Banshee Farrell

USS Excalibur NCC-2004C

Flight Deck, Main Hanger

The flight deck shift crews were practically vibrating with energy, the lot of them so excited about the upcoming shore leave that the energy was coming off them in waves.

Margaret “Banshee” Farrell, Senior Chief Petty Officer and Alpha Lead Shift mechanic, knew what it was like to be on the verge of shore leave after such a long haul out in the black. The freedom was so close that you could taste it on your tongue, and your insides quivered. But, as one of the senior enlisted officers, Farrell also knew that she was unofficially required to pass along a few parting words of caution to her enlisted grunts, just in case.

The blond spiky haired Irish woman visually observed her people, standing around her in jumpsuits of blue, orange, red and a few other colors of the rainbow that represented the specialty of each the flight deck hands and flight mechanics. Banshee herself wore what she liked to refer to as the “demented yellow tweety bird jumpsuit” which showcased her status as a senior NCO and shift lead. Granted, she was also a walking target wearing the bright coveralls (hey there, enemy boarding party, shoot me!), but hey, she didn’t pick the uniform color chart. At least she and her mechanics weren’t stuck wearing that bird sh*t type of splatter camo pattern that the old time Fleet MACO marine soldiers had worn, right?

“Okay ya lot, I know yer looking forward to the shore leave, and yer itchin’ to tear off through the airlock access hatches as soon as we all get the all clear. All I can say is, I know as soon as ya hit the decking over there on Camelot station yer gonna blow off some steam, and for the love of Jesus, Mary and Joseph, try and keep it clean and toned down, at least a little bit. Make sure to have some fun, and enjoy it while ya can.”

A ripple of laughter and low cheers rolled across the large first shift crowd that had gathered off to one side of the main hanger deck, and Farrell let the laughter go on for a few seconds before continuing with her little talk. “Now, for the bad news. If’n you guys do happen get yerselves arrested for a bar brawl or some such nonsense like that, then it’s gonna be me or Master Chief Kale comin’ down to get ya out. I’d advise against that ‘cause ya know we’re both a bit old school and we’ll have no sympathy for anyone. Ye might end up back here with more bruises then ya went in the star base brig with.”

The warning held a truth, but the group still chuckled a bit as they accepted the warning with a good attitude, and that was good. As long as a few of the enlisted guys got the idea that sometimes caution was the better part of valor through their thick skulls, the senior aviation mechanic would be happy. The tall and lean Irish woman wasn’t a hypocrite either: she too had done her share of shore leaves where she had ended up completely sozzled and in the middle of a maelstrom brawl.

“Now, onto the lat bit o’ news. I got word that there was some arguing here on the flight deck and a few fisticuffs were exchanged as well with some o’ the pilots over mechanical repair issues? I understand that some o’ the pilot officers, particularly the ensigns and junior lieutenants can be a real pain in the arse, but I also know that some of ye were just as much at fault as the jump jocks were with the heated exchange. We’re all on a short temper what with being on a mission so long, and everyone wants off this ship for some down time. Keep that in mind.”

Farrell let her gaze travel over the mechanic enlisted group one more time before her final parting words and dismissal. “Okay ye lot – dismissed, try not to climb the bulkheads, and wait until we hear the final word from the command team to disembark from the Excalibur.”

Note: From the 11.02.08 Excalibur Mission Brief:

- The 310th fighter squad is called to duty, and all pilots and support crews mobilize to meet the incoming aviation threat. 100 warriors, clad in white armor, breach Decks 5, 12 and 15.

 

- Deck 12: Primary Systems Support Compartments, Shuttlebay (Fore and Aft Access), right below Sickbay.

= = = =

Current Time (takes place during the 11.02.08 sim)

Deck 12, Shuttlebay

Senior Chief Petty Officer Margaret “Banshee” Farrell stood in the small auxiliary office set just off the main shuttle bay, hands planted on her hips as she watched the tactical data feed on her desktop monitor with a worried look on her face. The slight age lines starting to appear on her smooth and fair skinned features were more noticeable right now as the Irish mechanic became more and more concerned.

The Excalibur fighter crews had been scrambled and launched, and judging by the combat maneuvers that the incoming data telemetry showcased, she and her mechanic crews would be busy with the mop up repairs well into the wee hours of the morning shifts.

The big warship lurched to one side as a salvo of external ordnance hit home.

… assuming they all survived to the morning, that is.

After she had regained her balance, the lanky female enlisted officer bolted out of the office area and started bellowing orders to the various mechanic and repair crews on shift for the combat operations.

“Jorecht, Henshaw! I want you two workin’ together and spearheading the repairs on any damaged Lancelot, Gwen Bombers, and support shuttles that are towed in still intact or managed to land with damage. Pull personnel as y’all need them. Orijanto! You co ordinate with the medical techs and contact ‘em if we have any injured pilots tat are likewise hauled in by the search and rescue shuttles … “

The shuttle hanger deck crews went into action and prepped for the eventual onslaught of repair work. The red alert klaxon was a constant reminder of the danger that the Excalibur found herself in within this sector of space, but the repair crews had long been accustomed to blanking out the alert klaxons and just concentrating on the incoming repair work.

Banshee found herself going towards the aft section of the shuttle bay, continuing to mobilize the crews and give specific orders to the crews when a whine pierced through the shouted conversations and orders; soon, a squad of white armor clad soldiers materialized at the back end of the section, brandishing what looked like a combination of energy weapons as well as swords and daggers and the occasional axe.

Time and personnel froze for about five seconds or so as everyone took in the now dangerous implications and factors that these intruders posed.

Then, all hell broke loose.

The white armored soldiers opened fire on the various damage control and mechanics crews within the shuttle bay. Farrell caught a glancing energy blow to one arm that sliced cleanly through the sleeve of her yellow jumpsuit and fried the exposed skin underneath. Caught out in the open, she was helpless along with about a dozen or so other enlisted personnel who had not working on a shuttle or some sort of hardware or cargo crate that offered protection from the invading marauders.

Banshee yelped as the beam of energy impacted with her arm and was knocked backwards onto the hard decking. She landed flat on her back and skidded back wards a few paces before coming to a stop.

Attempting to fight past the pain and shock, she managed to get back up to a standing position, half running and trying to get to some sort of cover, continuing to bellow out orders to her crews in a hoarse, pain induced tone of voice.

