Ensign Theridion Grallator - Wish you were here
Boris Stefanovski
(( Corridors, Derelict Vulcan Ship ))
Grallator had long ago accepted that starships were not so much machines as elaborate practical jokes held together by misplaced optimism and duct tape. This particular vessel, however, had gone one better: it had developed a sense of theatre. The corridors didn’t merely stretch—they loomed, the way corridors do when they’ve been practicing in front of a mirror and are determined to be taken seriously.
His tricorder, naturally, chose this moment to emit a noise that could only be described as “smugly unhelpful.” He gave it a shake, which only encouraged it to beep again in a tone suggesting it had just won an argument.
The ship itself seemed to be staging little historical reenactments—flickers of long‑dead Vulcans bustling about as if the last three millennia had been a coffee break. Grallator, who had once juryrigged a warp manifold with chewing gum and a hymn, decided this was less “haunting” and more “badly cached memory.” Which was, in his professional opinion, only slightly less terrifying.
Then came the door. Doors, in Grallator’s experience, were never innocent. This one radiated the smug self‑importance of a door that knew it was about to ruin someone’s week. The lettering above it shifted like it couldn’t quite decide which language to be in, which was deeply unfair—exploding conduits were one thing, but multilingual signage was a level of malice no engineer should have to endure.
By the time his commander suggested the ship might actually be trying to communicate, Grallator had already resigned himself to the role of reluctant translator. If the vessel wanted to chat, fine. He’d listen. But he fully intended to keep his wrench handy, because in his experience, conversations with ancient starships had a nasty habit of ending in sparks.
Grallator: ::tilting his head at the label:: Tuning itself to our languages, right. That would explain why you see Caitian and I see Bolian. Which means either the ship is trying very hard to be polite… or it’s the worst universal translator in history. ::he jabbed a finger at the door:: And it keeps shifting—one moment the label reads Captain’s Quarters, the next it flickers into Main Computer Quarters. It won’t stay still, like the ship itself can’t decide what it wants this place to be.
Xiron: If it is tuning itself to our language does that mean it is reading our thoughts? Maybe those prisoners we saw were not a memory but something happening now?
Ada: Whatever is communicating with us, it seems to clearly articulate the Vulcans on this ship as dangerous and cruel. Communication of emotions. Language barriers may be hard to overcome, but emotions among humanoids often edify in some fairly similar ways in our nervous systems. It's why so many humanoids have similar facial expressions, for example.
V’Nille: Well, I wouldn’t doubt that this ship served as a prison at some point. If it has been sitting in orbit ever since the Vulcans arrived, then we’re talking about a pretty much unassailable and inescape location that the Vulcans could completely control access to. If they weren’t treating the natives as equals, there’s little that’s more tempting to have on hand.
Grallator: Do we dare open it, Commander? Because I have the distinct feeling this door has been waiting for someone gullible enough to ask that very question.
As Grallator muttered the words—half suggestion, half plea to the universe not to make him responsible for yet another catastrophic discovery—the corridor decided to take him literally.
A figure drifted past the door. Not walked, not strode, not even glided in the dignified manner of a Vulcan who has just remembered he left the kettle on. No, this was a drift—the kind of movement that suggested the laws of physics had been politely asked to step outside for a moment.
It was unmistakably Vulcan, male, and dressed in the sort of uniform that screamed “high command” in the way only a uniform with far too many unnecessary folds and insignia can. His expression was the same one Vulcan admirals had been cultivating for millennia: a look that said, I am not angry, merely disappointed in your entire species.
The figure passed the door without so much as a nod, which was frankly insulting given the effort Grallator had put into not screaming. Then came the sound. Not a normal sound, like a creak or a groan, but a sound that seemed to have been invented on the spot by a committee of disgruntled subspace anomalies. It was followed by a shudder that rippled through the deck plates, the kind of shake that suggested the ship was either waking up… or trying to scratch an itch in a place only metaphysical chiropractors could reach.
Grallator tightened his grip on the tricorder, which was doing its best impression of a sulky teenager—refusing to display anything useful while humming faintly in protest.
