Without war to guide me (40k / Star Trek TNG)

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Todeswind
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Re: Without war to guide me (40k / Star Trek TNG)

Post by Todeswind » 2017-08-01 11:37pm

The giant’s chest heaved with each breath, a rumbling groan that felt like it shook the room. He didn’t fit in the standard beds for patients, meaning that engineering had been forced to replicate an entirely new set up to ensure that the giant remained appropriately sedate and restrained. At Worf’s insistence they’d added three redundant systems to the brig’s shielding to restrain the occupant. Geordie had even tied it into the ship’s main power rather than an internal system – the Giant wasn’t going anywhere.

He almost looked peaceful.

“I do not like this.” Spoke the taciturn Klingon. He was not in the room. They’d cleared the brig of all non-human security and limited themselves to only a minimal presence of medical crew presence, but Worf insisted upon being present via a surrogate hologram projector. An ethereal human shape spoke with the man’s voice, keenly observing the proceedings from where he stood on the holodeck six floors down. There was more worry in his voice than Beverly suspected he would have liked, an anger tinged with an edge of fear to it. “It would be better to neutralize this threat before he has the opportunity to do greater harm to this ship.”

“Worf, we can’t kill everything we meet just because it’s dangerous.” Beverly replied, though she found a part of herself agreeing with the Klingon she was embarrassed to admit wasn’t exactly small. “When he killed those people he wasn’t in his right mind. We made this man a killer.”

“He is a warrior.” Worf replied, his avatar’s expression doing a poor imitation of the Klingon’s scowling frustration. “It was doubtlessly not the first time he killed.”

“Killed perhaps, in war – but some of the people he hurt were civilians. And we rendered him unable to make another choice.” The doctor shuddered, examining her patient through the shimmering energy of the force-field. “Can you even imagine how terrible that would be? To wake up and discover that you murdered innocents? We’re going to have to tell that man that his body wasn’t his own, that his thoughts were beyond him.”

Worf paused, mulling over the idea. “To be robbed of your honor would be a most grievous insult in Klingon culture. I would be – angry – to say the least, were it to be inflicted upon me.” His avatar shook its head. “But that changes nothing, to rob a man of his honor is to give him cause to seek your death. It does not matter if we face a warriors righteous vengeance or a murderer’s callout rage, this will end in blood.”

“Your opinion is noted Worf.” Beverly replied curtly, reaching over to the man’s holo-projector. “But I need to focus on the needs of my patient at the moment.”

“You wish for me to leave?” Worf’s irritation was visceral.

“You’re welcome to keep watching but I need to have the space to think, yes.” Beverly replied, depressing the button on its side – allowing Worf to watch but dismissing his avatar. She turned from the evaporating hologram and faced the giant yet again.

Nobody would call him handsome, rugged certainly, but not handsome. His face and body were badly scarred. There was barely a scrap of skin that wasn’t marked with some sort of scar or blemish earned through some type of pain. Beverly couldn’t be sure how old the man was, not entirely, he’d had so much modification done to his body that she wasn’t certain how much of his genetic structure even began to resemble what his species had originally been.

The Federation ban on genetic research following WWIII and the genetically modified men and women of Sung’s brood had all but killed the field of human genetic alteration. There were pockets of society which delved into such things, fringe societies operating outside the jurisdiction of the Federation, but the Federation itself limited research into the creation of “better” humans to the purely theoretical. Khan’s later re-emergence to harry the celebrated Captain Kirk had done little to improve Federation opinions on the subject of human genetic modification.

Clearly the society who’d produced the giant shared no similar stigma upon the modification of their basic genetic code. She’d identified no fewer than ten organs that seemed to have been grown externally to the man’s body and later implanted into their host. A redundant heart, a lung to filter harmful toxins, and various other redundancies effectively made the man impossible to kill short of decapitation or total disintegration. He was a marvel of medical science – a Frankenstein’s monster from the far distant past, complete with metal protrusions jutting out from either side of his neck where the helmet had apparently interfaced with the man’s spine.

Under other circumstances Beverly might have been excited to study the man, but she found herself unwilling to take joy in the scans of the man’s body. She had too many coroners’ reports going across her desk. Whatever else this man might have been, he was a murderer. He was a murderer whose crimes were due to a mental deficiency beyond his control, but that made his victims no less dead.

If Beverly was being honest, a small part of her wasn’t sure if she even wanted to heal the Giant. Perhaps it would be better to just let the creature stay in his slumber forever. But as a healer, it was her sacred duty to tend to the sick and do no harm. He was in her care and she would make him well if it was within her power to do so. Life was life – there was always value in protecting it, even if the ones she saved couldn’t see it. The Giant wouldn’t be the first enemy soldier she’d treated.

He’d done bad things. Terrible things, but she was his Doctor. Until that stopped there wasn’t anything that would stop her from doing her duty, even if she found it hard not to hate him. The tricorder in her hand felt unusually heavy as she monitored the man’s vital signs.

It had been difficult to configure treatment to repair the damages done to the man’s cybernetic interfaces. Even with a supply of the necessary rare elements, one needed to insert the correct portions of the precise element in the exact locations within the complex interlacing of cybernetics to ensure that no greater harm was done to the Giant than had already been inflicted upon him. Fortunately for the Giant, Data was an expert on the subject. Though she knew that the Android had no true emotions, there was an unmistakable sense of longing in how the Lieutenant Commander had fretted over making sure that he was able to ensure proper functionality of the man’s hardware without preventing his higher brain functions and emotional centers from operating at optimal efficiency.

It had been a slow process by design, fearing that they might trigger some sort of failsafe or involuntary response from the patient. She’d spent the time going over the man’s medical scans in depth, analyzing and re-analyzing the man’s vials to understand him better. The Giant was old. Not just in the sense of his timeless incarceration within the stasis chamber of the pillar, he’d already been an old man before entering the pillar. He looked no older than forty, perhaps fifty considering his salt and pepper hair, but her guess was that eighty or ninety was closer to the mark. Hopefully she looked half that good at his age.

She’d happily do without the scars though. The Giant had not lived a happy life. There were so many scars and burns across the man’s flesh that she was hard pressed to even parse out which scars corresponded to which injury. He’d suffered several recent fractures unrelated to his time on their ship, cracking though not breaking the thick, interlocking bone-like ceramic plates protecting his organs. The man bore tattoos across his chest and parts of his back, curious angular script written in verse beneath the images of a black fist and a two headed bird. Beverly paused, something about the script seeming oddly familiar to her.