“Scramble! Defend yeselves first and the equipment and vehicles second!”

She spotted the young Bajoran, Jorecht, beckoning her over towards some crates that would offer some sort of protection for the fleeing senior mechanic. The female Bajoran was too scared to attempt to rush out into the open and attempt a grab at Banshee.

Wrenches, digital reading spanners, phaser fire and all manner of offensive weapons were now fired off or thrown by the deck and mechanic crews, and several hard metal pieces of equipment or phaser fire now started to rain down on the intruders as the soldiers scattered across the shuttle bay, taking down anyone they came across and unfortunate enough to be in their path.

A specialist wearing a blue enlisted technician jumpsuit was cut down as he tried to leap for cover, and another deck recruit was stabbed to death as she tried to site down on the phaser she leveled at her attacker. An armored soldier swooped down on Farrell and silenced her shouted orders with a swift whack to her head from the haft of his energy weapon; Banshee crumpled to the decking, unconscious and bleeding.

The chaos fully exploded on the shuttle hanger deck, with blood, screams, phaser fire, and the battle cry of the white clad soldiers all intermixing. The first shift mechanic crews assigned to the shuttle bay for battle detail were very much caught in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Note: the Excalibur recently had a security breach with a stowaway who impersonated a Starfleet officer. The following log emphasizes how the backbone of the Starfleet - the Enlisted Officers – would deal with new orders regarding the situation aftermath, and is but one possibility within this new Excalibur: Lower Decks message board based offshoot of the main sim.

= = = =

Below Decks: Hanger Bay, First Shift

Mechanic and Deck Hand Enlisted

Senior Chief Petty Officer Margaret “Banshee” Farrell

Chief Petty Officer Farrell pursed her upper lip over her lower lip and proceeded to blow out an ear splitting whistle that carried across the hanger bay and almost reverberated off the bulkheads. Her father did the whistle all the time, especially when Farrell and her siblings had been younger and he wanted to get the rambunctious clans attention. Although, her father still claimed that Banshee had way more whistle volume then he did.

Anyway, the calling all hands attention whistle had the intended effect, and her gathered deckhands and mechanics all stopped their private conversations and turned their full attention to her from where they sat or lounged about on cargo containers or anti-gravity flitters.

The Irish woman moved her tall and lanky frame easily, keeping up a steady pace to match her speaking voice as she walked back and forth in front of the gathered monkey grunts.

“Here’s the deal ya grease monkeys. The Excalibur had a recent incident with a stowaway. The rumors claim that this Pakled - yep, I said Pakled - got themselves on board anywhere from inside a cargo crate to an attachment on one o’ the work pods th’ last time we put in for hull repairs. Whatever, it‘s not our concern. What is our concern are the back draft orders comin’ down from the Captain and the Commander so’s it don’ happen again.”

“Let me guess that this is gonna be more work for us eh Banshee?” The reedy voice of one of the middle aged deck hands wafted out from the back of the group. He was an average built male with a sad face and steel gray hair just beginning to grown in at his temples.

The spiky blond haired Farrell offered a lopsided grin to the shorter man before she answered. “Isn’t it always more work for us Henshaw?”

One of the younger hands, a female second year deck recruit by the name of Jorecht Tara, grabbed the conversation ball and ran with it. “So what’s the damage sir?” Her crinkled Bajoran nose scrunched up in distaste at the new decree coming down from on high Excal command.

A new voice entered the conversation from behind the gathered mechanics. “The damage is that any Lancelot fighter, Gwen Bomber, Work Bee, or gravity flitter that needs to be repaired is to be checked over thoroughly for anything suspicious. All the on board compartments are to be pulled and checked. Any work tools you employ are to be signed out prior to the job and then returned to the office lockers. The clamp down has begun.”

Commander Left Ear JoNs stopped speaking for a moment as she walked around to the front of the group from where she had crept up behind them using the various starfighters and shuttles parked across the main hanger deck. Once the brown furred feline was facing the assembled grease grunts, she continued her little speech.

“We aren’t picking on the deck crews; myself and Captain Corizon are streamlining all the shipboard operations and departmental procedures – and yes, this is also known as head hunting so as long as you keep your noses clean and do what we say you won’t get your rear ends kicked into the Romulan Empire. We do not want a repeat of our little security breach again.”

The silence was momentarily deafening and the purred tone died on the air. Multi-directional looks passed between all the gathered deckhands. A few eyebrows launched toward the hairline. Some jaws went south.

Left Ear flipped an ear back and her muzzle quirked in mild amusement; her tail lashed playfully.

Farrell cleared her throat and spoke to her first shift crew. “Ex Oh on the Deck ya grease monkeys, close yer dropped jaws and show some respect. And for the love o’ Mary don’t break any wind or drop a silent but deadly.”

Then, the Irish aviation mechanic turned her attention to the feline. “Sir, beggin’ ya pardon, but I think I speak for everyone here when I ask … just what in the hell are ya doin’ in a deck jumpsuit?”

The work jumpsuits were all of the same Starfleet design, but the coloring indicated what job each individual was responsible for or in some cases what their rank was; Banshee Farrell wore the bright yellow Demented Tweety Bird coveralls, indicating that she was the senior shift lead petty officer. Other deckhands such as Jorecht wore gray coveralls indicating that they were a junior level deck grunt. The Orange or Blue jumpsuits were an indication of a specialty, and so on and so forth. To use an old fashioned Earth phrase, the hanger deck at any one time looked like a crayon factory had exploded.

Left Ear JoNs wore a greasy and stained pair of gray coveralls, and her smile took on a hard case command edge. “I’m going to work with your crew for the next three hours or so, then I head to the bridge for my shift. I’ll be working for a time as the interim security chief and what that translates too is that I’ll be sticking my muzzle into every established procedure, protocol and bathroom until the command team is satisfied with our preventive security results to avoid any more pirate breaches and stowaways.”

An excited, curious and equal parts annoyed murmuring started to roll through the first shift deck hands as they talked amongst themselves.

Farrell piped up again. “Cut out the chatter. I need a volunteer to partner up with the Commander and show her what we do here and what our protocols are.”

Crickets.

“Don’ everyone be rushin’ at once now.”

Deer in Headlights.

