Ensign Theridion Grallator - Witchy Woman

[Boris Stefanovski]

(( Main Engineering, Derelict Vulcan Ship ))

Grallator had just been introduced to three thousand years of Vulcan wiring by way of a small but enthusiastic electric handshake. It left him tingling in places he hadn’t known were unionized. Naturally, he declared himself “certified in electrocution” and carried on, because engineers are contractually obliged to treat near‑death as a résumé booster.

The ship, meanwhile, continued humming like a bored philosopher clearing its throat. With Xiron’s help, he coaxed the junction box into something resembling cooperation, all while keeping the Quantum Hex Wrench close at hand in case diplomacy failed.

And so, still smoking faintly but with the air of a man who had wrestled bureaucracy and lost politely, Grallator turned to the next task: persuading the ancient fuel pumps to wake up—preferably without further commentary from the universe.

Grallator: Okily-dokily, here we go. ::He started pushing buttons on the console with the caution of a recently electrified lab rat::

Xiron: Zero-point. We just pulled the ‘missing’ energy out of subspace.

Grallator listened as the ship began to stir, producing a range of noises that could only be described as “unhelpfully ambiguous.” Some sounded like ancient systems rebooting, others like indigestion on a planetary scale, and at least one resembled a Vulcan sigh that had been trapped in the ductwork for three millennia.

Through his visor he caught V’Nille’s ears twitching inside her helmet, tracking every creak and groan like a feline auditor cataloguing infractions. Grallator, meanwhile, applied the engineer’s eternal metric: nothing had exploded, and he was still alive. By Starfleet standards, that was practically a commendation.

Still, he couldn’t shake the feeling that the ship was less “waking up” and more “remembering it had guests.” He made a mental note that if the next sound resembled a cough, he was filing for hazard pay. Until then, he would treat every groan as a polite Vulcan greeting and hope the fuel pumps didn’t decide to join in with interpretive percussion.

V’Nille: Sounds like everything’s working within expectations so far?

Ada: Commander! I have what I can only describe as lifesigns from the ship. Still no heartbeats, but look at this ::she held up her tricorder:: This looks like aspiration. And this ::she switched to another readout:: looks digestive. Like its been woken from hibernation, perhaps? 

V’Nille: Nothing on the scans suggested anything organic was on board, though. This could just be a coincidence.

Xiron: With the power back on we should have a better chance of mapping out the ship’s systems. Organic or not it may be a good idea to keep the interior of the ship cold. The rapid change in temperature surely will damage something. 

Grallator: Right, so to summarize: the ship is breathing, digesting, and possibly considering breakfast. Splendid. I always wanted to be swallowed by history. At this point I feel rather like that old Earth fellow, Jonah, who spent a few uncomfortable days living inside a very large fish. Only in my case, the fish has bulkheads, questionable wiring, and a fondness for dramatic humming. And with my luck, if there’s some Ishmael out there lining up a harpoon—or in our case, a torpedo—it’ll find the one albino on board and pin me to the wall like a cautionary tale. So yes, Commander, I’ll happily prep the helm controls. If this thing decides to stretch its fins, I’d much rather be the one steering than the one being reeled in.

Ada: We probably have several seconds, if not hours, before it's out of its hibernation stupor. We may want to secure helm control before it's fully awake, no telling what it'll want to do. 

V’Nille: I see. If things look stable here, then we’ll head to the bridge. Grallator, Xiron?

Xiron: Have spanner will travel, Commander.

Grallator began scooping his belongings off the floor with the weary precision of a man tidying up after a very small apocalypse of his own making. The phaser—recently and somewhat illegally persuaded into a second career as a battery—lay among the debris, humming faintly in the smug way only improvised power sources can. He gathered it all up with the air of someone who knew full well that Starfleet regulations would not approve, but also knew that regulations had never once restarted a dying ship.

Grallator: ::watching the phaser:: Well, there goes my phaser. I’ll be spending the rest of this trip armed only with optimism, sarcasm, and the faint hope that nothing notices.