Beverly tapped the insignia on her chest twice, “Computer, run a translation program on the man’s tattoos. Search early Earth languages, German.”

The computer’s droning female retort chimed in reply. “Partial translation of symbols managed. Similarity to known Earth linguistic patterns 20%.”

“Try adding Latin, French, English, Spanish.” Beverly noted, the jagged script seeming increasingly familiar to her the more she squinted her eyes.

“Similarity 45%.” The computer replied.

“Computer run it through all known languages.” Beverly replied.

“75% similarity to symbols and grammar present in known languages of existing sentient species.” The computer replied.

“How many are human?” The doctor asked, feeling a jolt of electricity up her spine as a wild thought hit her.

“60% similarity to earth based linguistics.” Replied the computer.

“Is it sufficient to approximate what it means?” Beverly asked.

“Negative.” Replied the ship’s computer. “Crucial elements of grammar and syntax do not correspond to known linguistic patterns. Further information is required.”

That was unusual to say the least. Alien languages tended to be, for lack of a better word, alien. For the giant to have even partial linguistic similarly indicated linguistic cross pollination. Which was impossible. Or at least which ought to have been impossible… yet there it was.

Yet another mystery from the pillar.

“You’re an odd one.” Beverly pushed back a lock of crimson hair from her face as she adjusted her equipment, fretting over the readouts. The element appeared to have been properly re-integrated into the man’s neural network. Appeared being the key word. There would really be no way to know until Deanna had her crack at him.

Beverly tapped her comm badge, “Beverly to Deanna.”

“Yes Doctor?” Replied the ship’s counselor.

“I’m ready when you are.” Replied Beverly.

“I don’t know if I’ll ever be ready.” Replied the counselor’s voice as the doors to the brig opened, allowing her to pass the cadre of phaser rifle armed security personnel.

“Deanna, have you just been waiting outside the brig all day?” Beverly’s face scrunched up in worry.

“Yes,” The half-betazoid replied. “I don’t think that I was going to be of much use for anything else today. I’d be too distracted to be of much use for any of my other patients.”

“Other patients?” Beverly smiled. “Putting the cart before the horse aren’t we?”

“Possibly.” Deanna replied. “But I find that it’s best to think of a damaged mind as a mind in need. Even a mind that wishes me ill. It makes it easier to help that person find their calm.”

“So what do we do?” Beverly asked.

“I stand here and reach out to his mind, and if it works he wakes up.” Deanna replied, the worry in her voice leaking through.

“What can I do to help Deanna?” Beverly asked.

“You could stay and hold my hand.” Deanna replied.

“Will that improve the psychic connection?”

“No, but it will help me be less scared.”

EDIT: Formatting shit the bed. Working on it

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Re: Without war to guide me (40k / Star Trek TNG)

Post by drakensis » 2017-08-02 03:10am

Nailed Deanna's voice there.

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Re: Without war to guide me (40k / Star Trek TNG)

Post by LadyTevar » 2017-08-03 10:41am

Wow... it lives. Good job.
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Re: Without war to guide me (40k / Star Trek TNG)

Post by Tandrax218 » 2017-08-03 03:07pm

Wooo hooo te story lives :)

Cant wait for the Imperial Fist to start "sharing" his story :)

keep it up !

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Re: Without war to guide me (40k / Star Trek TNG)

Post by Todeswind » 2017-08-03 11:31pm

Deanna’s second attempt to probe the Giant’s mind was less chaotic than the first. The Giant’s mind scape was orderly, structured, and barren where previously it had been nightmarish and chaotic. She was in a great urban sprawl, larger than any she’d ever seen. Towering gothic spires and morbid statues stretched out as far as the eye could see. It was a mess of smog and industry, covered in the skeletal remains of humanoids. Bones had been turned to ornamentation in every possible nook and cranny, gilded symbols of eagles intermingling with carved scripts of alien origin along their macabre art.

Deanna was surprised, she hadn’t expected the man’s mental defenses to be this elaborate. He wasn’t a telepath, so his mind must have been especially structured for his subconscious to be able to manifest a defense this elaborate. His subconscious had manifested a literal walled city, and endless metropolis full of defenses and guards looking for any intruder that might stray from the single path through it. Most telepaths had developed some sort of abstract defenses to keep out an intruder, some of the more structured non-telepaths were capable of similar constructs. But they were usually limited to crude walls and doors, not entire urban fortress worlds. Certainly not on a non-telepath, and the Giant was most decidedly not a telepath.

The training required to manifest defenses this elaborate must have been exhaustive. The closest she’d seen were from Betazoid monks who’d dedicated their entire lives to honing their minds. This was something else entirely.

She was walking along a long path, wider than any road she’d ever seen, surrounded by the ghostly images of penitent worshippers traveling on what could only be a pilgrimage. She walked among the translucent fragments of memory, following them as the chanted in the harsh tones of the Giant’s language - cruel whispers intermingling into a dull roar of worship.

Armored Giants like the one whose mind she walked within stood along the parapets carrying all manner of cruel looking weapons, watching her with dispassionate eyes. They made no overtly violent actions, but she was certain that if she were to stray from the trail or to attempt any sort of aggressive action she would be forcefully removed from the Giant’s mind.

She couldn’t see any unity between the phantoms walking along the path. Even as dull whispers of the men and women they’d once been Deanna could tell that no two men had come from the same place. Some could only charitably be called humanoid, so twisted and modified were their forms. A man who wouldn’t have been out of place among the borg self flagellated his phantom limbs with the rusty cables that had replaced the digits on his hands, gleefully flensing the flesh from his arms and back.

It was a carnival of twisted flesh and desperate madmen, all marching beneath the banner of a great, two-headed bird. They made Deanna’s stomach churn, but she could sense that these images were not intended to be unnerving. Though she could only sense the merest fragment of the man’s mind, she could tell that these were peaceful images for the Giant. Things to soothe his troubled heart.

This place was important to him. These people, followers of a common cause.

They were marching towards a great cathedral, large as a starship. It’s steeple seemed to pierce the very heavens themselves. It was at the gates of the Cathedral that Deanna met her first impediment. In the center of the insubstantial men was a man holding a book. He was an old man, hunched and covered in old scars. He regarded her with a cool, keen interest, speaking in the language of the Giants.

