that Max would get very little sleep before attending, let alone time in the morning to make sure all of the departments had their mission details and marching orders in hand for review before the debriefing.

Pausing in his work long enough to look up at the central viewscreen, and subsequently the back of Ensign Soah's brown-haired head, Max considers his new captain in terms of how she might approach this upcoming meeting. Elizabeth Rouhani has proven herself to be about as even-keeled a person as anyone Maximus has ever encountered and he can't see her showing even a little excitement at the prospects their year-long mission present. Considering the many interactions he's had with her over the past week, he feels pretty confident that she'll be very matter-of-fact and all business; which means that her department heads had better have their ducks in a row. Dropping his eyes from the blurred starfield, the Starfleet officer returns them to the screen embedded in the smooth console separating the Captain's Chair from the First Officer's. He hasn't quite yet decided if he likes Captain Rouhani or if he's indifferent towards her. So far, all of their interactions have been the business of putting the Carver right and there's been little to none of a social nature.

Stalling before pressing a command to bring up the latest Engineering report, Max wonders, I don't even know if she's married, has children, a family... I do like Bruno, though. Of that, I'm certain. Pressing the button, he begins scanning the information presented by the Chief of Engineering.

A year is a long time, especially within the confines of a starship. The Carver is a large vessel as far as starships go, but eight decks are eight decks and though 263,160 cubic meters sounds like a lot of space... Max's experience aboard other vessels is that there will be a fair share of personnel issues within short order and having a Vulcan Ops officer will certainly make things all that much more interesting. Sure... let's put the unfeeling in charge of the masses.

Okay... that's interesting... Engineering is reporting a problem with the gravity stabilizer on a portion of Deck 3 near the Transporter Buffer Compartment. New ships. Reading further in the report he compartmentalizes his thoughts and partially continues his internal dialogue.

If truth be told, the jury's still out on his opinion of the crew in general. It takes some time to earn his trust and respect; definitely more time than a week. The Chief Tac Officer, Mister “Raz” Stark, is certainly a different breed. Half Terran, half Klingon. I don't even want to know how that happened. Don't Klingons have two—Six hours! When was this report filed? Scanning back to the top of the digital document, Max registers the time. Should be coming up on completing that repair.

"Cole to Engineering," he intones.

=/= This is Ensign Dolia, go ahead. =/=

"Please report on the situation on Deck 3."

=/= Sir, it appears that the Warp Field Compensator has malfunctioned. In order to enter the compartment to make repairs, we will likely have to drop out of warp. It shouldn't take more than a-- =/=

=/= Actually, sir, =/= Kurt breaks in. =/= Tsere may be another option. You see, the Varp Field Compensator is in fact tse problem component. Tsey are a new design, vorking off of tse feedback from tse varp field itself to compensate for tse odd gravitational effects tsat being in varp has on tse compartments. It is a vonderful tseory, quite interesting und vith a few minor adjustments to tse Compensator output gains I expect tsat it vill likely not happen again. However, by moving avay from tse old systems vich used tse detected varp field to compensate power distribution from tse generator itself, ve find tsat it provides us vith a new variety of problems. Such as-- =/=

=/= Sir!=/= Ensign Dolia interrupts. =/= This other solution? =/=

=/= Ah, ja. =/= Kurt corrects his trajectory. =/= Vell, if ve vere to secure gravity to tse compartment altogether und compensate using the Gravity Plates in tse deck below, I believe ve vill be able to enter the compartment and complete tse repairs vhile remaining at varp. I still have to do some calculations to get tse actuall values ve vould have to input und compensate for, but, Commander, I believe tsat it is fery achievable. =/=

"Understood. Let's make sure that whole thing is put to bed before the captain rises from hers. Thank you." It looks as though we have an engineer. Good.

Turning his attention to the Asst. Chief Operations Officer manning the forward Ops station, Max orders, "If necessary, please make sure that Engineering has access to whatever replicator patterns they need and the resources to make the repairs happen cleanly."

The order is most likely unnecessary, but Max is a detail-oriented individual and just because someone holds a rank and position doesn't always mean they've earned it. Where was I? Oh, ya. Raz. The woman seems fairly uncharacteristically calm for a Klingon. Maybe she takes after her mother... or father... which one was the Human again? But how she would get along with the Vulcan, Siric, was yet to be tried. Let's just hope that we don't have to find that out in the heat of things.