Ada: I've cross-referenced it with known biosignatures, but nothing matches yet. That doesn't mean much - this tricorder only has broad categorical data for xenobiology, plus with it waking up, and who knows if or how much its been modified. It may even be biological components but not alive, per-se. 

V’Nille: How would something that looks on the scans to be entirely technological even be alive in the first place, Commander?

Ada: Think of the bio-neural gel packs that were first used in the 2370s: biological, but not living. In this case, biological just means these techs use biological mechanisms to function.

Xiron: I have some limited experience on gel packs. On USS Eagle they had bioneural gel packs in some of its older systems. The smell on one before they were about to go bad was horrid.

Grallator: I’ve never actually had the dubious pleasure of working with gel packs outside the Academy. According to one of my professors, though, the smell is unforgettable—something between a rotten fish and the sort of damp sock that’s been quietly plotting revenge at the back of a locker for several centuries. He assured us it was all part of the ‘educational experience,’ though I suspect it was more of a cruel social experiment.

Some of the lights sputtered awake, flickering like reluctant bureaucrats dragged back from a three‑millennia lunch break. Most of the room, however, stayed stubbornly dark—either because the reserve power was rationing itself like a miser, or because the bulbs had simply retired from public service. The patchwork of glow and shadow was somehow worse than total darkness, as if the ship had decided to stage a play but only half the cast had shown up.

Grallator followed V’Nille’s gaze upward, twitching in spite of himself. And then—for the very first time since stepping aboard—he saw them. Two figures, pale as memory, bent over a console as if still mid‑debate about some ancient engineering problem. His brain immediately filed a protest, insisting that nothing was there, but his eyes refused to cooperate.

And then, just as quickly, the figures were gone. The console stood empty, the shadows smugly innocent. Grallator’s tricorder, naturally, reported nothing—because tricorders never did when things were interesting. He exhaled, added “spectral apparitions” to his growing list of ship malfunctions, and tightened his grip on the Wrench, just in case the next ghost wanted a second opinion on EPS flow regulators.

V’Nille: Uh… are you all seeing this too?

Xiron: Thank Andore. I was about to ask the same thing.

Ada: Two figures at that console. ::She pointed towards where she saw them, and cursed under her breath:: This is rapidly trending away from curious and towards downright spooky. 

Grallator: Well, that’s comforting. For a moment I thought I’d finally gone space‑mad and started hallucinating staff meetings. 

V’Nille: Great. Let’s get to the bridge before it gets even weirder.

Xiron: Weirder seems to be a sliding scale. I am never again going to complain when the Captain asks me to break the laws of standard physics again.

Ada: I don't think this is a hologram or projection, either. No polarization artifacts to suggest holography, no projection equipment. 

V’Nille: They are not real. Visions of the past, I think. Notice how those wore different robes than the others? They were visibly older too. 

The ship let out another groan, the sort of noise that suggested it had been quite content in retirement and deeply resented being dragged back into service. To Grallator’s ears it sounded less like machinery and more like an elderly relative being asked to dance at a wedding—loud, prolonged, and full of complaint.

What unsettled him most, though, was the contrast. While the hull sulked like a pensioner denied its nap, the spectral crew drifted about with the easy grace of officers who still thought the ship was in its prime. They moved as if nothing had changed in three millennia, as if the consoles still hummed, the lights still shone, and the engines still purred instead of groaned.

Xiron: This ship was occupied for years. Could be seeing generations of psychic memory soaked into the bulkheads of this ship like a musty odor?

Ada: But how can we, er, at least, how can I see them? I have absolutely no telepathic or empathic abilities.

Grallator: Well, much as I enjoy watching spectral Vulcans reenact staff meetings, I suggest we move along before the ghosts in engineering decide to unionize and start rioting. With my luck, they’ll elect me shop steward and I’ll be negotiating afterlife overtime rates by the end of the shift.

(( Corridors, Derelict Vulcan Ship )) 

The corridor lights sputtered like they were trying to remember how to be lights, some flaring briefly before giving up entirely, others popping out of existence with the finality of a soap bubble. Grallator trudged along behind the others, convinced the ship was less “illuminating the way” and more “practicing jump scares.”

