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+--- Thread: YE/D02-07 - Crew Quarters (/showthread.php?tid=302)
YE/D02-07 - Crew Quarters - Paul - 04-24-2024
==
Captain's Quarters:
The Captain's quarters consists of a large sitting/living area, with a desk and built-in terminal, dining table with seating for four on the right, a large couch beneath the viewports, and a pair of recliner chairs on the left. To the right of the living area is a small kitchen and pantry, with a replicator and appliances to make "home grown" food. To the left of the living area is the bedroom, containing a King-sized bed, and the bathroom which includes the standard amenities (toilet, sink, sonic shower) and a full bath.
Senior Officer's Quarters (FO/DH/COB):
Senior Officers quarters consist of a living area featuring a desk and terminal, replicator, dining table with seating for four, and a coffee table with two to four chairs. The bedroom is off the living space, with Senior Officers' having access to twin beds which can be exchanged for a double if the officer's spouse is aboard. Off the bedroom is the bathroom, including standard amenities (toilet, sink, sonic shower).
Junior Officer's/Enlisted Quarters:
Junior Officers and Enlisted personnel live in shared accommodation. Quarters consist of a living area with desk, couch, a replicator station, and bunks. Junior Officers and Petty Officers sleep two per cabin, Junior Enlisted sleep four. Bathroom facilities are limited, including a pop-out toilet and sink, and a sonic shower.
==
RE: YE/D02-07 - Crew Quarters - Jennifer Braggins - 02-10-2025
==0100 Hours, the night of the Commissioning Ceremony==
The beeping coming from Jenny's terminal became more insistent the longer she ignored it. The fact that this was now the third time someone had tried to contact her only served to darken her mood even further as she stormed out of the bedroom, quickly wrapping her naked form in a silk kimono. It had been far too long since she'd enjoyed any male company, and after Bryan had made the journey to the ass-end of nowhere to support her at the Yeager's commissioning, she had hoped that she would be able to take her time to truly make the most of the experience.
Someone had decided that was not to be.
That meant someone was about to die.
Dropping heavily into the chair behind her desk, she slammed her hand down on the console to activate the communications terminal. The screen flashed to life, the brightness causing her to flinch away briefly as her eyes adjusted.
"This had better be good."
The officer on the other end of the communication, a young Bajoran woman, seemed unphased by Jenny's appearance or mood, and seemed more intent on working on filing her nails than holding any conversation.
[Please hold for Ambassador Langtree.]
The screen immediately flashed to a generic government wallpaper, and Jenny could have sworn she heard cheesy piano music and a condescending voice telling her that her call was important to them. Her simmering anger was rapidly coming to a boil, and Jenny could feel her cheeks heating as she waited. For a seemingly-endless amount of time, Jenny waited for the Ambassador to appear so she could return to her warm bed and even warmer husband, and she was about to close the monitor and rip out the cables so she could get some peace and quiet when the Ambassador's face appeared.
[Did I catch you at a bad time, Captain?]
Langtree had a kind face with deep-set green eyes and hair that was rapidly graying from its dark brown. The antithesis of what many would consider a career politician, Langtree had served for twenty years in the Starfleet Marine Corps prior to entering the Diplomatic Corps; he'd served at AR-558, Chin'toka, and had helped evacuate Romulan civilians under fire during the exodus from Romulan space. He was a man for whom Jenny held great respect, but that didn't change the fact he was the reason for her current state of coitus interruptus.
"Well, actually..."
[Just over a month ago, long-range probes detected the presence of a warp-capable species in your area. The Yeager is to...]
"Now hold on a minute, Ambassador. I work for Starfleet Command, not the Diplomatic Corps; you don't have the authority to give me orders, otherwise I'd be talking to an Admiral. What it sounds like is you're asking me to volunteer for something."
[I'd like you to volunteer for something. While we have not compiled a full dossier on the species, we know that they are called the Wairara, and they inhabit a binary star system with a unique temporal anomaly; a chroniton particle stream, which is of great interest to the Department of Temporal Investigations...]
"I'm not interested. Send the Titania, they love the temporal crap."
[Furthermore, our probes have indicated that whatever technology they use to travel around their system is far more efficient than our own impulse drives, and have been recorded as routinely accelerating to velocities of point-four cee. I don't need to tell you, Captain, that having an acceleration advantage over our rivals without the time-dilation effects would be vital should another armed conflict arise. The Theoretical Propulsion Group at Utopia Planitia are very keen to get their hands on this technology.]