Setting the Engineering report aside (figuratively), Max pulls up his message center and sends a quick reminder to Lt. Stark.

Mister Stark,

Consider a collaborative report with other department heads for off priority scenarios. These odd situations should be accounted for in all departments and should include Security especially within Science and Engineering. I've read about and seen far too many anomalies that occur to dismiss the possibility. Obviously, we cannot predict the future but must concern ourselves with preparation and readiness all the same. If you have time, the report would be handy to have for the staff meeting tomorrow morning.

Lt. Cmdr. Cole

Rereading the missive, he considers the necessity for such an order and decides on better being safe than sorry. Sending it, the XO pulls up the Engineering report again, finishing it in short order and only momentarily considering the hiccups the crew has experienced thus far and what might be waiting for them so close to enemy space.

Science vessels strolling through Federation Wilds. What could go wrong? At least one of those vessels is captained by a scientist and likely both are. Max has already been witness to the influence Lieutenant Roseangela McGinty has in regards to the Carver and is making no mistake about the priorities of the ship. Science first and foremost with all other considerations relegated to afterthoughts and afterthoughts are his responsibility. Roseangela is a nice woman. Kind, generous with her care, and an easy ear for those prone to such a thing. Cole has heard nothing but positive from the crew that he's caught gossiping. Again, he hasn't spent a good deal of time with her so everything he understands is circumspect.

I've got to admit, he muses, I've not really taken the time to get to know the rest. I should have but I've just been so damn busy. There are still so many among the officers and crew that he needs to get to know; so many personnel files to review. Four and a half hours left. Let's see what I can get through tonight.

The barely audible hiss of hydraulics draws Maximus’ attention over his shoulder to the lift where Roseangela strides back towards the Sciences Station on the bridge after having earlier asked permission to see to a developing problem in her department.

Looking askance of her, the XO waits as she approaches and begins to describe the typo in a formulaic equation programmed into a scanning field on a project imported from the station last week. This one formulaic error has caused the unusual growth of a mineral not usually found on the type of meteor being studied in the imported unit and that mineral was skewing much of the subsequent data related to several projects at once.  

She proceeds to explain that the growth was discovered by a brand new ensign, Ensign Tiaghen, and Roseangela had gone down there to check on it and help her team come up with a way to change the outcome of this project. She'd found the flub in the formula and they were able to adjust the field on the other samples, preserving the project as a whole. McGinty also suggested studying the anomalous sample separately as well. She was curious if the mineral had value in any way. If it does, learning how to grow it on common space rocks could be handy knowledge.

"...so, Sir, the meteor chunk we'd grown the mineral on is now involved in a separate, independent study, if that's fine with you." She finishes.

Standing formally at her station, she awaits his reaction to her explanation for her brief absence from the bridge during her shift there, she can’t shake the sense of wonder she still feels at actually getting this great assignment. She's always done well on Science teams in her two previous Starship roles on both The U.S.S. Erudite and The U.S.S. Hawking, but this is her first time in the role of Chief Science Officer, head of the department for a ship. She doesn’t want to make a bad impression.

“It sounds like you’ve experienced serendipity, Lieutenant,” Cole responds, not quite sure what such an experiment would result in but unsure of how to otherwise address the situation. “I’m sure that the Captain will enjoy reading about the discovery in her morning reports. Well done.”

Turning away from the woman who is now involved in making her recorded report, Commander Cole begins to review the mission specs and instructions from his captain. He’s aware that she may want to change up shift command and finds that intriguing as he’s never served on a ship where the CO and XO worked the same shift. He’s very interested in the results of tomorrow’s meeting.

Good to know. Magicman, Cole has only been on board for a week. You have your post as ten days prior. If Lt. Jenna Falcone came on board at the same time as Cole (from Starbase 343) then it would have been 7 days prior. I'm happy to back post to that event with the date correction, or we can go a different route.

What would you like to do?

My range is pretty eclectic. Here are my favorite bands and artists:

• Queensryche


• Casting Crowns


• Lauren Daigle


• We Are Messengers


• Disturbed


• Tim McGraw


• Oingo Boingo


• Jeremy Camp


• Crowder


• Geoff Tate


• Johnny Cash


• Marika Hackman


• Matthew West


• Mercy Me


• Mogli


• Pink Floyd


• Plumb


• Seether


• Shinedown


• Within Temptation

So sorry! Didn't mean to drive someone from a role.

Excellent.