Xiron: If it is the ‘Main Computer Quarters’ It may be what we need to get the power fully restored. Scans show the room to be structurally sound but that would not factor in how ‘crowded’ it may be.
Ada: Pain. Those shudders. What if that's pain? ::She turned to V'Nille:: Commander, I think we should proceed. The ship hasn't harmed us, and it might even need our help.
Grallator: Right, ::he muttered, wobbling between sarcasm and prayer like a badly calibrated gyroscope.:: So that’s must be a ghost admiral.
Grallator watched Xiron wrestle the door with a spanner and thought, not for the first time, that doors had an uncanny knack for holding grudges. This one resisted with the stubbornness of a bulkhead that had spent centuries perfecting the art of being shut, and only relented when it realized it was up against an engineer with more patience than sense.
(( Artifact Room, Derelict Vulcan Ship ))
He braced himself for the usual: a server room, perhaps, full of ancient racks humming with the smugness of forgotten Vulcan circuitry. Instead, the door revealed a space so small and bare it looked like even dust had decided not to bother. At its center sat a desk, and on the desk, a single stone artifact—quiet, immovable, and radiating the kind of importance that made Grallator’s stomach sink.
Because in his experience, nothing good ever came from mysterious objects placed on pedestals. They were either sacred, cursed, or—worst of all—interactive. And he had the sinking feeling this one was about to be all three.
Xiron: Given what we have seen I would suggest we don’t touch the artifact.
V’Nille: That’s assuming that this isn’t another illusion, anyway. Ada, you’re the scientist here. Even if you’re not a geologist, you’re in a better position to figure it out. Do you see anything particularly interesting about it?
Ada: I do, but I'm not sure how to explain it yet. Again, if the ship wanted to hurt us, it could have done so already. I suggest we approach the artifact.
Grallator: From an engineering standpoint, Commander, this clearly falls under Regulation 42b: Mysterious Object on Pedestal. The official procedure is very straightforward. Step one: don’t touch it. Step two: under no circumstances, even if it winks at you, touch it. Step three: if you’ve already ignored steps one and two, please ensure your affairs are in order, your will is signed, and your next of kin have been warned they may inherit a smoking pair of boots.
Grallator watched V’Nille approach the desk with the caution of someone inspecting a suspiciously well-behaved tribble. The desk itself was a marvel of Vulcan practicality—metal, bolted down, and radiating the kind of sturdy sensibility that made engineers nod approvingly and philosophers feel vaguely judged.
But then came the twist. Behind the artifact, tucked just out of polite view, was the unmistakable outline of a long-dead Vulcan. Robed, dignified, and inconveniently present.
oOArtifact—ominous.Check. Desk—sturdy. Check. Corpse—unexpected. Check.Oo
V’NIlle: Well, I see not everyone made it to a grave or an urn. You think he was the last one alive on board?
Ada: Perhaps. It doesn't look like a ceremonial pose.
Grallator: Of course there’s a Vulcan. Because what self-respecting haunted ship doesn’t come with its own complimentary corpse? Judging by the posture, he died mid-meditation. And given the lighting and general ambiance, I’d say there’s a non-zero chance he’s about to stand up and offer us unsolicited wisdom. Or bite someone.
Xiron: Response
Grallator watched V’Nille lean in toward the artifact with the kind of cautious reverence usually reserved for ancient scrolls, malfunctioning warp cores, or cats deciding whether to pounce. Her height made the reach awkward, but she managed—and the object rewarded her with a glint of Vulcan lettering so precise it practically judged him for his handwriting.
From where Grallator stood, the artifact looked like it had been carved by someone with far too much time and a deep personal vendetta against imperfections. The curves were elegant, seamless, and suspiciously smug—like the stone knew it was important and was just waiting for someone to ask it a question it could answer in riddles.
V’Nille: Interesting. There’s something in the center of it. I can’t quite make it out. It looks like … a crystal of some sort?
