Posted by Captain Alex Becket (Commanding Officer) in Main sim - 1800 Hours Sal III Market - BBQ Shin Dig

Posted by Commander Riley O’Nell (Executive Officer/Number One) in Main sim - 1800 Hours Sal III Market - BBQ Shin Dig

Posted by Lieutenant Commander Alex Cross (Chief Counselor) in Main sim - 1800 Hours Sal III Market - BBQ Shin Dig
Posted by… suppressed (1) by the Post Ghost! 👻
It was going on 1800 hours in the evening, the sun was just starting a slow descent to setting, and much of the large central open air market area of the main colony had been converted into a large open air bbq buffet like series of lines and tables. At least 100 some colonists were present, a mix of those who would be eating, those who would be managing the food, and those who would be distributing or managing drinks.

The air was a mix of crisp forest/mountain air, seasoned smoke, cooked meat, oils, spices, and more. The heady mixture making everyone eager for the final product to be ready to consume. The tables held a mixture of local and locally grown Federation vegetables.

GM CockRoach

The early evening air carried warmth and smoke, the unmistakable scent of grilled meat and spices drifting on a soft breeze that curled through the gathering like an invitation. Laughter, music, and the low hum of conversation blended together—alive, vibrant… familiar.

And into it, Alex stepped.

Lieutenant Alex Cross didn’t arrive in uniform today.

He moved through the entrance in relaxed, unmistakable New Orleans style—effortlessly put together, like he hadn’t tried too hard, but still knew exactly what he was doing. A lightweight, short-sleeve linen shirt rested open at the collar, crisp but breathable in the heat, its subtle pattern catching just enough light to stand out without demanding attention. The sleeves sat just right on his arms, hinting at the strength beneath without showing off.

Dark, well-fitted trousers—just shy of formal, but far from casual—paired with polished leather loafers completed the look. Clean. Comfortable. Intentional.

Jewelry was minimal, but deliberate.

A thin gold chain rested at the base of his collarbone, occasionally catching the light when he moved. A simple bracelet—dark leather with a small metallic clasp—wrapped his wrist, worn enough to suggest it meant something. On his right hand, a subtle ring—nothing flashy, just a quiet accent—balanced the rest. And his watch… classic, understated, functional. The kind of piece that didn’t need to prove its worth.

Everything about him said ease.

But it was his presence that settled the space around him.

Alex paused just inside, dark eyes scanning the scene—not clinically, not like he was working—but instinctively. Reading people had long since stopped being something he did and had simply become part of who he was. He picked up on the small things: who was relaxed, who was pretending to be, who needed space, who needed company.

And for once… he let it go.

A slow breath filled his lungs, the kind that grounded instead of measured. Smoke, spice, laughter—real life, not filtered through duty or responsibility.

A faint smile pulled at the corner of his mouth.

This wasn’t a briefing room. Not a counseling session. Not a crisis waiting to unfold.

This was… normal.

Or as close as life in Starfleet ever got.

He rolled his shoulders once, letting the last remnants of shipboard tension slip away, and stepped fully into the gathering—no rank, no title leading him. Just Alex.

Just a man from New Orleans, walking into a BBQ, feeling—for the first time in a while—like he could simply exist in the moment.

Counselor Alex Cross

Riley brought shrimp for the colonists to try after making sure from the middle for records that they are able to handle it. He helped the cooks, prepared the shrimp using lemon lime juice to marinate it. As one of the cooks tried it he was hooked.

Commander Riley O’Nell

Becket came in and smiled. He was coming in and taking a seat down in a seat. As he was doing so, he would think about what the Governor said.

Captain Alex Becket
Commanding Office

r

U.S.S. Ark Angel

Wyatt came in carrying a wide, slightly dented tray piled high with sweet corn still on the cob, each ear wrapped in foil and glistening with melted butter that soaked through in golden patches. Balanced beside it was a platter of loose meat sandwiches, the savory filling spilling just slightly from the soft buns—simple, familiar food, the kind that stuck with you. The smell followed him in, warm and comforting, a quiet reminder of where he’d grown up and the kind of gatherings he understood best.
he adjusted his grip so nothing slid off, then made his way toward the table where others had already started laying things out. Conversations buzzed around him—laughter here, a burst of music there—but Wyatt didn’t interrupt or announce himself. He just moved steadily, weaving through people like he’d done it a hundred times before.
He was dressed like he hadn’t put much thought into it, though everything about him still stood out. Black shorts hung just above his knees, leaving his left leg exposed where the tattoo curled into view—a phoenix, inked in dark lines and deep reds, its wings spread wide as if mid-rise, wrapping around his calf in a way that made it seem almost alive when he walked. His shirt was a deep red Hawaiian print, loose and slightly unbuttoned at the top, shifting with each step. On his feet, a pair of worn sandals slapped quietly against the floor, casual and unbothered.
When he reached the table, he set the food down carefully, sliding the tray into an open space among the other dishes. For a second, he lingered, adjusting one of the foil-wrapped cobs like it mattered more than it did. He gave a small nod—more to the moment than to any one person—and then stepped away before anyone could pull him into conversation.
Wyatt scanned the room once, eyes moving without urgency, taking stock. Groups had already formed, conversations layered over each other, people leaning in, laughing, gesturing. It wasn’t that he didn’t belong—he just didn’t feel the need to jump in right away.
He found a chair tucked off to the side, in the corner where the light dimmed just a little and the noise softened enough to think. Pulling it out with a faint scrape, he sat down, leaning back as he stretched one leg forward, the phoenix tattoo catching the light for a moment before settling back into shadow.
From there, he watched.
Not in a detached or judgmental way—just observant. He noticed the way people carried themselves, who talked the loudest, who listened, who kept glancing at the door like they were waiting for someone else to arrive. Every now and then, the corner of his mouth would twitch like he almost smiled at something he caught—a joke half-heard, a gesture that reminded him of someone from home.
He rested his forearms on his thighs, hands loosely clasped, shoulders relaxed. The noise of the room washed over him, but he didn’t seem overwhelmed by it. If anything, he seemed settled there, like this was his way of easing in—taking everything in before deciding where, or if, he wanted to step into it.
For now, he was content just sitting back, people-watching, letting the world come to him instead of the other way around.

Ensign Wyatt Blackford

Security Junior Officer

U.S.S. Ark Angel