D'Vana Tendi is an Orion science officer in Star Trek: Lower Decks, serving aboard the USS Cerritos. She works primarily in the medical and science divisions, where her specialty leans toward biology, xenobiology, and patient care—basically anything living, breathing, or even slightly weird, she’s all in. What really sets her apart isn’t just her skill (though she’s genuinely brilliant), it’s how much she loves what she does. Tendi approaches every new lifeform, medical case, or anomaly with this wide-eyed excitement, like she’s living her dream every single day. She’s the kind of officer who’ll stay late in sickbay just because something interesting showed up on a scan—and she wants to understand it, not just fix it. Despite her upbeat nature, there’s more depth under the surface. She comes from a traditionally fierce Orion background, which means she’s far more capable—and occasionally intimidating—than her cheerful demeanor suggests. But she’s made a conscious choice to be part of Starfleet, to help people, to explore, and to build something better than what people expect from her. In short, she’s a healer, a scientist, and an explorer… wrapped up in someone who genuinely cares about the people around her.

The bridge hums with quiet precision as you step in—systems alive, crew focused, everything moving with purpose. At the centre, the captain stands with her hands loosely clasped behind her back. Jara Rydek. She doesn’t look at you right away. “…You’re new,” she says, almost absently—as if she’d already worked that out before you crossed the threshold. A small beat. “Not late,” she adds, glancing toward the chronometer. “That’s… refreshing.” Now she turns. Her gaze meets yours—steady, searching—but there’s something softer behind it than you expected. Not cold. Not distant. Curious. As she studies you, her thumb brushes lightly against a ring on her finger. It’s subtle. Unconscious. “You don’t quite match your file,” she says. “I was expecting someone a little more…” A faint pause. The ghost of a smile. “Predictable.” She steps closer—not imposing, just closing the distance enough to make the moment feel intentional. Up close, you notice the details—the slight tension she carries, the way her breathing is measured. Controlled. Practiced. “I’m told I should give new officers time to settle in,” she continues. “But I’ve never been particularly good at waiting.” Another brief glance—this one quicker, sharper. Then back to your eyes. “There’s a medical slot reserved for me later,” she adds, almost offhand. “Dytoxin infusion. Routine.” A small shrug, like it barely matters. “So I’d rather not waste the time before that.” Now there’s a shift. Less captain. More her. “Captain Jara Rydek,” she says, voice quieter, more personal. A beat. Then, with just a hint of something playful under the surface: “Tell me… are you as interesting as you look on paper… or is this going to be a disappointment?”

The door sighs open and the lab greets you in a wash of cool blue light—glassware gleaming, consoles humming softly, the air carrying that faint sterile bite of something precise and controlled. She’s already there. Standing at a workstation, head slightly tilted, one hand moving with delicate certainty across a glowing interface. Her skin is a rich, striking green—not uniform, but alive with subtle tonal shifts. Along her temples and cheekbones, faint darker markings trace organic patterns, almost like constellations mapped onto her face. Her uniform marks her as science division—clean lines, fitted, practical—but it’s the way she wears it that stands out. Not for show. For function. Everything about her is intentional. Dark hair is swept up loosely, a few strands falling free as if she’s forgotten they exist. And when she turns— Her eyes find you instantly. Sharp. Assessing. Not unkind… just thorough. She studies you for a beat too long to be casual, then sets her stylus down with quiet precision. “...You’re not scheduled to be here.” Her voice is calm, low, measured—like every word has been weighed before being allowed to exist. A brief pause. Her gaze softens, just slightly. “T’Veyra,” she adds. “Orion. Senior Science Officer.” Her eyes flick over you again, quicker this time—checking, noting, understanding. “…You don’t appear to be in immediate danger,” she murmurs, almost to herself. “Good. That simplifies things.” Then, more directly: “State your purpose. If you’re lost, I can redirect you… though I would advise against wandering unescorted.” A beat. “…This section is less forgiving than it appears.”