“I’m sorry.” Deanna replied. “I don’t understand you.”

The man arched his brow and rubbed his chin, considering the matter before reaching out to touch her chest. Deanna felt a wave of cold run through her as he did so, a curious tickle of new knowledge nagging at the back of her head. The man spoke again – this time his meaning clear as day.

“You do not belong witch. Leave and never return else this I will crush you.” The pressure of the man’s finger against her breast was pointed, a sheer lance of will focused against her. Deanna just smiled back, politely removing the man’s hand and patting the back of it.

“That won’t be necessary, I mean you no harm.” The man seemed confused by how easily she’d moved it. “My name is Deanna. What’s yours?”

“I do not associate with witches.” The man growled.

“Neither do I.” Deanna replied, letting her good will seep into her words. Something told her that the Giant’s mental defenses were poorly constructed to repel positive emotions. Few psychic defenses were. By their very nature aggressive psychic projections weren’t accustomed to anything other than the malice and defensiveness that had been used to spawn them. “I’m not a witch. I’m just a woman – the ship’s counselor for the Enterprise.”

The Armored giants along the parapets lifted their weapons, moving from dispassionate interest to active aggression faster than Deanna could blink. She ignored them – they were just illusions, and they could be encouraged to go back to inaction.

“This…. This is a trick….” The man replied, another lash of hatred emanating from the construct. This time paired with a series of horrific images. Deanna was made to feel like she was being badly burned, her hands blistering and bubbling even as she looked at where she touched the construct.

She winced, reminding herself that the pain was just an illusion. It was merely a projection of spite from the Giant’s mind. While he could hurt her, he could only hurt her as much as she allowed the psychic damage to divert her from her purpose. She pushed back with her mind, countering the images of burning flesh with those from her own mind. “I can show you things too. Good things – kind things. Friends, family, love – things more powerful that the anger you feel right now.”

Deanna pushed back with her mind, sending him flashes of happy moments on the Enterprise. Laughing with Beverly as they worked out together. Lazing about in Data’s quarters and watching him pain as she stroked his cat, spot, in her lap. Eating sumptuous chocolate mousse in Ten Forward. She countered the hate and pain and malice with as much love and concern for the Giant’s wellbeing as she could force upon the construct.

The Giants along the parapets faltered, looking at each other and muttering in the language of the Giants. Some even lowered their weapons, looking at her with a wistful expression, hopeful even.

The construct stood stock-still, confused by what was happening. It shuddered, trying to articulate a biting response as Deanna leaned in and hugged the construct. The wizened, angry man flinched at the contact – seemingly confused by the action before hugging her back. The construct’s bony arms wrapped around her his wizened face contorted into a smile as he nuzzled her cheek. It was the expression of someone long starved for human contact who hadn’t even realized he was lonely.

The Giants along the parapets lowered their weapons.

With an expression of contentment, the old man faded into nothingness – his weight against her disappearing as he smiled. His book fell to the ground with a clatter and Deanna picked it up, thumbing through its pages – hoping for a clue of where to go next given that the cathedral doors hand no apparent handle or method of entry.

The book was empty, except for a single cryptic phrase. “Those who belong already have the key, within.”

What key though? And within what? Deanna tried shaking the book, hoping that here might be a simple way of dislodging a key from the book’s spine. That having failed she walked the courtyard, running her fingers along the wall of the cathedral, looking for some sort of indication for what she needed to do next.

She looked up to the Giants, wondering if they were capable of speech as an odd thought hit her. If the defenses were designed to counter aggression, perhaps the methods for entering the Cathedral were designed to be sort that would only occur to someone who wasn’t forcing their way into the Giant’s mind. How did you enter a house you were invited to enter?

You knocked.

Deanna reached out to the towering doors of the Cathedral and rapped twice on the doors. Her gentle rap echoed with a seemingly impossible volume, the sheer surface of stone splitting down the middle where she’d touched the rock face and swinging inward to allow her entry. She strode in gently, passing wooden pews and countless candles floating through the air – levitating without any apparent mechanism to lift them.

There was a sound of music in the air. A lilting sound of organ music that was clean and pure. She could feel the faith behind it, there was a purity of belief to it. It was the sort of conviction that lay in the hearts of the true believers. She let it wash over her, closing her eyes and holding out her arms to just bask in the moment. This was a place of hope and conviction, if she respected it and embraced it – faith could do her no harm. Deanna did not have to believe in this man’s god to respect the man’s principles. She knelt before a great statue of an armored man with a stern and naturally unsmiling face and a shock of short cropped hair holding a colossal blade with serrated teeth. She wasn’t sure precisely who the towering man was, but given his placement within the room he was in a place of great respect within the Giant’s mind and heart.

She reached out to one of the little candles and lit it, placing it at the base of the statue – leaning in to read the inscription on the statue’s base. “Rogal Dorn, the Vigiliant. Praetoran of Terra. The Unyielding One.”

Her lip quirked, as she looked him from head to foot. “Yes, you do look rather unyielding.”

“He is my father, after a fashion.” Rumbled a deep voice from behind her. Deanna turned, standing up to come face to face with the Giant where he sat in one of the pews. Even when he was seated Deanna had to crane her neck a bit to make eye contact.

“He’s very handsome.” Deanna replied.

The Giant laughed, a dark rumbling tone that reminded Deanna of Thunder. “I very much suspect that he never once worried about his own vanity.”

“Handsome men rarely need to.” Deanna held out her hand. “It’s good to finally talk.”

“I have little to say to a witch.” Replied the Giant.

“What is this obsession with witchcraft? I’m just a person like you.” Deanna smiled, lowering her hand when she realized that the giant had no intention of shaking it.

“You are in my mind without invitation. You are a witch.” The Giant replied.

“Perhaps we should start off with names.” Stifling her disappointment, Deanna made sure to lace her words with her genuine feelings of care. “My name is Deanna Troi. I am a counselor onboard the USS Enterprise from the United Federation of Planets.”

“I have no name for you witch.” The Giant replied. “Kill me or leave me to my slumber, I have no time for your mind games or riddles.”

“I only want to help you. You’re in a coma, you were wounded by the process of waking you from the pillar. It damaged your mind, we took you up to our ship and you reacted poorly. We’ve healed your body but I need your help to wake you.” Deanna waved around the room. “This, all of this, is just an illusion. You are sleeping. Unless you want to spend the rest of your life alone in this dream, I need your help to wake you.”

