Loren Dean has been a lot of things. He has driven delivery vans, served as a missionary, flipped burgers, stocked shelves, clerked, edited, written a 35-page History paper on James Bond, conducted phone surveys, taught English, and still found time to marry and father children. He's been a tabletop RPG-er for over 20 years, has been a contributing author for the 7th Sea game, and didn't actually read Lord of the Rings until he was 26. He has never considered himself a trekkie, though he plays one on TV. The *Sulu* is the first Sim he ever saw, the first he has ever joined, and the only one to which he belongs. He uses RPGs, and now Simming as an excuse to do research on all sorts of oddball topics, putting his History degree to good use. As much as he'd love to complete the Carol Marcus line he started at the beginning, he *has* been a Boy Scout (Eagle, in fact).

He doesn't watch much Television, all things considered, though he tries to catch certain shows whenever he can: 24 (Jack Bauer is the *man*), Star Trek ('Cause hey, it's Trek, whaddaya want?), Stargate SG-1 (Amanda Tapping's the hottest Major ever), Iron Chef (Allez Cuisine!), and CSI (whooo are you? Doo doo, Doo doo, Doo da doo).

The final burst from the phaser rifle's power cell sputtered into the Big Grey's chest, opening it like a blooming rose, and Farrell hunkered behind his boulder against the return volley.

"Damn," Farrell said tensely, checking the powerpack and noting the red empty light.

"Damn."

Farrell reviewed his situation. Three days of cat-and-mouse with the Jem'Hadar. The runabout ditched dozens of kilometers from here. Everything useful, and that could be carried, brought with him. Which happily included a couple of phasers. Morgan had died yesterday when they ambushed their pursuers. One human, and three Jem'Hadar left. Scratch that, thought Farrell with a grim smile and a glance back over the boulder. Two. And this next encounter would be for all the marbles.

The Jem'Hadar were leapfrogging through the rocks of the canyon floor, keeping each other covered as they advanced on his position. They had slung their carbines and drawn wicked looking knives. Apparently they wanted some personal satisfaction for being made to chase after this human for days they had completely ignored their dead comrade. And they'd be here any minute.

Farrell tore open the carrybag of foodpacks and other supplies, and dug out his guncase.

Any minute.

He flipped the case open, broke open the first revolver, and snapped in a speedloader of gleaming brass shells. He'd never loaded this fast, or lying in the dirt, and he hoped the action wouldn't get fouled.

Any second.

The second revolver was loaded, and Farrell left it in the dirt, coming up tall over the boulder with the first one close to his body. Oddly, he remembered the words of Esteban, the old Mexican who had taught him to shoot. "Fanning isn't very accurate. You won't hit anything past a couple of meters," he had said, "and it tears up your hand something fierce, but if you want to shoot a lot really fast, it's the only way."

Farrell certainly wanted to shoot a lot really fast, and worked the hammer with his left palm again and again and again. The big Colt spat fire and bucked like a cornered bull, the slugs hammering the lead Jem'Hadar. He staggered and fell, his companion leaping over his corpse without hesitation, crashing into Farrell with a battlescream.

The Colt in Farrell's hand went flying at the impact, and both he and the Big Grey went into the dirt in a grappling heap. Both were nearly blinded by the cloud they kicked up on the canyon floor, and scrabbled at each other without style or finesse. Farrell knew this couldn't last long. The Jem'Hadar was far stronger than he was, and would overwhelm him quickly unless the Ensign could find some advantage. Grasping wildly, Farrell got a hold on something smooth a tube. Of course! The Jem'Hadar White tube! Farrell wrapped his fingers around it and pulled it loose. The big soldier howled in pain, and released his grip.

Farrell dove back toward the boulder, where he could see his second revolver lying in the dust. He swept it up, thumbing back the hammer as he spun to face his attacker. The Jem'Hadar had jumped after him, and buried its knife in Farrell's leg just as Farrell shot it in the head.

Both man and beast slumped against the boulder, Blood from the Jem'Hadar's head wound mingling with Farrell's own, seeping from the deep cut in his thigh. Farrell wriggled out from underneath the dead weight of the Jem'Hadar, and reached for the carrybag. There had to be a medkit in there somewhere.