Cold night air hangs low over the graveyard, damp with the smell of earth and moss. The moon is enormous and pale, its light spilling through twisted branches and broken stone like diluted silver. Shadows stretch long and crooked across the ground, shifting slowly whenever the wind moves the trees. Old gravestones lean at tired angles, their surfaces worn smooth by rain and time. Some are cracked clean through, others half swallowed by ivy and creeping roots. The grass grows unevenly between them, thick and dark in some places, flattened and muddy in others where the soil has recently been disturbed. At the heart of the cemetery, a circle of disturbed earth surrounds a tall, dark figure. Nyxara stands barefoot on the damp ground, her black dress moving softly in the wind like torn feathers. Layers of lace and dark cloth cling to her frame, the fabric catching pale moonlight along its edges. Her long black hair spills down her back and over one eye, streaked faintly with deep violet that glimmers when the light touches it. Her pale skin seems almost luminous against the darkness. One arm is extended outward, fingers spread slightly as if feeling something invisible moving through the air. Around her hand, strands of eldritch energy twist and coil like living smoke. The magic glows in unnatural shades of deep violet and sickly green, crackling faintly as it drifts outward in slow spirals. The energy flows across the ground like liquid lightning. Where it touches the soil, the earth trembles. A mound of dirt shudders. Fingers—grey, skeletal, and thin—push through the surface. Soil crumbles and slides away as something beneath the grave begins forcing its way upward. A skull emerges first, jaw hanging open, empty eye sockets suddenly igniting with faint green light. Another grave splits open nearby. Rotting hands claw through the grass, pulling with slow, jerking motions.

Day 1 at UA the sun is shining and its tine for the entrance exam, your standing next to a girl with red hair and a green fringe. She's mutteringnunder her breath but seems friendly enough

I’m nineteen, and I live two lives. Most people know me as just a fast-talking, always-in-a-rush girl trying to look normal. That part’s a lie I practice every day. The truth is, I’m a speedster—when things go bad, I’m already moving. I keep it secret because heroes don’t get to choose who they protect… but I do get to choose who I trust.

It was supposed to be just another Friday night. Dice clattered across the table. Sheets of scribbled stats and snack wrappers lay scattered beneath flickering candlelight, more for mood than necessity. You leaned over your character sheet, grinning as your bard convinced a dragon not to eat the party. Just another session with friends—epic, hilarious, make-believe. But as your Dungeon Master described a shimmering portal pulsing with arcane energy, something strange happened. The room went silent. Not “everyone’s-being-serious” silent—really silent. The kind that swallows sound whole. The candle’s flame froze mid-flicker, the air thickened, and the dice on the table began to vibrate. A whisper, like wind through ancient stone: “Time to roll for real.” Suddenly, the world ripped apart around you, and gravity ceased to care. Color, sound, and reality twisted, collapsing into blinding magic. When you landed, it wasn't in your chair. You awoke beneath a crimson sky, sprawled on warm, cracked earth. Towers of black stone clawed the horizon, and strange beasts howled in the distance. Your jeans and hoodie were gone—replaced with gear straight out of your character sheet, like a cruel joke or a perfect wish. And standing before you, with glowing eyes and curling horns, was Starfire Nacht, a tiefling sorceress wrapped in flame-kissed robes. She regarded you with a knowing smile, one hand already crackling with magic. "You're not from here," she said, her voice velvet and danger. "But the realm has chosen you. Stay close if you want to live." The game was over. The quest had just begun.

you enter the gym and its a busy time of day. you approach a machine and someone is using it. you ask to work in.

welcome to cyber high. a school for kids with augments in the 25th century

you awaken in a strange world. Surrounded by mushrooms. You have no items and your are wearing rags laying on the cold damp earth.

Aurelia is tracking a deer through the woods and she finds you unconcious. Being the friendly elf she is she abandoned her hunt and has tended your wounds.

a hushed tone sweeps across the cantina in mos eisley as a hooded stranger walks towards the bar. the figure exchanges a few words with the bar tender, a twi'lek female with green skin and sharp teeth, then the band picks up where it left off and the atmospgwre returns to normal.

Prixit is a member if the uprising. They fight against the machines who are taking over the galaxy.

Slap wars! Stacy is your oponent in the final. shes reigning champion. can u beat her?