"So send a SCE ship with a diplomatic team."
[That's the issue,] Langtree rubbed his hands together, [from our intercepts of their media, it seems like the Wairara have little use for the posturing of career politicians. Their primary religion is that of The Great Race; competition to complete a task in the fastest and most efficient way. Can you guess what their tradition is when meeting a new species?]
"No."
[They challenge them to a race. The Wairara take their racing very seriously, their entire star system is organised into one giant racetrack. Pilots and engineers are first-class citizens among the Wairara; they are the equivalent of old-Earth rock stars, with properties, titles, and media endorsements to go along with their fame.]
"Sensible. Let's make that Federation policy."
[So we believe that a pilot is the best person to talk to these people. We know they're aware of the Federation, and despite the misgivings of The Powers That Be, you're one of the most famous pilots in Starfleet since Tom Paris. We believe that the Yeager's...unique...design, will also appeal to the engineers among the Wairara.]
"I'm not a diplomat."
[We're assigning a diplomatic advisor, they will report aboard tomorrow. I believe Commander Crawford recently boarded for a visit, he will act as security for our advisor. I trust you and he will have plenty to keep you occupied between diplomatic functions.]
The smirk on Langtry's face didn't soothe Jenny's mood much, but it was a start. It was a hell of an opportunity for her, and for the crew of the Yeager; her last First Contact mission had almost resulted in a shooting war with the Tholian Assembly, it was a surprise that she'd be offered a second chance so soon. Not that it was anyone's first choice; she was simply the person who ticked the most boxes and was closest. Plus it got to mean that Bryan would be remaining aboard for an extended period of time; Carly was still on Earth, which meant the family wasn't quite fully reunited, but it was a start.
"Well then I guess I volunteer, Ambassador."
[Good! Your orders will be sent in the morning. Enjoy the rest of your night.]
Jenny managed, barely, not to give Langtree the finger as she noticed the mischievous twinkle in his eye; he might have left the Corps, but he'd certainly not grown up any. Shutting down the monitor, Jenny rose and moved back towards the bedroom. Bryan had since wrapped himself in a robe and was standing in the doorway, opening his mouth to enquire what the conversation was about. Before he uttered a word, Jenny put a finger to his lips and unbelted her kimono, letting it slide off her shoulders as she pushed him back into the bedroom.
It was shaping up to be a good night, after all...
RE: YE/D02-07 - Crew Quarters - Leo Alden - 02-11-2025
The alarm chirped at precisely 06:45, dragging Leo from his restless, half-sleep he’d managed after the previous night’s ordeal. His mind had replayed the commissioning ceremony in agonising detail, over and over, long past the point of exhaustion. He let out a sigh and ran a hand down his face before forcing himself out of bed.
The moment his bare feet hit the cool floor and he opened his eyes, he groaned.
“Right. Still on a ship. Still that guy who forgot to tell the Captain his own bloody name.”
Dragging himself to the replicator, he muttered, “Coffee, White.” The steaming mug materialised, and he took a slow sip, letting the heat pull him fully into the waking world. His reflection in the mirror looked… well, as dishevelled as he felt. Bloodshot hazel eyes and a faint pillow crease on his cheek.
Fantastic. That’s just the face of professionalism right there.
Shaking off the sluggishness, Leo dropped down to do a quick set of push-ups, part habit, part attempt to jolt himself into focus. A few deep breaths later, he climbed back to his feet, stripped off his pyjama bottoms and showered before adorning his uniform. Trousers, done up. Tactical boots, properly fastened. Coloured undershirt, tucked in. Department coloured jacket, uncreased and done up. Dress neat, posture straight. The reflection staring back at him now looked the part.
Grabbing his PADD, he skimmed the latest duty roster and it looked like security was about to come alive, with a recall in place and an assignment involving an ambassador, he’d need to check in with d’Tor’an for details, but it looked like things were about to get busy fast. Good. He preferred it that way. Less time to dwell on how spectacularly he’d fumbled his introduction to half the senior staff.
“Only 07:30, hmm. I don't want to get there too early.” He muttered quietly.
Sitting back down at the end of his bed, he made his first personal log entry.
Log finished, coffee now in need of replenishing, Leo stood up with purpose and with a final deep breath, he ran a hand over his hair, squared his shoulders, and made his way out the door. Time to prove his worth.