Grallator: ::watching at hist tricorder:: Commander, if that’s a crystal embedded in the center, we’ll need to treat it like a potential power node. I’m reading faint EM signatures—not enough to suggest active charge, but enough to imply it’s not just decorative. I recommend we initiate a low-frequency scan, check for subspace harmonics, and avoid direct contact until we’ve ruled out energy feedback or containment fields.
Xiron: Response
V’Nille: He was meditating or praying to this thing. Whatever it was, it was clearly very important.
Grallator didn’t believe in magic—not officially, anyway. But when the dead Vulcan began to materialize in front of the desk like a polite ghost with a flair for stagecraft, he made a mental note to revisit his stance. The apparition didn’t pop in with the usual dramatic flash; it faded in slowly, like it was being considerate about interrupting.
The texture, the color, the robes—it all resolved with the kind of precision that made Grallator’s tricorder sulk in professional jealousy. The Vulcan’s gaze was fixed on the artifact, same as theirs, which was somehow worse. It meant they were now sharing a moment with a spectral figure who clearly had seniority.
Grallator shifted his stance, keeping one eye on the ghost and the other on the artifact. “Well,” he muttered, “either we’ve triggered a memory playback, or the ship’s decided to host a historical reenactment. I just hope it doesn’t come with audience participation.”
Would you like a follow-up where Grallator tries to scan the apparition and gets back something like “Lifeform: expired. Mood: contemplative”?
???: I suppose this is the last time you’ll see any use. The barbarians certainly can’t make it up here. I’ve made sure to set the autopilot appropriately.
The Vulcan apparition surveyed the room like a man inspecting his own tomb for proper feng shui. Grallator noted the posture: dignified, resigned, and just self-important enough to suggest this ghost had once chaired a committee.
???: How long exactly has it been since this ship left Vulcan? Centuries, I suppose. It is not the grave I would have chosen for myself but their anger is too great for any Vulcan to remain on the surface now. At least here, I will have a suitable place to rest alongside my own people.
When the figure reached out and touched the artifact, Grallator flinched. Not visibly, of course—he was a professional—but internally, several warning lights went off. The stone pulsed once, like a heart remembering how to beat, then went dormant again. Grallator’s stomach did not.
???: I see. The rest have gone dark now. That’s to be expected. I’ll see you soon, old friend. There are some last rites to perform before I, too, pass into the unending dream.
And then, right on cue, the lights died. Not flickered. Not dimmed. Died. The room plunged into darkness, leaving only the glow of suit lamps and the quiet certainty that something ancient had just signed off.
V’Nille: Well then. That sounds an awful lot like they were using this as a sort of communicator. I wonder why this instead of, you know, proper communications technology.
Ada: The figure was addressing the ship, Commander. "I suppose this will be the last time you'll see any use." They knew the ship was sentient.
Grallator: Well, I suppose I’m officially past the point of being surprised. First it was ghosts in the corridors, then multilingual signage, and now we’ve got a starship that doubles as a pen pal. At this rate, I’ll start expecting the bulkheads to offer me career advice. ::turns to Ada: And you are right Lieutenant—the Vulcan wasn’t talking to us, he was talking to it. Which means the ship isn’t just a vessel, it’s a participant. Sentient, self‑aware, and probably keeping a very long list of complaints. From an engineering standpoint, I’m prepared to accept that. From a personal standpoint, I’d just prefer it doesn’t start asking me to fix its feelings as well as its conduits.
V'Nille/Xiron: Response
Ada: Xiron, I know you said before to not touch it, but... ::She reached her gloved hand towards the crystal:: I think this will be relevant data.
((OOC: I talked to Ada about writing this and she greenlit it.))
From Grallator’s vantage, Ada’s words were still hanging in the air when she reached for the crystal. She didn’t hesitate, didn’t flinch—just extended her hand with the grim determination of someone about to press a button clearly labeled Do Not Press.
The instant her glove touched the surface, the room seemed to tilt. Not literally—his boots were still on the deck—but something in the air shifted, heavy and oppressive, like the ship itself had drawn in a breath.
