Inoperable Log of the Warbird D'Ishae

(( Now in existence because I didn't want to jack the amazing literary works to be found in the Operational Log of the Warbird D'Ishae thread by Davin "New Coke" T'Varros Mandukar.

Stories re: life on the D'Ishae, which may or may not be true.))
1 Like
Spoiler: The Italics Are ImportantShow
The sheets, their damp cling constricting her writhe to freedom. Suffocating. The air, abrasively cold against sweaty, bare skin.

Her pulse, throbbing in her ears, chest, stomach. Maddening. Her spine, shivering; her skin crawling.

The pinprick of the hypo to stabilize the tremors. Actually, she didn't give a damn. Her breathing slowed, her pulse matching to what she willed it as the hypospray's remedy ticked towards effectiveness.

The sheets were disgusting; she tore them off. The violence was cathartic. Her hair, her skin, damp; she flopped sideways into the chill of the bared Federation-pattern mattress Davin had so kindly reinvented for the D'Ishae's quarters.

The shakes subsided. Her body, mind, her own again. The sensation that had woken her from the nightmare stirred. A calloused palm received it through the curve of her stomach.

Her hoarse whisper into the dark: “Shi'h, kiddo, looki'h y' a'rea'y takin' care o' yer ma.”
Spoiler: Gossips and Liars and Drugs, oh my.Show
Tirian, the Dyson sphere researcher, was well known to be the D'Ishae's biggest gossip. His gossip was of the Romulan variety; sly, suggestive remarks interweaving perfectly innocuous conversational threads. It took mental acuity to piece it all together into one coherent tale. For the most part. When he wasn't completely tripping slug venom off of Doctor Ketra's 'medical' specimen fondly dubbed 'Squiggles' by those taking advantage of its 'medicinal' properties.

His gossip would make you stop and think for a moment, reflect upon its subject matter as one might investigate a theological claim.

Nethali referred to him as 'Sluggo', given the man's affinity towards the substance produced by 'Squiggles'.

Nethali was the D'Ishae's second biggest gossip. Her gossip embraced showmanship; it was theatrical, embellished, gesticulated, laughable and entirely un-insidious. There's a chart plotting two months of Nethali gossip against the deemed truth. With that data as a predictive base, it's generally accepted that there's a fifty-six percent chance that any given Nethali gossip is mostly true; thirty percent that it was mostly false; ten percent chance that it was completely fictional, and a four percent chance that it was dead on.

Her gossip was generally laughed at, then utterly dismissed from the rational mind.

In Tirian's gossip, it's been spoken that the ship's captain might be more interested in the well being of its parts than of its crew, with a plentiful number of anecdotal tales to support the idea, and that should it ever come to pass that the good Subcommander Mandukar be forced to choose between the two...well, just be sure to know the route to the escape pods.

In Nethali's gossip, there's a running bet for how long it will take Ketra to DNA-lock engineering, just to keep the captain's boots on the deck. Evidently he'd slipped and fallen from work on the core and nearly broken his back. Again. Further discussion hinted plotted things, that when the good doctor had gone to catch him in the act of engineering she'd worn a particularly diving shirt, to prove a point.
Spoiler: No More Than Twenty MinutesShow
“Uh, what's in the crate, Nen?” Even as he asked, his curiosity was waning; 'slug' overtook him as he demurely keypadded the Terrhaha into the test chamber, and he wondered idly why he'd asked. Whatever the amosarr and her fvaae ihir'aenha hvui were up to, it didn't matter to him.

“Owh, y'know, afwe. Conhae afwe.” She strode- no, she used to stride, like she wasn't two heads shorter than he, but now it was becoming more of a waddle with the coming hædl- she waddled past him with the darkened crate.

He shook his head at the low class enunciation, compounded by wherever her infernal accent hailed from.

“Just don't bring T'Varros down on me, alright?”

No one seemed to care that she borrowed the chamber from time to time, least of all the Subcommander- Ajoi know why he brought the Terrhaha on board. Not that he disliked the flight deck chief; she was alright for a Terrhaha, and a surprisingly punctual distributor.