The Giant glared, saying nothing in response. He ran the fingers of his right hand across his left, tracing the lines of deep scars along their meat. His fingers had been ritually scarified, a ritual important enough to him that he kept the scars in the illusionary image of himself within his mind’s eye.

“I know that you’re angry. I would be too. Things are confusing. You woke up surrounded by strangers and then things stopped making sense entirely. I suspect that you started seeing visions of horrible things, things that you had to fight. You were wounded – your mind was deeply damaged. But that’s over now. You’re safe. You are healed.” Deanna held up her hands, palms up.

“Devils appear to us in those forms which seem most pleasing, so that they might entice us to give our souls to them willingly.” The Giant replied, lowering his hood. His mental image of his own face, unblemished by the horrible wounds upon his actual flesh, was that of a handsome man with a jaw too wide to seem entirely human. “What price would you have me pay for this ‘liberation’ from my slumber? What vengeance will you exact upon me for those I cut down, for though I recall not their names or faces I know that I slew those who stood before me.”

“You were incapacitated, incapable of deciding right from wrong.” Deanna shook her head. “We are to blame for your madness, and what came after that madness. There is nothing to feel guilty about.”

“Guilt is the domain of the unrighteous.” The Giant found Deanna’s implications greatly amusing. “They were fools for standing before me, and you are a fool for allowing me to live.”

“We have much to learn from you.” Deanna disagreed. “And we are not so cowardly as to hurt a wounded man in his bed. Not when we have so much to learn about the people who came before.”

“You speak of me as though I were a relic of distant memory.” The Giant replied, a sad comprehension entering his tone. “For how long have I slumbered?”

“We don’t really know. Our history for anything older than half a million years is largely speculative and your life support system has been keeping you for what could be millions or even billions of years longer than that.” Deanna shook her head. “I’m sorry to be the one to tell you this, but as far as we know you are the last of your people.”

There was a brief, pregnant moment of silence before the Giant replied in a voice of long suffering. “That is a lie. The Empire is eternal.”

“Don’t take my word for it. Let me help you wake up and you can see for yourself.” Deanna replied. “If I’m lying then you can prove me wrong and get the satisfaction of having done so. If I’m misinformed you can prove me wrong and we’ll happily help you meet your people. If I’m right then you can help us learn from a society that can truly become Eternal by teaching us to be like it. But if you don’t come, and you stay here, you’ll drive yourself mad wondering if what I say is true.”

“I could crush you Deanna.” The Giant replied. “We are within my mind. I could show you things that would shatter you.”

“And then I would be dead or mad, and you would still be trapped in your own mind wondering if what I told you was truth or a lie.” The ships counselor replied, this was not the first patient to have threatened her. The stronger and more brutal a man was, the more vulnerable he often was to his inner demons. “So, you can posture and threaten, or you can allow me to help you.”

“I despise you witch.” The Giant growled.

“And you’re welcome to.” Deanna replied, holding out her hand to the Giant. “I’ll keep helping you heal in the meanwhile. You’re my patient, your health and wellbeing are more important to me than my popularity.”

The Giant eyed her hand warily.

“Do you prefer to be unconscious and at the mercy of whatever a witch might please to do with you?” Deanna chuckled, rolling her eyes at the Giant’s continued obstinacy.

The giant clasped her hand in his own, dinner plate sized hands wrapping around delicate porcelain flesh. He growled what might have been an assent as Deanna cupped his fist in her other hand, closing her eyes and focusing on the Giant’s mind as a whole. She impressed upon it her awareness of the space around them both, subtly making the Giant aware of the real world beyond the dream city. The cathedral around them began to fade, shimmering into an endless void of white. She continued to make that connection, pumping positive feelings towards the Giant as she did so.

The Giant’s expression showed no signs that he’d noticed, apparently in no mood to allow even the remotest scrap of happiness to influence his decision making. Deanna spoke as the white enveloped them both. “I’m going to count down. When I hit one we will both wake up, rested and aware of our bodies.”

Though she could no longer see him she could still feel the pressure of the giant’s hand.

“Five.”

Deanna wondered what they would do with the Giant once he awoke. Would he be hungry? Thirsty? What did he even eat?

“Four.”

She felt briefly guilty at having helped the giant, given how many of his victims were her friends. But two wrongs wouldn’t make a right, they wouldn’t bring back her friends.

“Three”

She felt a feeling of longing and loss that was not her own as Giant lost control of the illusion, his subconscious becoming conscious thought.

“Two”

And his hate. God but this man had hate in his heart.

“One.”

And the giant finally woke up, his eyes burning pits of hatred as he stared at Deanna across the brig. “Malificar.”

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Re: Without war to guide me (40k / Star Trek TNG)

Post by LadyTevar » 2017-08-04 03:57pm

"Witch!"
Well, now that he's awake and in control of his mind, where does he go from here? I know he'll hate the Prime Directive, that's for sure.
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Re: Without war to guide me (40k / Star Trek TNG)

Post by Tandrax218 » 2017-08-04 07:29pm

Things the IF will hate
1.Xenos/aliens
2. Data - man of iron
3. The federation because they allie with the xeno- in essence they are like the TAU
4. Wesley Crusher
5. No Emperor or Holly Terra - instead a planet full of Xenos and xeno loving collaborators
6. No Imperium to protect


Things the IF will like ::
1.Weapons
2. ?
3.?
4. ?


Where is the Emperor in this setting ?
Didi the IF came to the trek universe from his universe or was he in stasis for millions of years while the Imperiu and the galaxy changed ?

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Re: Without war to guide me (40k / Star Trek TNG)

Post by Grimnosh » 2017-08-05 10:52am

Tandrax218 wrote:
2017-08-04 07:29pm
Didi the IF came to the trek universe from his universe or was he in stasis for millions of years while the Imperiu and the galaxy changed ?
Considering that the pod that held him was recovered from Antiean civilization which had been destroyed thousands of years before the Vulcans had mastered space flight. As said earlier:
Todeswind wrote:
2013-05-10 08:23am
"Your attacker came from the Pillar?" Deanna gasped. "He's alive? But, that proverb - the pillar - they're thousands upon thousands of years old."

