Posted by Lieutenant Commander Alex Cross (Chief Counselor) in Main sim - 1800 Hours Sal III Market - BBQ Shin Dig

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… suppressed (6) 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

Soral arrived at the barbecue in his white diplomatic uniform, its appearance precise and unblemished.

He experienced no personal inclination to attend such a gathering; social functions of this nature held little intrinsic value for him. However, he understood their purpose. Informal interaction fostered cohesion, and cohesion, in turn, supported effective diplomacy and mission success.

Attendance, therefore, was logical.

Lt. Soral T’Varan
CDO
USS Ark Angel

Riley went around to the groups seeing if the officers were having a food time. He did bring some party games if people get bored. The past the month have been long and the pips on his collar had some weight. He wondered was he doing his job well and he did find himself walk to engineering every morning. He did do his checks on every department making sure everything was running smoothly so the captain can focus on being the captain.

Commander Riley O’Nell (XO)

Alex looked around and then looked at Riley and nodded. As he approving of Riley’s intentions of bringing games for entertainment. Possibly something that the governor wasn’t expecting.

Captain Alex Becket
Commanding Officer
U.S.S. Ark Angel

Alex Cross moved easily through the warm hum of the gathering, the low rhythm of conversation and distant laughter wrapping around him like a familiar melody. The scent of grilled meats, butter, and spice pulled him naturally toward the food tables, where the heart of the celebration seemed to gather in both flavor and spirit.

As he reached the table, he paused for a moment, taking it all in.

“Smells like someone back home decided to bless this place,” he said with a soft grin, his voice warm and easy as he spoke to the colonist who stood behind the table.

He picked up a plate and moved down the line, building it with thoughtful precision. A golden ear of corn on the cob, brushed in butter. A modest five-ounce cut of steak, still glistening from the grill. A baked potato, split open and steaming. He added a soft sandwich bun, then a portion of shrimp, their seasoning catching the light—and his attention.

“Go ahead and load me up on those shrimp,” he added with a quiet chuckle. “You’re speaking my language now.”

As he continued, he glanced toward the servers, offering an appreciative nod. “Whoever’s behind this spread… you’ve done something special here.”

He shifted the plate slightly in his hands, taking in the details, the care. “Takes a certain kind of patience to get food like this just right. Reminds me of home.”

He paused briefly before adding, his tone softening just a touch. “New Orleans. Born and raised. You never really leave it behind—not the food… not the people.”

Stepping aside to allow others through, he gave a final nod of thanks. “I appreciate it. Truly.”

As he moved away from the table, plate in hand, there was a quiet contentment in his expression. Not just from the food—but from the simple act of connection, even if the responses would come later.

Even out here, far from Earth… it still found a way to feel like home.

Counselor Alex Cross

Th smell of the bbq was amazing… Izak couldn’t wait to dig in.

As the final preparations were being made, Lt Waryn wandered around and made small talk with a few of the locals milling about, and thanked some of the people working hard to get everything ready.

He made his way to the drink area and grabbed himself a couple bottles of the local lager. It was a little bitter for his taste, but it was still crisp and refreshing.

He finally wandered over to some of the tables that other Starfleet officers were hanging around… then spied Ensign Blackford off the the side a little bit and altered course.

“Taking a little breather I see, Wyatt.” Izak said with an easy grin as he extended a bottle of lager. “Would you like my backup beer… or do you just want to recharge a bit more?”

Lt J.G. Izak Waryn - Chief Engineer - U.S.S. Ark Angel