“Pshaw, I kin 'andle Davin Mandukar, dun y' mind.”

She was the only one who used that surname so carelessly. Most definitely because she was human. The rest of the crew had acknowledged the news-break with whispers and scowls and an aversion to its use, but she used it all the time. Uncomfortably frequently, as if going out of her way to use it.

“Now shoo,” She set the crate down with an 'oof', dismissively flapping a hand at the visibly addling Romulan. “I got science t' do!”

“Alright. No more than twenty minutes, though.” As long as T'Varros didn't come down on him and she brought his recreational doses of 'slug', whatever the amosarr was up to didn't matter to him.

The door slid shut and Nethali crouched with her bowling ball stomach to unlatch the crate. Out burst Khellian- Subcommander Mandukar's sehlat- wheeling around to face his captor from the center of the room.

Tail lashed as wide, predatorial eyes watched the human. Watched as a ribbon unwound from an extendable rod in her hands. Blinked just as the unfurled edge touched the floor and he launched himself across the tile in a barely controlled skitter to follow its unpredictable weaving.

“No place else's got th' right level o' slide, huh, Uglymug~”
PG-13 for language!
Spoiler: A Christmas Carole, as sung by NethaliShow
'Twas the night before Xmas and all through the ship
Not a Rommie was carin' or givin' a shit.
Coby's stockings were hung on the incubate-air,
'cause Ketra was keen on keepin' Brandy-o bare.

Sluggo was trippin', all snug by 'is keyboard,
wi' visions o' spacewhales, way out on starboard.
And yer ma's in 'er undies, swingin' a bat,
thinkin', 'th' fuck'm I gunna /do/ wi' this brat?'

When off slipped th' bat 'gainst th' window a'clatter,
It even jarred Davin from 'is robo-smut-chatter!
Away t' yer side I /leapt/ inna flash,
An' Lirette runnin' too, screamin' me brash.

Wi' Lirette came th' Kermit,
An' wi' Kermit came sense,
and it turned out y' were perfectly fine, y' fuckin' whiner.
"Y'can't jess wait /one/ bloody extra day?"
"No, Centurion. This, at least, will proceed according to schedule."
"Jess gimme twenny-six fluddin' hours!"
"What cause have you to delay? Are you unprepared?"
"After doin' alla those classes an' th' readin' an' shit?!"
"Then you're frightened."
"I ain't! It's jess, big, y'know? An' there're a coupla things-"


"-'ey th' 'ell're y'- I said wait!"


"Congratulations, Centurion. A largely humanoid baby male."

"Jeebus, tha's LOUD. 'e ain't 'urt or nothin'?"
"He is perfectly fine, Centurion, simply voicing his opinions now that he is able. Shall I inform the bridge of this momentous occasion?"
"Naw, lemme like-"
"-imprint on 'im or sommat. Make sure 'e knows 'm 'is ma."
"Very well. I trust your thorough preparations will guide you from here."
"Wait, wait- Ketra-"
"'Ow do I make 'im SHUDDUP!?
Linked to this entry of the Operational Log of the Warbird D'Ishae.

Spoiler: Operating LightsShow
When all you can do is wait. When all you have is that 'operation' light telling you that the qualified professionals are doing their jobs and there's jack all you can do until it's over, one way or the other.

The fighter bays were all sealed off by emergency bulkhead forcefields-- the ones that hadn't been torn open by prompt obediance to Davin's command to get the fighters scrambled (damn, that had been awesome. Thermolyte sticky bombs? Who's brilliant idea were those?) were as percolated as a dune dog that'd just sniffed the backside of a porcupine.

So her part of the deal was done and the D'Ishae sat crippled in drydock, and all she could do was wait.

Watch and wait as people scurry like ants on fire to get things under control, not a one with time enough to update you on the specifics. Fuckin' drag, helpless and useless.

At least she had Brandy to keep her busy, Tirian to keep her preoccupied, and now- she smirked at the medbay doors at the end of the hall in anticipation, tossing security footage chip up and down in hand- Davin to keep her entertained. Jeebus, it'd been glorious to watch Ketra take him down.