Stillness: Part 2/2

Posted on Tue Aug 26th, 2025 @ 11:52pm by Civilian Laeon Wylde & Crewman Mateo Gardel

2,722 words; about a 14 minute read

Mission: Prologue: To Boldly Go
Location: Arboretum, Deck 8, USS Fenrir
Timeline: MD 8

PREVIOUSLY:

"It's beautiful," Laeon breathed as he looked around, taking in the shapes of the leaves and petals, the subtle quivering movements, the ripples of water and air. "A miracle...nature nurtured on a metal ship," it was clear he enjoyed the juxtaposition. "We've been on ships for....over twenty years now. But I'm still not used to it. I don't mind, it's not *bad*, just...enclosed. Unnatural. Claustrophobic." He shifted his arms, as if trying to find more space for himself. "And never just...still."

CONTINUED:

Mateo followed Laeon’s gaze, letting his eyes drift over the subtle sway of the branches, the light catching on waxy leaves, the ripple of air that never quite matched natural wind—but tried hard enough that sometimes it passed. He hadn’t thought to call it a miracle, but the word landed with more accuracy than he expected. There was something quietly defiant about growing a forest in a pressurized hull. Something hopeful.

“Yeah,” he murmured. “Still’s hard to come by.” His voice didn’t carry judgment—it was more like agreement shaped into sound. “Everything on a ship moves. Even when it doesn’t feel like it. The lights change. The air hums. Even silence has a rhythm.” He tilted his head slightly, watching the water shift beneath a fallen petal. “It messes with you, if you let it.”

A breath passed between thoughts before he added, softer, “You know, a lot of newer ships don’t even have arboretums anymore. Just holodecks simulating green space when people need it.” As he spoke, Mateo leaned back on his palms, then lowered himself fully onto the mossy ground with slow, deliberate ease. The undergrowth was cool and slightly springy beneath him, the texture just soft enough to cushion without giving too much. He stretched his legs out and folded his arms behind his head, gaze following the gentle sway of the canopy above—leaves dancing in rhythm with the ship’s slow, subtle hum.

“The Fenrir’s older, sure,” he went on, voice loosening now, colored with quiet gratitude, “but whoever refit her kept this. Preserved it.” The artificial breeze moved across his skin, carrying the clean scent of loam and something faintly floral—like hyacinth or mint, hard to place but grounding all the same. “We’re kind of spoiled, actually,” he murmured. “Most people don’t get to sit under real leaves and listen to real water. They don’t even realize what they’re missing.”

A moment passed. Then Mateo’s brow furrowed slightly as he turned his head toward Laeon. “Wait—you said you’ve lived on ships for over twenty years?” His voice wasn’t accusatory, just puzzled. “How old are you?” A beat, gentler now. “I mean—sorry, that’s probably rude. You just… don’t look like someone who’s done anything for twenty years.” He gave a small, self-deprecating shrug. “Were you born out here?”

Laeon offered a weak, half smile, but didn't shy away. He'd rather be honest from the get go than face awkward questions later. He'd learnt that the hard way. "It's complicated...to humans anyway...our lifespans are pretty different. I'm...just over 50 human years old, but for us, I'm still considered a minor. Dad says I'd be the same as a...15 or 16 year old to humans," and oh, how much frustration had stemmed from it. Older than many officers serving around him, but still treated like a child. A friend on another ship had assured him that it was just as frustrating for a lot of human teenagers though.

"We were from Vaeron," the youth continued, but his voice had become softer with it, more distant as his finger absently smudged the harsh edge of a charcoal line. "War forced us to leave, so...Dad joined Starfleet, it was just as the Borg arrived, they needed doctors."

Mateo didn’t speak right away. He let the information settle, not just into his mind but into the space between them, like dust drifting before it could decide where to land. The numbers didn’t throw him as much as they might have—he’d spent enough time around species with long lives and stranger timelines. What caught him instead was the dissonance: being fifty and still considered a child, being young and yet older than people who probably told him what to do. Mateo knew what it meant to be misread. To feel out of sync with the system measuring you.

“Yeah,” he said softly, gaze still angled toward the canopy above. “That does sound complicated. And annoying.” His mouth twitched at the corner, but not with amusement—more like understanding. “People tend to lock onto what they see first. Age. Rank. Uniform. They don’t always make room for anything in-between.” He exhaled slowly through his nose, the breath carrying something unspoken with it. “I’ve been treated like a child and a threat, sometimes in the same conversation.”

He turned his head again, watching the charcoal move under Laeon’s hand. “I’m sorry about Vaeron,” he said, the words quiet but sincere. “War steals things people never get back. Places. Time. People. I’m glad you and he found somewhere to land… even if it wasn’t where you expected.” A beat passed, then softer, “And for what it’s worth, I wouldn’t have guessed you were anything other than exactly who you are right now.”