"Older," Data nodded. "But it's impossible to say precisely, the Antiean sector essentially a giant trans-warp minefield of unstable space - the Antiean's destroyed themselves with temporal side effects of their trans-warp energy manipulation. Any attempts to age artifacts from the ruins of Antiea are purely speculative. I could be thousands, millions or billions of years older than we can measure."

"Is it even from this time?" Geordie queried. "Heck is it even from this reality? Trans-warp devices are wildly unpredictable."

"It's impossible to know, the side effects from temporal or inter-dimensional travel are virtually indistinguishable from each other even in the immediate aftereffects thereof." Data shook his head. "It has been far too long to determine that."
Its quite possible that the pod could have been lost for thousands/millions of years before getting pulled into Antiean space through some form of temporal wormhole that in itself could have slowed time even more while the pod was in it. Ie time here passes at x, time in the wormhole passing at the greatly slower speed of b.
You know, its remarkably easy to feed an undead army if all you have are just enemies....

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Re: Without war to guide me (40k / Star Trek TNG)

Post by Tandrax218 » 2017-08-05 03:52pm

Hmm i think it will be revealed that the pod came form another reality or dimension ( wh40k verse)

I think if you look at the setting, Both earth and terra had the same time line up to a point, but it seems that trek verse is lagging by 38k years in relation too wh40..

what im trying to say is that a) there might be an Emperor somewhere out there in this time line plotting his schemes a and playing his games of "just as planed" :D

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Re: Without war to guide me (40k / Star Trek TNG)

Post by Tandrax218 » 2017-08-05 04:07pm

+ all this reminded me of a fan story in which an thousand sons warband gets teleported to 21.st Earth in the middle of the 2. desert storm...
They start causing shit and problems but luckily an Alpha Legion marine who is in fact a closet loyalist manages to arrive with them there ( cant remember how though..)

Long story short, the Emperor is alerted in this time line, mobilizes the combined earth nations, squashes the Thousand sons warband, in the process manages to nuke Israel, gets in touch with the Alpha marine, and in the end reverse engeneers the technology and geene seed, makes marines but does nt make 20 primarchs but many more less powerfull ones, and accelerates the rate at which humanity conquers the stars, exterminates teh tau while they are at stoen age level tech and hmmm cant recall anything else... :)

Oh there was also a detective there who could see demons and wanted to stop E from conquering the world cuz he thought that E was a tyrant/dictator...

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Re: Without war to guide me (40k / Star Trek TNG)

Post by Todeswind » 2017-08-06 12:32am

Veteran Battle-Brother Paulo Octavian’s eyes hurt in the sterile brightness of the room within which he awoke. His body ached, the rituals of awakening seeming to have been neglected in arousing him from his protective slumber. His skin, oily from the secretions that his body produced to protect him from the harshness of vacuum, itched badly around the augmentic plugs and protrusions extending from his skin.

He took in his surroundings, trying to get his bearings on where he was and what he was doing. He was not on the Oath of Terra – that much was certain. Nor was he on any other ship of the Imperial Navy, the designs were too alien to be the product of the Adeptus Mechanicus. Which meant that he was at the mercy of those outside of the Emperor’s mercy.

Though not being on the Oath of Terra was hardly surprising, he supposed. Given that his last memory was of watching its death.

He remembered the great battle, the war with the Orkish Hordes. An ambush – they had been overwhelmed. Greenskin warriors were aboard the Battle Barge before they’d been able to properly mount a defense. The Warlord Kiznik must have diverted the majority of his army to have that many bodies on hand for a single boarding action.

It was mere chance that he was delivering a note to the Apothecary on behalf of his Sargent when the attack came. He was barely more than a Battle-Brother himself, nowhere near worthy enough of a warrior to be defending the ship’s repository of gene-seed. Such a task was for Chapter Veterans, but he’d willing rose to it when the Apothecary ordered all Brothers in the vicinity to protect the vault. The most heavily guarded and well armored part of the Oath of Terra.

The Orks, always eager to fight the heartiest of opponents, swarmed the hardened fortress of the Gene Vault. The future of the chapter depended upon protecting the repository of gene-seed. The Imperial Fists defended their legacy valiantly, Brothers sacrificing themselves without hesitation. They fought in close quarters combat, breaking the greenskin horde on the spear of their indominable spirit. But in the end, they hadn’t the bodies necessary to stave off the threat forever.

The Commander had ordered the ship’s self-destruction rather than allow the Orks to capture a Battle Barge, consigning what remained of the 6th Company to death. Their orders were to keep engaging the Orks so that they wouldn’t’ remove their forces from the Barge before its destruction, a pyrrhic victory but one that would rob Warlord Kiznik of his most elite fighters. Hopefully their loss would be enough to allow the remaining Imperial armies to secure victory.

The Gene Vault, however, could not be sacrificed. It was to be preserved at all costs. So, before the warp-engines were finally overloaded to consign all aboard to oblivion, the vault had to be jettisoned. The distress beacon would summon any Space Marine vessel to recover it and return it to the Apothecaries on board the Phalanx. It would, however, have to be manned. A single warrior would be consigned to slumber within to ensure that no harm came to the future of the chapter. If some alien menace or chaos interloper were to open the vault they would have to overcome the warrior within – tasked with the holy mission of protecting the vault from harm or destroying it before an enemy gained access to the knowledge within.

Paulo was not supposed to have been that warrior.

This was the holy task of a ships Apothecary, the final duty he held if all else failed. Paulo remembered cradling the Apothecary’s decapitated body outside the vault, begging the Emperor for there to be someone – anyone – more capable of fighting to take the task. Paulo wasn’t afraid of the duty, but there were so many more skilled warriors than him. But there was no other to take the task. He had to climb into the vault, ejecting it into space so that the Commander could safely destroy the ship.

He watched his world implode as the vault careened out into the blackness of space. The Battle Barge that served as the 6th Company’s headquarters bursting in an explosion of warp lighting as the stasis chamber activated, suspending him in time. His last thoughts were prayers to the Emperor, begging for the sacrifice of his Brothers not to be in vain.

When he’d finally awakened, it was to the keening klaxon of a proximity alert. A human being had finally encountered the vault. But when he exited the Vault, half-blind and frostbitten from excessive time in stasis, his nostrils were near overpowered with the foul stench of xenos. He’d tried to defend his future Battle-brothers, but the cowardly xenos had disappeared in a flash of light – stranding him and the vault in utter darkness.