The small fire they passed didn’t reassure him either. Fires, in his experience, were like tribbles: if you saw one, there were probably more lurking nearby. The lack of atmosphere had smothered it, true—but that only meant the ship had found a new and creative way to menace them without oxygen.

Then they reached the obstacle: a wall that had apparently exploded outward in a fit of long‑delayed enthusiasm, scattering wires and plating like confetti at a very unsafe parade. Sparks still spat weakly, like a sulky child insisting it was still dangerous, thank you very much. Grallator eyed it with the suspicion of someone who had already been electrocuted once this week and wasn’t keen on adding “crispy” to his résumé.

And then came the gong. A deep, resonant clang from the door they’d passed, the sort of sound that suggested the ship had just enrolled in a drama course and was determined to make an entrance. Grallator froze, toolbox clutched like a shield, and muttered to himself that nothing good ever started with a gong—except, perhaps, a buffet

V’Nille: Our way forward is blocked here. Maybe the chapel or whatever they call it on Vulcan will have a way around this? It seemed like a big enough space to have another door.

A procession of Vulcans drifted past, solemn as accountants on their way to a particularly joyless audit, carrying… something. Grallator squinted, trying to decide if it was ceremonial, practical, or just Vulcan for “mysterious on purpose.” His tricorder, naturally, chose this moment to sulk and display nothing useful, as if it too had decided ghosts were outside its job description.

Before he could even mutter a complaint, the figures vanished—gone as though the ship had simply edited them out for dramatic effect. Grallator’s pale reflection in his visor caught his eye, and he had the uncomfortable thought that if he weren’t sealed up in his suit, he’d fit right in with the procession—just another washed‑out specter haunting the corridors.

V’Nille: … Before you ask, yes, we’re following those ghosts. ::beat:: I don’t know why but it feels like I’m remembering them but obviously, none of us were here to witness this.

Xiron: I am glad you are feeling that way. I meld with Is’Kah over a year ago and I am still sorting this stuff out.

Grallator: Well, splendid. We’re following ghosts now. Because when the corridor collapses and the lights are auditioning for a horror play, the logical next step is to trail after incorporeal Vulcans carrying mystery luggage. And as for this whole ‘remembering what we never saw’ business—if the ship’s memories are leaking into our heads, I’d like to formally request they skip me. I’ve already got enough nightmares about EPS relays. Besides, if I weren’t zipped up in this suit, I’d look enough like one of them to be mistaken for the understudy. And with my luck, I’d be cast in the role of ‘ghost who gets harpooned first.

V’Nille: Response

(( Chapel ))

The chapel was lit in the sort of way that made Grallator wish it wasn’t lit at all. The pale aquamarine glow from the meditation flames—flames that weren’t really there, mind you—spilled across the chamber like a painter who had run out of colors and decided “ghostly” would do. Each flame had its own Vulcan devotee, sitting in perfect stillness, which was impressive considering they were also perfectly nonexistent.

At the far end, a robed figure in a headdress gestured with the solemnity of someone delivering a speech about logic to a crowd of statues. The mouth moved, the arms moved, but no sound came. Grallator found this deeply unsettling, mostly because he had once attended a Academy lecture that had gone on for three hours without a single audible word, and this was giving him flashbacks.

When Azura reached out to touch one of them, Grallator braced for the worst—explosions, curses, or at the very least a stern Vulcan lecture from beyond the grave. Instead, her hand simply… failed to connect, as though the figure was further away than it looked. An optical illusion, or perhaps the universe’s way of reminding them that ghosts were not, in fact, OSHA‑compliant.

He sighed, added “silent Vulcan sermons” to his ever‑growing list of ship malfunctions, and muttered to himself that if the next apparition passed around a collection plate, he was absolutely not contributing.

Xiron::She tried to speak but words were hard to form.:: Twelve meters that way there is an access to utility space. That should…::Ghee froze in her tracks when she noticed eyes on her::

The robed figure froze mid‑gesture, her silent sermon cut short, and turned her head toward them. Grallator felt the stare land on the away team like a tractor beam made entirely of disapproval.