“People, don’ make me choose volunteers like some flippin’ kiddy class.”

The reedy voiced drifted out from the back of the group again. “I’ll take her.” Henshaw walked out from the back of the group, his steps measured but his gait and hands in the pockets posture giving him a perpetually slouched and bored appearance. He wore an orange jumpsuit and his rank specialty insignia identified him as a diagnostics expert and mechanic. The human male was a few inches taller then the Ex Oh panther cat. He looked down at her through hooded eyes. “You had better not shed in my equipment sir.”

The feline senior officer flipped an ear back and matched his tone and look. “I won’t … as long as you don’t drop a silent but deadly Crewman Specialist. If you do then the fur flies right in your meter reader.”

There were a few seconds of silence and then a few barks of laughter and chuckles from the group. Henshaws perpetually tired face broke into a big grin and he fixed his now sparkling brown eyes on Farrell. “Chief Petty Officer, I’d be happy to take the Commander on for the partial shift.”

Banshee just smiled and then turned her attention to the rest of the crew, clapping her dirty hands together “Alright ya grease monkeys, lets start hauling some rear end and get the scheduled repairs and checks done; we ain’t here for a friggin’ social call. Grab yer coffee and let’s move!”

Note: Jumper Honor-Scar used with permission of STSF Jumper. Some mature-ish content and language contained in this character log, so please be advised.

Camelot Station

CENTRAL HUB: Levels 37 – 49, Hanger Deck

Senior Chief Petty Officer Banshee Farrell

The work day for the deck hands assigned to the hanger deck on level forty five had started out routine enough: the aviation mechanics were tasked with getting four Lancelot’s, two transport shuttles, and three Runabouts ready for the next flight shift rotation.

No problems, no rush, no pressure. Yeah, right.

The fact that Farrell’s promotion to senior chief petty officer (which usually meant more evenly distributed administrative and work duties for the individual) was pending and within the administrative works seemed to have escaped the deck chief when he handed out the duty rotations. Her transmitted orders to repair two of the four Lancelot’s -- by herself, mind you – had also included a lovely text message from Mister Personality himself, which read “Pending promotional review or not, your butt is still mine and you’ll go where I tell you.” The Trill truly was a born arsehole, and Farrell would be happy to leave him behind once the promotion and the transfer that went with it was official.

She would not be happy to leave her mechanic squad behind however. They were good people, and she had already lined up her senior man to take over as squad leader when she departed for a new duty assignment. Camelot station had been a good place to work, but the fact of the matter was that it was time for her to move on again. As it was, she’d be on the station for another few months because the ship she had been assigned to was still out in the middle of nowhere on patrol or some such assignment.

Banshee stood in the large sized office set just off the main hanger deck, signing off on her work orders and scanning the data chip which signaled that she was starting her work day. She had slipped into her bright yellow jumpsuit (and Banshee liked to refer to it as the “I’m a large demented tweety bird outfit”) but left the top half portion tied and sagging around her waist. Even though her promotion was still officially within the works, the Quartermaster had already issued her the senior enlisted officer yellow colored jumpsuit, and she found it rather ironic. Usually, it took the quartermaster months to get the correct uniform to a grunt. Such was the life of an enlisted officer assigned to the lower decks of a star base: nothing made sense, and if you tried to apply logic to this place, you just succeeded in giving yourself a headache. Regardless, at least wardrobe wise, she had graduated to the demented tweety bird jumpsuit.

She wore the Starfleet issue sleeveless uniform tee shirt and tank top combo, which left her tattooed upper arms bare. Half bent over the work table set within the office, the Irish mechanic was double checking the schematics for the aviation birds that she’d be working on today. The office area, like all administrative sections down here on the lower hanger decks, was a study in controlled chaos; tool belts thrown here and there, various paper schematics either rolled up or spread out on the tables, digital schematics stored on this padd or that data padd or tacked up on the cork board as a data flimsie printout, tools, and perhaps a dried puddle of oil that the cleaning crew hadn’t gotten to yet. Mechanics and deck chiefs and squad leaders were also constantly streaming in and out, grabbing this tool or that work order.

As Banshee was visually perusing her schematic of choice and bent over, a strong hand cupped her left butt cheek with a solid smack.

Banshee Farrell and Collum Gunter had an understanding with one another; he was allowed to fondle her ass, and she was not allowed to deck him. The tall Irish woman smiled and easily turned to grab the big Scot and give him a hard kiss on the mouth, falling into the old routine with an ease born of practice. Honestly, even if the two humans weren’t from the same geographic area of Earth, Farrell was pretty sure the two of them would have still hit it off.

His weather beaten features lightened with a smile, and he regarded his sometimes girlfriend and all the time sex partner with a genuine look of affection. “Now that’s what I call a good morning kiss.” He lifted her by the back of the thighs onto the work counter, plopping her rear end on the surface, and settled himself between her spread legs as his big hands moved and started to massage her lower back in rhythmic circles.

“It’s the least I could do after last night there Collum.” Farrell practically purred and her ice blue eyes danced with equal parts affection and mischievousness

He gave a good natured chuckle. “Aye, last night was an adventure, and I’m sure we freaked out the neighbors a wee bit. But, it was the least I could do considering you’ll be shipping out at some point. And, I’m still takin’ ya out to dinner at one of the fancy restaurants on the Promenade. I’m even planning to clean under my fingernails for the occasion, and break out my best civilian outfit, the one I use for funerals and weddings.”

One of the junior grunts, a young human who had recently come into his own and gotten comfortable with the job, people, and duties down here on the lower decks, called over from the other side of the office, in a mock suffering voice. “Yes, I may never be the same again after hearing all that grunting and moaning through the bulkhead … and did I hear a sheep or was that just sheep related noises from the two of you?”

The few assembled mechanics and deck hands broke out into shared laughter at the bawdy joke, including Banshee and Collum. They all worked hard, played hard, and joked hard. If you couldn’t take the heat on the lower decks of Camelot, then you had no place within the enlisted ranks.

“I rrreally hate to brrreak this little comedy and laugh fest up, but there are some pilots who will be waiting on your sh*ttin’ repairs today. How about we get this shift moving along?”