>> Security Complex >>
RE: YE/D02-07 - Crew Quarters - Scarlett Papaver - 02-11-2025
The commissioning party had gone on for a few more hours after the speeches and other pomp had been done with. If there was one thing beside doing their duty that the Yeager's crew was capable of it had been proved last night with the partying that had gone on despite the uncomfortableness of the uniforms. Collars were soon unclasped, and belts loosened.
Papaver would have liked to see a side by side of them all before and after the evenings revelries. But only out of morbid fascination.
Fresh new officers straight from the Academy. New enlisted transfers from... Where did they come from? She mused for a moment. There had to be some kind of basic training facilities somewhere? She knew her friend and colleague Maz had risen from the ranks, and in all honesty, she'd never actually asked the older woman about it. Maybe when she comes back from leave?
For Papaver's part, she had left comparatively early. Seeing the Gorn officer had shook her slightly more than she'd care to admit. And so she'd made her excuses and retired for the night. Or rather had gone back to her quarters, changed, and hit the gym for an hour before heading back, smiling and nodding to those who were then heading back to their own beds for the night.
Walking back in, she sat on the bed pulling off her shoes before flopping back fully intending to shower and sleep.
When the alarm went off the following morning, it was the smell that gave it away that she may have been more tired than she thought as she was still wearing her now sweat dried workout gear. And the shower was still waiting for her with open arms. She'd obviously had her priorities organised, just in the wrong order.
Showered, dried, made-up and dressed in a fresh duty uniform, Papaver deposited her soiled sports kit via the means of a pair of chopsticks, into the recycler, and her slightly better fairing, rumpled dress uniform into a bag for housekeeping to deal with. Checking the chronometer, there was still time before shift change. There wasn't much running in the labs besides local astrometrics, and even that was primarily being monitored by the station.
There was a small horticultural 'closet' she'd set up to experiment with growing a few exotic plants and fruits so she figured she'd just pop over to that to see how it was fairing before shift. Maybe get something for breakfast from it.
== Off to the illicit fruit stash ==
RE: YE/D02-07 - Crew Quarters - Riley Wright - 09-29-2025
== I'll join in spirit, for the moment. ==
== Crewman Mark Halvorsen – Security NRC ==
== Enlisted Quarters ==
Halvorsen jerked awake like the mattress had kicked him. Air in the rack was dry and faintly antiseptic, riding a ship-hum that rumbled up through the bunk into his ribs. Overhead, squarer ceiling ribs threw old-style shadows across a hairline crack he didn’t remember logging. His body felt exactly right: tight lower back, scuffed palms from last week’s rotation, that familiar dryness along the bridge of his nose where the recycler never quite kept up.
He swung his legs over, boots finding bare deck instead of the runner he swore he’d left there, and stood into the thin glow spilling from the locker light. He faced the mirror bolted inside the door.
An Andorian stared back—high-latitude blue skin, white hair cut close, twin antennae lifted like alert punctuation. The reflection matched him perfectly as he raised a hand to his ear. Flesh-side, he felt the rounded human curve; in the glass, blue fingers traced the same shape—just blue—while the antennae gave a quick, impatient flick he didn’t feel at all.
Later, he told the stranger, and shut the locker with a flat palm.
The uniform on the shelf wasn’t quite last week’s issue—shoulder seams a touch different, trouser line older—but he dressed anyway, fast and neat, and palmed the hatch.
The corridor hit him in red and shadow. Red Alert strobes pulsed a steady heartbeat along the overhead, bathing bronze rail and carpet runner in a crimson wash. The klaxon rolled through the deckplates in measured bursts. LCARS panels wore archived palettes; status bands streamed terse lines past his peripheral vision. The air had an ion bite—ozone and a hint of burned polymer under the cleaner.
He took one step—and stopped.
A Jem’Hadar lay sprawled mid-corridor like a dropped statue. The cranial ridge caught the red light; a dark, almost violet-black slick had matted at the neck and spread in an oval the runner couldn’t drink. A polaron carbine rested inches from a rigid hand, muzzle canted toward the deck. Opposite, the bulkhead wore twin scorch kisses where energy had chewed the paint to charcoal and left the air tasting metallic.
Training stood up. He let his eyes work—left, right, overhead vent, junction node, door seams—then widened his path to avoid weapon and blood. A hatch three frames down sat a finger’s width ajar, status telltale steady; another farther along showed a heat-discoloration ring around its seal. Somewhere behind the walls, metal ticked as it cooled between klaxon beats. The ship’s heartbeat sat a note lower than he expected, thrumming through bone.