He clutched his toolbox a little tighter, the way some people clutched holy texts, and muttered to himself that nothing good ever came from being noticed by the sermon‑giver—alive or otherwise.

oO Is she watching the team, or the pale Bolian who already looks like he belongs in her congregation? Oo

Grallator: What… exactly have we walked into?

V’Nille: Response

 

Phantom Vulcan Prissiest: Burn

He heard the voice and, before he’d even had the decency to panic about it, noticed that everything which had previously been politely ghostly was now attempting the far less polite business of materializing. It was the sort of development that suggested reality had grown bored of being vague and decided to get uncomfortably specific. Grallator, remembering his own ill‑timed joke about burning witches, had the sinking feeling that the universe had taken it as a stage direction.

Xiron: The candles?! They are producing heat.

Ada: Oh! Uh. Uh, Commander?

 

V’Nille: Response

The priestess abandoned her pantomime mid‑flourish and turned toward Ada, in the way one might turn toward a latecomer who had just coughed during a funeral.

Phantom Vulcan Priestess: Why do you intrude? Who are you?

Ada: I--We--We thought this ship was abandoned. Then we saw–

Grallator: W‑wait, I thought this was the abandoned kind of haunted…

V'Nille/Xiron: Response

Phantom Vulcan Priestess: LEAVE. 

Ada: Don't have to tell me twice.

Grallator: ::blurting, anxious not aware of what the consequences could be:: Wh‑why? I mean—yes, of course, leaving sounds perfectly sensible, I’m all for leaving, leaving is practically my specialty—but… why? Why us, why now, why the ghostly sermon and the gong and the whole… materializing thing?!

V'Nille/Xiron: Response

Grallator’s eyes flicked to Ada just in time to see her freeze, then start edging backward like someone who’d just realized the party they’d wandered into wasn’t a party at all but a wake. He watched her turn toward the doorway—only to stop dead, because the doorway wasn’t the same doorway anymore.

Ada: ::to herself, out loud:: No, no, no.... Not this. I am on a derelict ship. In 2402. This isn't real, this is a telepathic projection. Need to stay grounded, can't get lost in it.

He turned back toward the priestess and she was there—impossibly close, her face filling his vision with the suddenness of a nightmare that skips the build‑up. One blink ago she had been a safe distance away, a shadow among shadows. Now she stood so near he could see the absence in her eyes, the cold geometry of something that had never been alive. The air between them felt thinner, as though she had dragged the void itself forward with her, and Grallator realized with a lurch that personal space was not a courtesy the dead were inclined to observe.

Phantom Vulcan Priestess: ::pointing to Grallator with what seemed as a scream:: YOU! YOU DID THIS.

The silence after her scream wasn’t silence at all. It was the kind of silence that pressed in on the ears, full of the sound of things that weren’t supposed to exist but had decided to audition anyway. The meditation flames guttered, then flared, casting shadows that looked suspiciously like they were whispering about him. 

Grallator: ::startled, blurting:: Wh‑what? M‑me? No, no, no, I don’t do things! I fix things, occasionally break them, sometimes trip over them, but I don’t— I mean, if I did this, I’d at least have written it down in the maintenance log! Which I didn’t! So clearly it wasn’t me. Right? ::he turned to where V’Nille and Xiron were standing and:: …Right?

Ada/V'Nille/Xiron: Response

Grallator: ::wide‑eyed:: I have no idea what’s going on, but the universe seems awfully keen on making sure I find out the hard way.

Ada/V'Nille/Xiron: Response

Grallator: ::  Is this… happening because we woke the ship?

Phantom Vulcan Priestess: ::in a voice that screeches:: You did not wake the ship. You disturbed it. It slumbered in silence, content in the void, until your hands pried open what should have remained sealed. Now it remembers. Now it hungers. And it knows the one who carries the spark

Grallator: ::confused:: Wha- What? 

Ada/V'Nille/Xiron: Response

Ensign Theridion Grallator

Engineering Officer

USS Chin'toka NCC-97187

C240207TG3