The growled speech cut through the levity like a knife, and half a dozen heads turned to latch onto Jagrissa “Jumper” Honor-Scar, a Caitian feline pilot attached to the Wildcard squad. Banshee and Jumper did not get along, and it was best to give them both a wide berth when the commissioned officer and enlisted officer got into it. The enlisted mechanics and deck hands who had been in the office quickly muttered goodbyes or something about attending to their duties. Only Collum, Banshee, and Jumper remained, and the stony silence that descended on the semi-enclosed administrative area was palpable.

The tawny furred Caitian officer swaggered up to the older enlisted mechanics, and tried to put some intimidation into the whole act. But, to be honest, if it wasn’t for the claws and fangs, the hissing and the tail switching back and forth, Jumper was still a young kid just trying to find her way in life and failing miserably with the various detours of her own choosing. Banshee saw right through the act because she herself had been in that same position many moons ago. The question was would Jumper pull herself out of her destructive habits as Farrell had? Or would the young feline continue her downward career spiral?

Collum pulled away from Farrell with the parting words of “watch yourself” before adopting a relaxed parade rest in a knee jerk training deference to the presence of a junior officer … even if that junior officer didn’t deserve the respect of the attention stance.

Jagrissa’s tail lashed and she let loose with a low snarl. “What are the two of you waiting for? You have your orders, get out there and fix our gods damn fighter shuttles.”

Farrell, who had pointedly stayed in her seated position on the work table, now hopped down and landed with a thud of her combat boots on the decking. Usually Banshee was reserved whenever the cat tried to get in her face and goad the human woman, but the Irish officer decided that she would be havin’ none of this targ sh*t today.

Looking right at the shorter and uppity feline, Banshee’s facial expression was hard and unyielding, and her blue eyes held a dangerous glint in them. “Actually, before tending to my official duties I was sort o’ plannin’ on tending to an unofficial one that would probably be appreciated by everyone on this deck right now, hell, probably the whole damn station. Honor-Scar I’m going to turn you over my knee and beat your little furry arse until you cry for your squad leader.”

Collum’s jaw dropped and he didn’t know whether to run like the dickens out of the office or be all manly and try to step in the middle of any sort of female scrapping and try and stop it.

Honor-Scar obviously vacillated between fear and a feral reaction to the threat, before finally giving into a snarl and beckoning Banshee with her paws in a “let’s do it” gesture … right after she gave the human a gesture that was considered rude on like, four planets.

Banshee wasted no time, and went into action while the cat was still busy posturing with her gestures; she moved faster then you would give a human credit for, probably owing to the few bar brawls she had experienced in her time. Farrell certainly had the scars to show for the fights, and the bottom line was she was a down and dirty brawler through and through. This “training” gave her an advantage over the green commissioned officer

The Irish enlisted officer quickly grabbed the feline by an arm and the scruff of the neck, bringing her upper body down while her knee came up and impacted with the younger feline’s midsection. She jerked Jumper back up and then let go so she could backhand her across the snoot. The Caitian saw stars and then fell down, slamming hard into the decking. Jumper didn’t recover from the assault, and stayed down on the decking in a confused and semi-conscious state.

The one sided exchange of blows had taken all of about five seconds, and now Collum Gunter looked like he was indeed about to crap a brick. “Margaret!”, and he used her given name, so the situation must be bad, “What’re you doing girl? Ya just struck an officer!?”

Farrell worked her sore hand, trying to get feeling back into the fingers. “Don’t worry ‘bout it. Help me get her on top of that anti gravity transport pallet. She can sleep my administrative punishment off over there and nobody’ll step on her or something.”

Collum easily picked up the semi-conscious feline and moved her to the little flat transport pallet that was parked off to the side and within easy access to the open doorway. Once the feline was settled, Farrell pressed two fingers to the officer’s neck, just double checking that the pulse was strong. Nodding, Banshee was satisfied with the results and backed away from Honor-Scar. Collum was still a bit thunderstruck. “What’dya mean, don’t worry about it?! The camera just recorded you decking a freakin’ officer!”

“The camera has experienced a technical glitch and is currently being repaired.” Her tone came out deadpan, and she pointed a finger out the large picture window set at the front of the office with a view of the hanger deck area.

Gunters gaze shot to the window and he looked out onto the outer area beyond the office, just beyond the doorway and right before you set foot on the hanger deck proper; the automated camera affixed to one of the dividing bulkheads had its visual data feed covered with a greasy rag. The deckhands who had vacated the office area now stood around under the security camera location and everyone waved jauntily back at Collum as he stared out at them.

He turned his gaze back on his sometimes girlfriend. “Honor-Scar can still file a formal report against ya! It’s a court martial offense!”

Farrell was calm, cool and downright collected. She shrugged her jumpsuit on the rest of the way, zipping up the top portion of the work uniform. “It’s her word against mine, and her word really doesn’t hold much stock around here anymore.”

To answer Gunter’s still questioning gaze, she pointed to the ensign insignia visible on the young cat’s black pilot jumpsuit. “Honor-Scar’s been busted all the way down to ensign, in case you didn’t pick up on that little doo dad pin there. She’s been busted down to acting ensign as a matter of fact, and the lower decks scuttlebutt making the rounds also claims that Wildcard Squad Leader Kendrick is fed up with the cat and her constant rogue firebrand act, and is jockeying to get her outta the Wildcards permanent. Honor-Scars already been booted out of her old wingman position, and there’s just been too many disciplinary infractions to ignore anymore. And the rumors aren’t confirmed yet, but there’s enough stories going around to corroborate that the internal transfer might be taken one step further. Lord help me, I’m hoping it ain’t true, but supposedly the feline is due to ship out to the same star ship duty station that I’m scheduled to transfer to. Not my choice, and we all need to go where command sends even if it is an ass backwards assignment.”

Gunter just sighed. It was sad to see someone so young p*ss away a promising career. “Think she’ll pull out of it?”

Farrell snorted. “I did. But, she ain’t me and at this point, the decision is entirely up to her. C’mon, we’ve farted around enough today. Let’s get the squads to work on the repair jobs for today before we get another junior pilot in here raggin’ on us who don’t know their place.”