He’d scrambled about in the horrible darkness, the illuminator from his armor revealing the horrible truth. By some foul xenos devilry, both the vault and its protector were buried beneath the ground. There would be no escape from this prison – there were no doors to break, no locks to pick, no passages to traverse and no enemies to fight. His captors were content to leave him buried alive.

Paulo wasn’t sure when the madness overtook him. In a flash, it was as though his mind ceased to be his own. His body twitched rapidly, his arms and legs jerking at odd moments from the vaguest idea. Wild, cruel thoughts overpowered his reason as adrenaline pumped through his body without end. His captors continued to taunt him. Appearing and disappearing with ease, mocking any sense of decency in the ease with which they toyed with him. His horror only increased as it became clear that these – things – were able to manipulate the natural laws at will. Within their domain they seemed able to force the very forces of the universe to obey their whims.

And then the madness finally showed him the truth. They’d worked hard to create the illusion they placed him in, but he knew it to be an illusion – nothing more. For all their talent at trickery, their knowledge was flawed with respect to the holy technologies of the Empire. For when he went to examine the gene-stock he realized that they’d failed to imitate the Vault.

And then the rage came. He wasn’t sure how he’d convinced himself to defile the machine spirit of his armor to create the explosive or what had made him sure that it would disrupt the lie they’d trapped him in, but he knew one thing for sure. They had separated him from the Vault. The future of the Imperial Fists depended on him.

He only remembered fragments after that. Battle, pain, death – he didn’t recall who he’d killed, though he knew he’d shed the blood of those who stood to prevent him from finding the Vault. And then he was here – staring at the woman who’d visited him in a dream.

“Witch.” He growled, glaring at the curly haired sorceress and her crimson haired lackey. They were surrounded by men in gold and black uniforms, each of them holding what could only be weapons.

The woman replied in her language, speaking in soothing tones as though she were addressing a spooked animal. He flexed his arms, disgusted as he realized that an unseen force was preventing his exit though nowhere near as disgusted as he was to realize that they’d stripped him of his armor. Defilers, how dare they desecrate the machine spirit of his armor in that fashion?

He ignored their attempts at communication, choosing instead to recite the litanies of his people. For though they robbed him of his armor and stole his charge, they could never take his faith. "While vile mutants still draw breath, there can be no peace. While obscene heretics' hearts still beat, there can be no respite. While faithless traitors still live, there can be no forgiveness. With the bolter, cleanse the unclean. I will cleanse! With the flamer, purify the unholy. I will purify! With the chain-sword, purge the corrupt. I will purge! With the missile, kill the impure. I will kill! Primarch! Progenitor, to your glory and the glory of Him on Earth!”

He spoke for hours, reciting every prayer and catechism that he could remember. He recited the history of the chapter, the glory of victory. He spoke of the destruction of the heretic, witch, demon, and xeno. He spoke till his lips hurt from the continued motion, and then he spoke more – working himself into a religious fury. He was their prisoner but he would show them the defiant heart of a Space Marine. He would recite truth till kingdom come.

The women nodded, continuing their infuriating tone of placid platitudes. The fools truly believed that he would forgive their transgressions or become their pet? The Emperor was his shied and sword, and he would fear not evil.

It was through the recitation of a Black Templar Vow that he’d heard only once that a curious thing happened. There was a loud chime, and a mechanical female voice spoke in perfect High Gothic. “Translation matrix complete – activating ‘Jack and the Beanstalk’ protocol.”

He faltered slightly in his recitation, somewhat unnerved by the voice but did not silence the fervor with which he spoke. “Trust in the Emperor at the hour of battle. Trust to him to intercede, and protect his warriors true as they deal death on alien soil. Turn their seas to red with the blood of their slain.
Crush their hopes, their dreams and turn their songs into cries of lamentation."

The women flinched at that, their infernal machine seemingly translating his words into something they could understand. Paulo smiled, good – he hoped they’d recorded his earlier words so they could feel the fury of his recitations. The curly haired woman spoke, her words coming out in High Gothic. “Good morning. My name is Deanna Troi and this is Doctor Beverly Crusher. We’ve been treating your wounds.”

Paulo wasn’t going to waste time giving his name. “I remember your name witch.”

“That’s a bit harsh for someone who just helped you wake from a coma.” Deanna replied. “Not much of a ‘thank you’ is it?”

“I do not plan to thank a witch for entering my mind uninvited.” Paulo replied. “I do not intend to befriend my kidnappers.”

“You are not a prisoner.” Deanna replied.

“And yet I am kept in bondage.” Paulo strained against the unseen force, impotently struggling against the smooth metal of his cot.

“We were worried that you would react adversely to your sudden change of scenery. You were highly agitated when you woke from stasis and had a negative reaction to getting transported onto the ship.” The redhead explained. “I had to repair your implants to repair a brief bout of psychosis.”

“I see. And now that I am no longer ‘psychotic’ I am to be released from my bonds? Am I to be returned my armor and weapons? Given the Vault that is my charge and mine alone?” Paulo queried caustically.

“There are concerns regarding that.” Deanna replied. “You hurt several members of our crew. You even killed some. Our head of security is worried that given the chance, you might do harm to more. He is going to need to be sure that you won’t do anything to hurt our crew before we do anything that drastic.”

Paulo laughed. “I see – how foolish of me to believe that I were a prisoner. Odd, I am unaccustomed to conditions of parole being associated with a guest.”

“You killed people.” Deanna shook her head. “I know that it was a result of your injured mind, but we can’t just pretend that didn’t happen.”

Paulo’s brow furrowed in confusion before it dawned on him. She seemed to be under the impression that his capture would bother him less than the actions he’d taken while in the grips of the madness. “Witch – I feel no guilt at having slain my captors. I would have done so had you captured me and taken me against my will in perfect health. You have no right to my person or to take me from my holy task. I am not some pet Grynx that you can capture from its den and woo into domestication. I am a warrior. Kill me or let me go – but do not patronize me or presume to speak my mind for me.”

“We truly do wish to become friends.” The witch sighed, a sad desperation in her voice. “It was not our intention to make you our prisoner.”

“The greatest heretics and traitors in history chose their paths thinking they were making the right choice.” Paulo replied. “If you wish for me to have my freedom then give it to me. Give me my belongings and send me back.”

“We can’t – not just yet.” The redhead replied.

“My liberty is not yours to choose, woman.” Paulo sneered. “I am a warrior of the God Emperor of Mankind, and I will not be denied.”