Ada froze. Her body locked rigid, her head snapping slightly back, and her eyes went glassy, as though she’d been yanked out of the room and left her body behind as a placeholder.
Her lips parted, but no sound came. Her breath hitched, shallow and uneven, and her face twisted into something raw and unguarded—pain, then fear, then something worse. Grallator had seen people in agony before, but this was different. This was as if she was being spoken through.
He flicked his tricorder open, desperate for data, but the display remained obstinately blank. No energy spikes, no anomalous readings—just the smug indifference of a machine refusing to acknowledge the impossible.
Ada’s expression shifted again, softening, almost tender, as though whatever had her in its grip had changed its tone. That was worse. Pain he could understand. But this—this communion—was something he couldn’t fix with a spanner or a recalibration.
Then the deck shuddered, a ripple of subspace energy rolled through the room, and the lights flickered like a dying heartbeat. Ada staggered, blinking hard, her breath catching as though she’d just surfaced from deep water.
And then—just like that—she was Ada again. Her posture loosened, her eyes refocused, and the tension drained from her face. Whatever had borrowed her was gone, leaving her back in her own body, back in her own senses.
Grallator exhaled slowly, toolbox heavy in his grip. He didn’t know what had just happened, but he knew one thing: for a moment, Ada hadn’t been Ada. And now she was—though he wasn’t entirely sure for how long.
Grallator: ::bellowed with the full authority of a warp core on the verge of exploding:: Lieutenant!
V'Nille/Xiron: Response
Ada: It's suffering. We have to help.
He hurried over to Ada and waved his tricorder across her like a man hoping the device would suddenly decide to be a medical degree. The readings looked fine—though, to be fair, ‘fine’ was a very broad category when interpreted by an engineer. He was, after all, not a doctor, merely someone who could make a warp core sing but had no idea what to do with a spleen.
Grallator: ::his attitude for starfleet ranks went out of the docks as he neared the lieutenant:: Ada! Are you all right? What just— ::he turned to V’Nille and Xiron, voice cracking with urgency:: Is she all right, or do I need to start pretending I know medicine?
V'Nille/Xiron: Response
Ada: I'm still trying to make sense of it. Something about death on the planet below. I--I don't know. Right before I touched it, my tricorder read dangerously fluctuating lifesigns from the crystal.
Grallator: Fluctuating lifesigns from a rock. Of course. Because why wouldn’t a crystal be alive and broadcasting its existential crisis through subspace. ::he tapped his tricorder, which still displayed nothing useful:: Look, Lieutenant , I believe you. I just don’t like believing you. If that thing is tied to whatever happened on the planet, then we’re not just poking at geology—we’re poking at grief itself. And grief, in my experience, doesn’t calibrate well. So yes, I agree it’s relevant data. I’d just prefer my relevant data to stop trying to kill my colleagues.
V'Nille/Ada/Xiron: Response
Grallator: ::turning to V’Nille:: Commander, perhaps we should vacate this charming chamber of horrors and return to finding the bridge. My skills are better suited to engines and circuits than… whatever this is.
V'Nille/Ada/Xiron: Response
In that instant, a fragment of an old song drifted back to Grallator’s mind—the one his father had played for him in years long past.
oO So… so you think you can tell
A conduit from a ghost,
A bulkhead from a veil?
Can you tell a stable deck
From a corridor that moans,
A working hatch from one that groans?
Do you think you can tell?
Did they get you to trade
Your spanners for fear,
Blueprints for prayers?
Cold comfort for dread,
Hot plasma for lead,
A walk‑on part in a nightmare
For a lead role in repairs?Oo
Grallator: :: Unconsciously started singing under his breath:: How I wish, how I wish this ship was clear. We’re just four lost souls in corridors, Year after year. Haunted by phantoms, Drifting through air, What have we found? The same old ship— Wish this ship was clear.
V'Nille/Ada/Xiron: Response
Grallator: Sorry Commander. I didn't know I did that outloud.
V'Nille/Ada/Xiron: Response
Ensign Theridion Grallator
Engineering Officer
USS Chin'toka NCC-97187
C240207TG3