= = = = Starfleet Biographical Interface = = = =

= = = = Profile Access Granted = = = =

Subject:

Margaret Anna Farrell

Rank and Position:

Senior Chief Petty Officer

Aviation Mechanic

USS Excalibur

Also Known As:

M.A. Farrell, Maggie Farrell, Anna Farrell

Nickname: Banshee

Birthplace:

County Cork, Ireland

General Statistics:

Species: Terran/Human

Age: 38

Height: Five foot eight inches

Weight: One hundred fifty pounds

Hair Color: Blond, graying at the temples, worn in a spiked cut

Eye Color: Ice Blue

Skin Color: Fair

Physical Conditioning: Excellent

Distinguishing features:

Scarring:

- Right middle finger, just above knuckle

- Pock mark on left front cheek and left forehead above eyebrow from a case of chicken pox as a child

- Slash mark across back of neck from a horseback riding incident

- Scar across length of right knee from a fall during childhood

Tattoos:

- Tribal Shamrock (between shoulder blades and extending down to mid back) (large size, black and grays and green shadowing)

- Dirty Dogs Squad tattoo on right upper arm (medium size, full color)

- Tattoo of a fallen angel on left upper arm (medium size, full color)

Parents:

Joseph Clancy Farrell, 77

Moira Catherine Farrell (nee O’Connor), 79

Siblings:

Clancy Michael Farrell, 47

Martin James Farrell, 41

Molly Moira Farrell, 37

Sister in Law: (wife of Martin)

Kara Lee Farrell, 40 (nee Garrett)

Nephews: (children of Martin and Kara)

Joseph, 15

Charles, 12

Lee, 9

Next of Kin:

Master Sergeant Roderick O’Connor (first cousin), 41

Marine Drill Instructor, USS Gorkon NCC-19746 (Excelsior Class)

Biographical Information:

Margaret Farrell was born in Ireland on June 29, to Joseph and Moira Farrell, and is a middle child with three other siblings.

Her childhood and teenage years were spent on the family farm, where her father and mother operated and maintained a successful horse breeding and training business. Additional income was brought in by stabling horses and offering riding lessons to the locals, but most of those interested in riding where either the few brave alien tourists who ventured onto the green flecked Irish countryside or humans from the other Earth continents. Young Margaret spent quite the normal childhood helping out on the farm or tussling with her brothers and sisters, and while she did develop a fondness for horses and became a respectable rider in her own right, she wanted no parts of the family business as she got older. The young woman started to forge her own path at a very young age, but unfortunately fell into a rebellious stage and experimented with drugs, alcohol and had quite a few run ins with the local juvenile authorities. The teen rehabilitation programs eventually helped, for a while, but Farrell had too much of a restless and rebellious spirit that could not be completely quashed. As soon as she was legally able, at age eighteen, she cashed out the modest trust fund her parent’s had started for her, packed it out for the Fleet Academy, and enrolled.

Margaret’s time at the academy was unimpressive, if a bit under the radar. She was not a gifted student, nor would she ever claim to be one, and possessed no fool desires to distinguish herself in any manner. By her own admission, she just wanted to quote “get in the Academy, get the officer’s commission, and get out” unquote. However, this decisive personal outlook involving the future degree couldn’t disguise the fact that Farrell really had no idea what career field that she wanted to specialize in. Unable to maintain the required and accepted grade point average for her eventual release into the commissioned ranks, she eventually dropped from the officer and command track courses and landed in the accelerated three year training program for enlisted officers. She would also finally choose her specialization field as a mechanic and deck hand. Her past training and background of tinkering with the various machines and equipment at the farm obviously left its mark, it just took a bit for the mechanical predilections to resurface.

Her nickname of Banshee originated during a routine training operation from her final year in the enlisted training curriculum program. The purpose of the operation was for a cadet squad to transfer a load of cargo from point A to point B. Per the requirements for the exercise, the transport shuttles were flying about ten feet off the ground and preparing to come in for a textbook landing. Since the transports were flying at a low altitude, Farrell had been assigned to the rear cover guard position, in which she was responsible for maintaining a line of sight with the other shuttle out the open side cargo port. She had been more interested in the scope sight on her sniper rifle then maintaining her balance, and when the transport vehicle hit some lower atmosphere turbulence, Farrell went flying out into the wild blue yonder. And while she was not seriously hurt upon the eventual impact with the ground, Margaret did yell the whole way down, and very loudly; the screaming was considered Banshee like as a matter of fact. Therefore, once the post mission logs and visual recordings where examined, Margaret was given her new call sign: Banshee.

The young cadet worked hard to maintain her grade point average, and eventually graduated at the age of twenty two in the lower middle percentile of her academy class, and was posted to the rank of crewman third class.

Farrell’s first training cruise was on board the border patrol vessel Crusader, and the primary mission statement for the ship was to maintain the peace in a section of the galaxy known as the Outlands. The young mechanic cut her teeth working on a variety of runabout, shuttle, hover flitter, and fighter jet craft. She offered a steady and dependable presence as a grease monkey, and decided to stay on as a “boonie hopper”, finding the life of a frontier border guard and any skirmishes or patrols the crew encountered surprisingly invigorating. Margaret would go on to serve for eighteen years out in the black.

Today, Banshee continues to serve wherever her skills are needed, and has served and will continue to serve on a variety of duty stations and locations.

Psychological Profile: (as recorded by Commander (ret.) Doctor Connor Reed, MD, Starfleet Medical)

Margaret Farrell, like her younger self, is very much under the radar and has no desire to draw any undue attention to herself. In her role as a shift lead, she is fair when it comes to matters of discipline, and will hear all sides of the matter before passing judgment. Her general presence can best be described as a calm steadiness. However, that calm steadiness can also herald the flashpoint of the storm if Farrell is sufficiently angered. Her temper, when riled, can be a formidable and unwelcome opponent.

While not estranged from her family, she maintains a cordial yet distant relationship with her parents and siblings. Personality wise, Farrell is very much the classic poster child for the lone wolf personality, preferring to keep to herself and lead an independent life free of the ties that bind.

Farrell has never been the hero type, and she is a staunch believer in the Klingon proverb “only a fool fights in a burning house”, and this conviction has kept her alive over the years. And while not exactly a coward, she has always walked that fine line between caution and cowardice.