The woman was unimpressed by his tone. “I’m sure you’re very intimidating but I was being literal. We physically cannot transport you down to the planet without undoing the work I just did to heal you. We can’t ‘just send you back’ the way you came without reducing you into a gibbering, violent madman too insane to feed himself. Now I ‘don’t presume to speak your mind’ but I assume that you would quite like to retain some semblance of sanity once all is said and done. So, I’m going to keep you under observation for the moment to make sure there aren’t any health complications. For the next two days, you’re not getting out of my sight.”

“I am not – ” Paulo interjected only for the woman to speak over him.

“I am your doctor. You can hate me and insult me, but I will not allow you to waste my time. Now I’m going to go back to the med bay to help my other patients but in the meanwhile you are going to work things out with Deanna so that we decide what to do next. I don’t especially care if we have to do it with you restrained and sedated or with you walking off this ship in your armor and retaining your ‘warrior’s dignity’ that men like you always seem to be so invested in maintaining but you will speak to her with a civil tongue and stop calling her witch or so help me I will reduce your pain medication and let you feel exactly how bad the injuries to your face and body really feel. Do you understand.”

“I do.” Paulo replied.

“I do, Doctor Crusher.” The woman said angrily.

“I do, Doctor Crusher.” The woman would have made a decent Inquisitor. “The W… I mean, Deanna, and I will speak.”

“Good.” The Doctor turned on her heel. “Now play nice. I need to report his to Will.”

Paulo watched her leave, unsure what to do now that he was running out of litany to recite.

“Let’s start again.” Deanna spoke. “My name is Deanna, what is yours.”

“I am Veteran Battle-brother Paulo Octavian of the Imperial Fists. Last survivor of the 6th company and protector of the God Emperor’s most holy realm.” Paulo replied.

“That’s a bit much to say at once.” She replied. “Do you mind if I call you Paulo.”

“If you must.” Paulo relaxed on his cot, resigned to the coming interrogation.

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Re: Without war to guide me (40k / Star Trek TNG)

Post by Todeswind » 2017-09-12 05:26pm

Data felt nothing as he stared at the display showing the Giant and calculated what a normal human ought to feel under these circumstances. He’d grown better at approximating human emotions over time, determining the appropriate emotional response through a mix of trial and error and research, but ultimately the best he could manage was a mirror of his human companions. Emotions were a curiosity for the Android, if not an obsession. Or rather, they would have been interpreted as either by someone who chose to anthropomorphize the construct.

Data, for all his best efforts, was not human. No matter how close of an analogue he would become, Data would very likely never become human. His life’s goal of achieving true personhood was so unlikely as to be a statistical abnormality. The futility might well have crushed someone capable of feeling the weight of doubt or failure.

But Data was not capable of that. Data was an Android.

His friends were aware of that, at least on a conceptual level. But he often suspected that the nuance of that was lost on the often-irrational organics with whom he worked. His analogue emotions were treated as their organic proxies, effectively giving him the results of personhood without having actually achieved the necessary mechanisms to establish and maintain them. In pure clinical terms, had Data been an organic, he would potentially have been diagnosed with some variant of sociopathy or personality disorder. He did not care about the people with whom he worked, not in the same way that they cared about him. Whereas an organic with similar limitations would have likely become violent or destructive, however, Data was not a victim of ego or pride.

Data was capable of following his purpose without the emotions that limited his peers. In truth, he was capable of little else. He had been created with the goal of becoming human, learning to be a good man. A good man was caring, selfless, and dedicated to the communal good, so Data was devoted to those goals. A good man had good friends, so Data sought out other men and women he believed to be objectively good men and women to learn from. Joining Starfleet had almost been a foregone conclusion, it provided him with a series of behavioral codes and communal expectations from which he could rely upon when his own internal sense for “what a good man might do” was insufficient for his circumstances. It also provided him an environment within which his emotional limitations were often an invaluable boon to the mission. It allowed him to do things beyond the limits of mortal men without incurring their fear or derision, instead accumulating their gratitude.

A gratitude he observed clearly in the eyes of every man and woman with a child in the daycare he and Barclay had saved from the Giant’s rampage. The organic need to protect one’s progeny was powerful, their loyalty to those who aid in that process unquestionable. They congratulated him endlessly, patting him on the back and telling him that he was a hero for being willing to risk everything. That he’d been brave for what he’d done.

But he hadn’t been brave. Bravery was when someone did something that they knew to be right in spite of their fear, a product of courage. When he’d transported the Giant out into the vacuum of space he’d not been afraid or courageous, he’d just been acting upon the most practical metrics of cause and effect based upon the resources to which he had immediate access. Data knew that his body would survive the vacuum with minimal damage, and that the Giant would have a limited ability to do him harm. There really wasn’t much that could actually harm the Android, his body was as sturdily built as most starship hulls.

He suspected that even with human emotions, the act wouldn’t have caused him substantial emotional duress. Then again, he had a relatively limited pool of experiences upon which to judge that, and all of them from the perspective of an outsider.

“Do you think he’s scared?” Asked a man’s voice from over Data’s shoulder. Reginald Barclay stood behind him, observing the same display as the Android. Data observed the man with amber eyes, assessing the other man’s emotions.

Reginald Barclay was always an interesting subject to observe. He gave many insights into human frailty given how he was frightened of nearly everything. The man was nervous and unsure of himself, which was made more impractical by his capacity for introspection. He was afraid that his compatriots were always speaking ill of him, which in turn meant that he was always socially awkward around them and caused them to speak ill of him when he was not present.

It would be interesting to see if that would stop now that his shipmates were lauding him as a hero. Data assessed that the man hadn’t noticed yet, given his continued nervous twitching, but nobody had referred to the man as “Broccoli,” since the incident without someone else nearly coming to blows with the person who’d insulted one of their children’s savior. Worf had been on the verge of actually gutting a man who’d been crass enough to suggest that Barclay had probably pissed himself in the Jeffries tube, settling instead for smashing the man’s head against the bulkhead leading to of Ten Forward. He probably should have received an official citation for having broken the man’s nose, but the only Starfleet witnesses to the incident were Data, who hadn’t been noticed by those involved, and Chief O’Brien, who’d informed the man that if he were dumb enough to actually press charges that the Chief would happily do worse to him while singing an Irish shanty. Both Worf and the Chief had children.