He let himself study the scene for half a breath longer. The scorch on the bulkhead tracked a clean line across the corridor; the carbine’s position suggested it had been yanked wide by impact rather than dropped on purpose. No triage tag, no binders, no sloppiness. Whoever dropped him knew what they were doing—and they were probably friendly. That didn’t mean the mess was over. The Dominion didn’t send Jem’Hadar out alone unless there were more already on the way.
His gaze flicked to the carbine and back. Would be really nice to have a phaser right now. The Jem’Hadar weren’t famous for hospitality, and friendly or not, whoever fired last might not be the next person to come around the corner.
He eased to the junction placard. The old-style strip glowed steady: DECK 5. Below it, a neat stamp read: SECTION J–12 • FRAME 6–138. In the brushed metal under the handrail, the mirror-sheen threw him a slim ghost of that blue Andorian again, antennae tipped toward the intersection like weather vanes; Halvorsen held the line, breathing even.
He tapped his combadge.
“Security, Crewman Halvorsen,” he said, keeping it even over the siren. “Jem’Hadar down in corridor near enlisted quarters. Deck strip reads Deck Five, Section J–One-Two, Frame Six-One-Three-Eight. No other contacts sighted or heard. Standing by for orders.”
He set a shoulder lightly to the bulkhead, sightline clean past the body to the elbow of the hall, hands visible and well away from the carbine, weight settled on the balls of his feet in case someone told him to move—either direction. He listened to the ship breathe: the low engine note, the faint tick of cooling metal, a distant thrum that might be a forcefield or a turbolift cycling. Friendly or not, somebody had fired here. That meant somebody else might, too.
== GM-Input: Please describe any additional details beyond the immediate scene outside enlisted quarters—what Halvorsen notices downrange at the junction (doors sealed or ajar, forcefields, turbolift indicators, smoke or coolant haze, debris or casualties, computer response at a wall panel). ==
RE: YE/D02-07 - Crew Quarters - Riley Wright - 09-30-2025
== Just noticed the Bridge post after my original post. ==
== Crewman Mark Halvorsen – Security NRC ==
The next pulse of the klaxon never landed.
Sound thinned, light leveled; the corridor’s red wash bled back to clean white-gold, and the ship’s hum climbed to the note he knew by heart. The scorched bulkhead was whole. The runner was unburned. The polaron carbine wasn’t at his feet—because it never had been.
Halvorsen blinked once, slow. He looked down at his hands: his hands—small scar by the thumb web, faint grease ghost in the lines no sonic ever completely erased. He touched his ear. Rounded. Warm. In the brushed panel beneath the rail, a human face met his eyes—sleep-ruffled, a little pale, blessedly antennae-free.
He drew a breath through his nose and tasted only Yeager: sanitizer with a hint of vanilla, metal and ozone in the way all ships carry a bite, and somewhere down the line that stubborn third-shift coffee drifting like a bribe.
The fixtures were right again. LCARS ran the modern palette. The rail’s satin finish didn’t throw his reflection back at him like a haunted halo. The deck strip by the junction glowed steady: DECK 6. Below it, the stamp he’d walked past a hundred times without reading: SECTION J–12 • FRAME 6–138.
He glanced back at the spot where a Jem’Hadar had—hadn’t—been. The carpet lay innocent, pile undisturbed. No scent of burned polymer, no tick of metal cooling. Just the quiet rhythm of a ship awake and busy and minding its own business.
His combadge gave a soft, neutral chirp; the already-open channel held like a held breath. He thumbed the badge, listened to the clean carrier tone for a beat, then let it go. No story to tell that didn’t sound wrong. False alarm. Dream with its boots on. Pick a label later.
He squared his jacket—the right cut this time—smoothed a wrinkle at the hip, and let his shoulders settle. Voices drifted faintly from around the elbow, the harmless kind of laughter that never carried content past the corner. A service hatch whispered shut somewhere aft. The deck under his soles thrummed steady, comfortable as a heartbeat under a palm.
“Right,” he murmured to the quiet ship. “Back to it.”
He checked the corridor one more time—sealed hatches, clear lanes, nothing where a body had been—and stepped out toward the junction at an easy pace, eyes doing their usual quiet work and his badge ready to chirp at the first crackle of a Security voice. If someone pinged, he’d answer. If not, he had a shift to make on a Yeager that looked exactly like home.
>> Security Complex >>