Psychological Note: The tattoo of a fallen angel that she sports on her left arm is a direct consequence of her resulting inebriated state just after dropping out of the commissioned officers curriculum at the academy.*

Psychological Note: During her service on the border patrol vessel Hera, the crew was assigned to patrol the outer reaches of Federation space. Pirate activity had been reported in the general area, and the Hera was sent to investigate one of the colony planets specifically. Margaret accompanied the away team to provide mechanic services for the New Tikrit colony. Unfortunately, the away team walked straight into an ambush, and Farrell was shot in the back due to an unfortunate instance of friendly fire. To this day, Farrell refuses to keep her back to anyone and will never sit in a mess hall or restaurant or any location with her back to the entrance way. She did not press charges against the young ensign who accidentally shot her, instead preferring to drop the whole matter.

* Personal Note: When I further questioned Petty Officer Farrell regarding her reasoning (or perhaps her lack thereof) behind the tattoo, I was told to quote, mind my own damn business, unquote.

Duty Record:

- Training Cruise: USS Crusader: Mechanic and Damage Control duty station, assigned to the “Dirty Dogs” deck team.

- Border Patrol: USS Neptune’s Trident: Mechanic duty station.

- Border Patrol: USS Niagara: Mechanic duty station.

- Border Patrol: USS Hera: Mechanic and Damage Control duty station.

- Starbase: Camelot Station: Lead Mechanic duty station, First Shift.

- Starship: USS Excalibur: Aviation Mechanic duty station.

* Copyright: All original information copyrighted by the author

(This log follows the events of Marius TrLorins “Flight Patrol Preface” Log starring Aero Perez)

Camelot Station

CENTRAL HUB: Levels 37 – 49, Hanger Deck

Chief Petty Officer Banshee Farrell

Lieutenant Thomas “Jiffy” Jericho walked purposefully across the hanger deck to where the five fighter craft were neatly parked after passing the pre-flight checks. Bethel, Hammer, Aero, and Streak followed close behind in close formation, chattering excitedly among themselves. The topic of conversation was pre-flight jock boasting, with all of the junior pilots ribbing each other mercilessly, especially Bethel who had just completed some disciplinary repair duty with the first shift mechanic squad.

A “Yo! Lieutenant” boomed across the busy and noisy hanger deck, and Jericho stopped and turned to lock eyes onto Margaret “Banshee” Farrell, the lead mechanic for the first shift squad. She sported crisp and pressed duty fatigues, as well as the new rank pip that designated her promotion to Chief Petty Officer.

Farrell reached him, and after a polite nod to Jiffy’s pilot squad, spoke in a low tone to the senior pilot lead. “Lieutenant, I put in for and received clearance from both the CAG and the command staff about that little matter we discussed. With your permission, I’d like to get the astro ball rolling with this group of reprobates you call a squad?”

With an effort Jericho kept his features neutral, although a smirk highlighted his stereotypical square jawed handsome features. “Have at them Farrell. And congratulations on your promotion.” He gently tapped at her rank pip before turning to his pilots, and spoke in a louder tone to the gathered reprobates, “Okay you space cadets, form up in relaxed parade so we can hear what the Chief Petty Officer has to say.”

The blond haired Irish woman waited until Jericho’s Gaia squad pilots were standing at attention in front of the respective fighters they would be piloting on the patrol run that Gaia had been scheduled for today. The Lancelot class birds were fully fueled, and their hulls had been polished to a gleam. It was always a crap shoot as to if the fighters would be returned in that same condition; Farrell was going start remedying that situation today.

Facing the pilots and standing in her own relaxed parade rest, the enlisted woman wasted no time in getting to the heart of the matter. “No one here on this station would ever deny that the role you flight jocks play is important. Camelot is located in a key strategic and tactical point, and as a result, we are in need of constant fighter patrols to ensure the stations safety. In addition, y’all perform quite a bit of escort duties, whether it’s bird dogging foodstuffs and medical supplies to the posts on Avalon, or escorting the refugees that seem to be pouring in here weekly due to the galactic wide power plays that certain organizations and governments are participating in. I know you work hard. We all know you work hard. ”

She glanced at Jericho, and he gave her a slight nod of affirmation to continue.

“With that said, I’ll be honest with you. Meself and the other mechanics have noticed that there is a consistent problem with the fighters that are returned to us, and the repairs we seem to be making go beyond the normal wear and tear that we should be dealing with. In other words, the whole lot of ye are reckless and loose on the stick.”

A murmur of outrage rippled among the pilots, eliciting a sharp tongued “Attention!” from Jericho.

Banshee continued with the low grade dressing down. “I’ve already had Bethel for some punishment repair duty after she tried some asinine fancy landing,” a finger pointed at the young female pilot, “and don’ you be trying to deny it or tell any tall tales about that landing to make it seem better then it really was. I know what that warp pontoon looked like, and I’ve since seen the footage from the hanger security cams. You’re lucky you didn’t smear yourself against the outer hull girl, or take out another fighter in the process.”

Bethel turned bright red from embarrassment, but Farrell continued with no concern over the state of her comfort.

Ice blue Irish eyes that were not smiling pinned the group. “Gaia squad is getting a reputation among the repair crews as a bunch of screw ups, and yer right behind the Wild Cards who are worse if you can believe it. The whole lot of you engage in that damn hot dogging a bit too much,” Farrell looked right at Aero when she said that, “so, to break this behavior, and with the permission of your commander of the air group as well as Camelot command, were going to be implementing some preventive sanctions.”

“And this will be enforced, so you newbies need to suck it up and deal with it.” Jericho interjected and then fell silent again.

Farrell smirked a bit at the junior pilots and continued her little uber speech. “I ca’ see by your expressions that ya not likin’ this? Well, deal with it. No one said life was easy, so unless you want me kickin’ your cans you’ll shape up and treat my birds better.”

The chief petty officer began to slowly walk up and down the line of pilots, stopping and looking right at each one of them as she continued speaking.

“Y’all have security cams mounted to your birds, so if you engage in any sort of hot dogging on a patrol run, we’ll know about it. And, if you try some fancy landing, the internal cameras here in the station will pick up on it. If you pilots don’t respect your birds, your safety, and the safety of your squad, and you cause damages as a direct result of your dumb ass shenanigans, then you will have to deal with the consequences. Bethel knows, ask her if you want a play by play rundown. You’ll be assigned to me for however long the repair cycle takes, and then we get to have some fun.” A really feral leer lit the Irish woman’s fair features as she made that last statement, “so, starting today, any funny business that isn’t sanctioned with my birds will be dealt with accordingly. Thank ye all for your time. Lieutenant Jericho?”