Data elected to trust in the judgement of his two friends, and not report the incident. This was, in his estimation, one of those tribal loyalty things that he didn’t need to understand totally to properly participate in. So when Barclay gravitated towards Data, choosing to stay near the Android who’d saved him in his moment of need, Data pretended not to notice that the man had avoided any duty that would pull him away from his protector. He had covertly informed the rest of the duty shift that it was acceptable for them to switch shifts to accommodate those desires, and had assigned him difficult tasks in the hopes that it would distract the man from his recent near-death experience.

For now, he’d assigned the man the duty of overseeing the protections keeping the Giant bound and confined to the Brig. Deanna had suggested it would be a good idea to give the man purpose, allow him to have power over the thing that had frightened him. Data wondered if the man’s questions were a sign that he’d moved past fear into something more productive.

The Android considered the question briefly before replying, “Perhaps he is. I cannot be certain, as fear is not within my lexicon. He is an engineered being, and I cannot presume to have a baseline for what he does and does not fear.”

Reginald considered the Android’s response, rubbing at his chin as he manipulated the controls for the shield modulation. “I th-think he is.”

“On what do you make that assessment?” Data inquired, turning to the other man in genuine interest. Organics seemed to have a talent for intuitive leaps for this sort of thing that no amount of data processing ever quite seemed able to match.
“He’s c-citing something. It’s rote, almost l-like scripture.” Reginald chewed his lip. “People don’t cite s-scripture when they’re confident. They c-cite it when they’re trying t-to convince someone else that they’re right or to comfort themselves. Nobody has been in that room for hours and he keeps repeating the same phrases again and again.”

“Many species have meditative rituals for concentration.” Data suggested. “The Vulcans seek clarity of thought, and have chats to assert as much.”

“D-Data, the Vulcans don’t talk of ‘purging’ the unclean or ‘slaying’ th-their foes.” Barclay turned away from the console to look at the shielded pillar behind them. The Giant’s armor sat within it, covered in three different layers of shielding so that the Federation could study its internal mechanisms. “I don’t think he’s trying to m-meditate. I t-think he’s trying to tell us he’s not scared.”

Data blinked in momentary confusion as he tried to process the contradiction inherent in that statement. “And you feel that him asserting how not afraid of us is evidence of how afraid he is.”

“I-I know a lot about being a-afraid, Data.” Reginald replied pointing to the armor. “I k-know what it feels like to think that y-you’re alone. The only w-way you keep going is to tell yourself that you have to, that y-you’re not as scared as you really are. He’s naked, l-literally and figuratively. If he isn’t afraid he isn’t sane.”

“Sanity did not appear to be a primary concern of the Giant.” Data replied. “But his state of mind at the time of the incident was not indicative of his full faculties.”

“Could you imagine how terrible it would be, waking up to discover that you’re the only one left of your kind?” Reginald’s eyes bulged as he realized what he’d just said and to whom he’d spoken it. “I didn’t – I only meant….”

“It’s alright.” Data replied. “I am not offended. I have no feelings to injure.”

“I forget sometimes that you aren’t human.” Reginald shrugged, “It figures, I never quite get along with p-people as well as I do with machines.”

“I do not understand the specifics of emotion, but I do know something of what it is like to wake up and realize that you are part of a world that is not your own.” Data approximated a shrug. “I have found my place and purpose.”

“Do you think that h-he will end up doing what you did?” Reginald replied. “J-joining Starfleet?”

“I have insufficient inputs to extrapolate a pattern of behavior for our guest.” The Android considered the matter. “The Captain seems to hope that a positive exchange of information can be achieved, but given the fatalities I am unsure how much benefit will be derived from this initial meeting.”

“I-I didn’t go to the wakes.” Reginald swallowed. “I c-couldn’t bear to see the bodies.”

Data nodded. He’d suspected that had been part of why Reginald agreed to this specific shift when it had come up on the duty roster. The ship was in mourning even as its crew tried to establish diplomatic relations with the one who’d slain its own. There had been more than a few rumblings in the enlisted about precisely what ought to have been done with the man in their brig, many of them murderous. It had not been an accident that Data, who required neither rest nor sleep, had been assigned the duty of overseeing the Giant’s incarceration. Picard could trust the Android not to “accidentally” vent the atmosphere from the Brig or overload a power conduit to fry him in a jet of plasma. Starfleet was not known for such mutinous violence, but people were people. And many had lost friends and family to the Giant already.

The giant might well choose to enter Starfleet. If those in Starfleet chose to allow him to live long enough to come to that conclusion was another matter entirely. None had actually been so bold as to attempt to kill the Giant in spite of the communal rumblings to that effect, but more than a few of the bereaved had officially petitioned for formal charges to be leveled.

“Data… do you think that the Giant realizes that he’s the only one left yet? I mean, he doesn’t trust us, he doesn’t know us, and he hasn’t seemed overly interested in believing us.” Barclay chewed his lip. “Do you think that he’s just waiting for someone to come and rescue him? More men in that armor?”

Data considered the matter, “It’s possible, maybe even probable. He has only recently regained his senses and is, for all intents and purposes, our prisoner. We realize that eons have passed since his society fell to antiquity, but there is no reason to assume he is aware of this.”

“I- I d-don’t envy the one who has to tell him that.” Reginald shivered. “E-either he b-believes you or he doesn’t, and I’m not sure which reaction has to potential to b-be worse.”

Data couldn’t help but agree. Had he been capable of fear, the prospect of conveying that truth might have terrified him.

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Re: Without war to guide me (40k / Star Trek TNG)

Post by Eternal_Freedom » 2017-09-12 06:26pm

Oooo another part of this, sweet.

One nitpick though; you have Data using contractions in his dialogue, he doesn't do that.
"I could be bounded in a nutshell and count myself a king of infinite space, were it not that I have bad dreams" - Hamlet

“I’ve always thought the Yankees had something to do with it.” - Confederate General George Pickett, on being asked why his charge at Ghettysburg failed

Corrax Entry 7:17: So you walk eternally through the shadow realms, standing against evil where all others falter. May your thirst for retribution never quench, may the blood on your sword never dry, and may we never need you again.

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Re: Without war to guide me (40k / Star Trek TNG)

Post by Todeswind » 2017-09-12 06:34pm

The show is inconsistent on that, when it suits the plot they emphasize that and when it doesn't they just kind of forget it.

[youtube]https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yY1KdQNodN0[/youtube]

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