Jiffy stepped forward to face his squad. “Alright ladies, school is over and you heard what Chief Farrell said. If you don’t act like a complete newb, then you’ll be fine. Let’s get mounted and move out."

And then in Insurrection when Picard takes up arms against the SF when, in the series, he lets an race die because of the prime directive, it just seemed non-picard.

I agree that the Trek films (TNG) in general went for a wider audience, but Insurrection Picard did not take up arms against all of SF, just one rogue Admiral/faction.

There was a Starfleet observation post stationed at the planet (name?) in Insurrection, and the people they were observing showed no signs of aging and had remarkable health. The rogue Admiral (played by actor Anthony Zerbe) in charge of the "observation" post was working with Ru'Afo, an alien whose people practiced some pretty freaky cosmetic surgery in an effort to stay young. Both men wanted the de-aging and health perks of the planet, and in order to do that, Anij and her people were to be moved secretly and during the night to a holographic representation ship of thier village. Picard chose to take up arms against the rogue Admiral, who had somehow circumvented Fleet command with his activities.

I'm a little fuzzy with the recall, but I think when Picard tried to make some inquires at Command, he was given the brush off as well.

Picard took decisive action and dealt with the situation because there was no time for negotiation or the typical Next Gen "lets discuss this diplomatically in a meeting", or Anij and her people would have been taken in the night.

Could I have "Luck of the Irish"

Thanks!

Camelot Station

CENTRAL HUB: Levels 37 – 49

Petty Officer First Class Banshee Farrell

Level forty four of the Camelot Station was entertaining business as usual, which meant things were loud, noisy, repair machinery ran constantly, and the place reeked of oil, gel pack fluids, and burning wires.

Banshee Farrell made her way through the organized chaos, stopping only long enough to wave hello to any fellow mechanics that she usually hung out with for a drink or a card game. She, like the other grease monkeys and knuckle draggers that worked on the vehicles and equipment on this level, wore the orange and black protective jumpsuit of a deck hand. Today, she had been assigned to start the maintenance checks and overhaul of the runabout Congo. The rumor around the lower decks was that one of the newly assigned junior pilots had been on the duty roster to take the small transport ship out as the lead patrol pilot, but had muffed up the return landing pretty badly. No one had been hurt, save for the runabout.

The Irish born woman stopped in mid stride when she caught sight of the vehicle from across the deck. “Jesus, Mary and Saint Joseph. The thing oughta be scrapped!”

The Congo was … well … it looked like it had been … this was bad.

Farrell set her took kit down on the decking and stood with her hands on her hips, alternating between Federation standard, Irish cussing, and general mutterings as she surveyed the damage from her stationary stand point. The mechanic was just trying to get her head around a plan of attack, or in this case, a plan of repair.

“Excuse me, Petty Officer Farrell?”

Farrell turned at the sound of the voice, and her ice blue gaze latched onto a younger woman about her height. “Aye, what can I do you for Ensign?”

The woman seemed a bit hesitant. “Actually, I’m here to assist you. My squad lead, Lieutenant Jericho, sent me down.”

Realization dawned like a gunshot. “Oh wait a minute, are you the pilot that dinged up this bird?” The petty officer first class jerked a thumb toward the runabout.

“Uh, yes.”

“What in the name of all that is holy were ya thinkin’ girl?”

“Now wait just a minute Petty Officer …”

Farrell was having none of this from the ensign, and her brogue thickened with her level of annoyance. “You hush now girl, I wont be havin’ any o’ your officer lip. I can tell ya ‘xactly wha’ happened. You tried to get a little fancy with the landing, and ended up kissing the deck plates. Am I right?”

A blush crept up the girl’s neck, and she nodded once. “Aye.”

“You’re the fourth newbie pilot that did that half assed stunt since I’ve been here. I take it your squad lead has ya on punishment duty?”

Another nod from the junior pilot confirmed the question.

Farrell ran a hand through her short blond hair that was just beginning to gray at the temples and relaxed her stern facial expression by a small margin. “Fine. Just so ya know, I’ll be keeping tabs on your performance during the repair job, and I ain’t shy about telling the truth in case ya can’t tell. Once we are done repairing the Congo, I’ll send the report off to your CAG as well as your squad lead. Okay, get your rear end moving; grab a jumpsuit in one o’ those lockers set just off the deck. Once you’re settled we can get started and you can tell me exactly how you managed to bend the right nacelle pontoon back in a forty five degree angle.

= = = = Starfleet Biographical Interface = = = =

= = = = Profile Access Granted = = = =

Subject:

Margaret Anna Farrell

Rank and Position:

Chief Petty Officer

Mechanic

Also Known As:

M.A. Farrell, Maggie Farrell, Anna Farrell

Nickname: Banshee

Birthplace:

County Cork, Ireland

General Statistics:

Species: Terran/Human

Age: 38

Height: Five foot eight inches

Weight: One hundred fifty pounds

Hair Color: Blond, graying at the temples, worn in a spiked cut

Eye Color: Ice Blue

Skin Color: Fair

Physical Conditioning: Excellent

Distinguishing features:

Scarring:

- Right middle finger, just above knuckle

- Pock mark on left front cheek and left forehead above eyebrow from a case of chicken pox as a child

- Slash mark across back of neck from a horseback riding incident

- Scar across length of right knee from a fall during childhood

Tattoos:

- Tribal Shamrock (between shoulder blades and extending down to mid back) (large size, black and grays and green shadowing)

- Dirty Dogs Squad tattoo on right upper arm (medium size, full color)

- Tattoo of a fallen angel on left upper arm (medium size, full color)

Parents:

Joseph Clancy Farrell, 77

Moira Catherine Farrell (nee O’Connor), 79

Siblings:

Clancy Michael Farrell, 47

Martin James Farrell, 41

Molly Moira Farrell, 37

Sister in Law: (wife of Martin)

Kara Lee Farrell, 40 (nee Garrett)

Nephews: (children of Martin and Kara)

Joseph, 15

Charles, 12

Lee, 9

Next of Kin:

Master Sergeant Roderick O’Connor (first cousin), 41

Marine Drill Instructor, USS Gorkon NCC-19746 (Excelsior Class)

Biographical Information:

Margaret Farrell was born in Ireland on June 29, to Joseph and Moira Farrell, and is a middle child with three other siblings.

Her childhood and teenage years were spent on the family farm, where her father and mother operated and maintained a successful horse breeding and training business. Additional income was brought in by stabling horses and offering riding lessons to the locals, but most of those interested in riding where either the few brave alien tourists who ventured onto the green flecked Irish countryside or humans from the other Earth continents. Young Margaret spent quite the normal childhood helping out on the farm or tussling with her brothers and sisters, and while she did develop a fondness for horses and became a respectable rider in her own right, she wanted no parts of the family business as she got older. The young woman started to forge her own path at a very young age, but unfortunately fell into a rebellious stage and experimented with drugs, alcohol and had quite a few run ins with the local juvenile authorities. The teen rehabilitation programs eventually helped, for a while, but Farrell had too much of a restless and rebellious spirit that could not be completely quashed. As soon as she was legally able, at age eighteen, she cashed out the modest trust fund her parent’s had started for her, packed it out for the Fleet Academy, and enrolled.

Margaret’s time at the academy was unimpressive, if a bit under the radar. She was not a gifted student, nor would she ever claim to be one, and possessed no fool desires to distinguish herself in any manner. By her own admission, she just wanted to quote “get in the Academy, get the officer’s commission, and get out” unquote. However, this decisive personal outlook involving the future degree couldn’t disguise the fact that Farrell really had no idea what career field that she wanted to specialize in. Unable to maintain the required and accepted grade point average for her eventual release into the commissioned ranks, she eventually dropped from the officer and command track courses and landed in the accelerated three year training program for enlisted officers. She would also finally choose her specialization field as a mechanic and deck hand. Her past training and background of tinkering with the various machines and equipment at the farm obviously left its mark, it just took a bit for the mechanical predilections to resurface.

Her nickname of Banshee originated during a routine training operation from her final year in the enlisted training curriculum program. The purpose of the operation was for a cadet squad to transfer a load of cargo from point A to point B. Per the requirements for the exercise, the transport shuttles were flying about ten feet off the ground and preparing to come in for a textbook landing. Since the transports were flying at a low altitude, Farrell had been assigned to the rear cover guard position, in which she was responsible for maintaining a line of sight with the other shuttle out the open side cargo port. She had been more interested in the scope sight on her sniper rifle then maintaining her balance, and when the transport vehicle hit some lower atmosphere turbulence, Farrell went flying out into the wild blue yonder. And while she was not seriously hurt upon the eventual impact with the ground, Margaret did yell the whole way down, and very loudly; the screaming was considered Banshee like as a matter of fact. Therefore, once the post mission logs and visual recordings where examined, Margaret was given her new call sign: Banshee.

The young cadet worked hard to maintain her grade point average, and eventually graduated at the age of twenty two in the lower middle percentile of her academy class, and was posted to the rank of crewman third class.

Farrell’s first training cruise was on board the border patrol vessel Crusader, and the primary mission statement for the ship was to maintain the peace in a section of the galaxy known as the Outlands. The young mechanic cut her teeth working on a variety of runabout, shuttle, hover flitter, and fighter jet craft. She offered a steady and dependable presence as a grease monkey, and decided to stay on as a “boonie hopper”, finding the life of a frontier border guard and any skirmishes or patrols the crew encountered surprisingly invigorating. Margaret would go on to serve for eighteen years out in the black.

Today, at the age of thirty eight, Farrell finds herself serving on the Camelot Station, located in the Gamma Quadrant. She maintains a rank of Petty Officer First Class and serves as the first shift lead mechanic.

Psychological Profile: (as recorded by Commander (ret.) Doctor Connor Reed, MD, Starfleet Medical)

Margaret Farrell, like her younger self, is very much under the radar and has no desire to draw any undue attention to herself. In her role as a shift lead, she is fair when it comes to matters of discipline, and will hear all sides of the matter before passing judgment. Her general presence can best be described as a calm steadiness. However, that calm steadiness can also herald the flashpoint of the storm if Farrell is sufficiently angered. Her temper, when riled, can be a formidable and unwelcome opponent.

While not estranged from her family, she maintains a cordial yet distant relationship with her parents and siblings. Personality wise, Farrell is very much the classic poster child for the lone wolf personality, preferring to keep to herself and lead an independent life free of the ties that bind.

Farrell has never been the hero type, and she is a staunch believer in the Klingon proverb “only a fool fights in a burning house”, and this conviction has kept her alive over the years. And while not exactly a coward, she has always walked that fine line between caution and cowardice.

Psychological Note: The tattoo of a fallen angel that she sports on her left arm is a direct consequence of her resulting inebriated state just after dropping out of the commissioned officers curriculum at the academy.*

Psychological Note: During her service on the border patrol vessel Hera, the crew was assigned to patrol the outer reaches of Federation space. Pirate activity had been reported in the general area, and the Hera was sent to investigate one of the colony planets specifically. Margaret accompanied the away team to provide mechanic services for the New Tikrit colony. Unfortunately, the away team walked straight into an ambush, and Farrell was shot in the back due to an unfortunate instance of friendly fire. To this day, Farrell refuses to keep her back to anyone and will never sit in a mess hall or restaurant or any location with her back to the entrance way. She did not press charges against the young ensign who accidentally shot her, instead preferring to drop the whole matter.

* Personal Note: When I further questioned Petty Officer Farrell regarding her reasoning (or perhaps her lack thereof) behind the tattoo, I was told to quote, mind my own damn business, unquote.

Duty Record:

- Training Cruise: USS Crusader: Mechanic and Damage Control duty station, assigned to the “Dirty Dogs” deck team.

- Border Patrol: USS Neptune’s Trident: Mechanic duty station.

- Border Patrol: USS Niagara: Mechanic duty station

- Border Patrol: USS Hera: Mechanic and damage control duty station.

- Starbase: Camelot Station: Lead Mechanic, First Shift

next gen holds that one vote lead, but considering this was the first new series and brought in a lot of new fans in addition to any original fans, not surprising.

i guess the academy's can be hazardous? i'll watch out for that, just in case. the sneezing thing is a new one.