Laeon glanced back to him with surprise at the words before a gentle smile settled on to his features. He liked them. None of those labels or expectations. Just...who he was. Right now. "Well," he took a deep breath, as if preparing himself for more cheerful things as he set the paper away a little. "Right now, I'm trying not to get under the feet of everyone rushing around on this ship," he admitted with a soft chuckle. "I won't tell if you're doing the same thing," he half teased him.

Mateo tilted his head slightly, a breath of sound escaping him—halfway between a scoff and a laugh, but softened at the edges. “I’m a professional at not being where people expect me to be,” he said dryly, the barest flicker of amusement warming his voice. “Might be the only thing I’m actually certified in.” His heels scuffed lightly against the springy moss as he stretched his legs out farther, feeling the cool give of the ground beneath him, the slow, steady hum of the ship threading subtly through his boots.

For a moment, he let the stillness settle, weightless and easy. He turned his head just enough to catch the curve of Laeon’s smile, and something in it tugged at a place Mateo rarely let anyone near. It wasn’t pity. It wasn’t even protectiveness. Just recognition—quiet and uncomplicated. He let his gaze drift back to the canopy, where the branches swayed above them, breathing with the slow rhythm of the ship. For once, the silence didn’t press against him. It simply existed. He could exist with it.

“You’re doing better than most,” he said eventually, his voice lower now, edged more with thought than humor. “Takes people years to figure out it’s smarter to watch first. Wait. Let the place show itself.” His lips twitched, something not quite a smile, not quite a sigh. “It’s not hiding,” he added, his words soft but certain, as if offering something he knew too well. “It’s surviving.”

"Surviving," Laeon whispered softly as he thought on it. It was certainly a point of view that made him feel stronger than hiding did. He smiled gently, nodding as he accepted it. He stretched his body out, sighing lightly as he laid back on the moss, tucking his arms under his head to get comfortable as he looked up at the shimmering leaves above them. "Do you like being a Starfleet Officer?" he asked with open curiosity. Anytime he veered anywhere near the subject with his father, he was shut down with little ceremony.

Mateo let the question hang in the air for a moment, his eyes tracing the slow ripple of the canopy above them. It wasn’t something people usually asked him, and definitely not something he often answered. But the way Laeon asked—open, unguarded, without any expectation—made him want to try. He shifted slightly on the moss, the cool earth pressing into his spine, and let out a slow breath through his nose.

“I didn’t join Starfleet because I believed in the mission,” he said quietly. “I joined because I didn’t see another way forward. I was sixteen, barely holding it together, and everyone kept telling me I had potential I was wasting.” His voice stayed low, steady, but the edges of it held something older, something worn. “They weren’t wrong. I just couldn’t figure out how to be what they wanted. Starfleet offered structure. Access. Labs. Science. A way to disappear without actually disappearing.”

His fingers tensed slightly where they rested behind his head. “The rank system, the rules, the hierarchy... I get it. I do. But it’s not a system I’ve ever thrived in. I push back—sometimes without meaning to, sometimes just because I don’t know how not to.” His mouth twitched in something that wasn’t quite a smile. “Didn’t exactly win me a lot of fans. I’ve been bounced from station to station for years. Fenrir... this is my last shot. To stay. To prove I belong.”

He didn’t sound bitter. There was no self-pity in it. Just truth, smoothed down over time. “But I’m good at what I do,” he added after a pause. “The science. The problem-solving. I know how to listen to data when it doesn’t make sense. I know how to find things other people miss.” He tilted his head slightly, watching a shimmer of light shift through the leaves above. “Starfleet gave me chances I’d never have had otherwise. Let me do work that matters.”

He was quiet for a beat, then exhaled. “So do I like it?” he echoed. “Not always. But I like the questions it lets me ask. I like the work. And for now, that’s enough.” Another pause followed, softer, and when he spoke again it was almost hesitant—genuine, but cautious. “What about you?” he asked, turning his head toward Laeon. “What do you want to be when you... grow up?”

"I'm...not sure," Laeon admitted, even as he processed what Mateo had offered. It had seemed a balanced response...honest. Which was more than most were when he asked. And he'd never heard anyone talk about struggling with it. Not in such a profound way at least. He wasn't naive, he understood that people probably joined and stayed for a whole host of reasons, not just a sense of duty and loyalty, but the picture he painted was refreshing. And made it seem less black and white than he'd maybe thought it was.

"I enjoy this," Laeon sat back up to touch the edge of his picture. "But I am not sure how...real it would feel, if that's what I was. My uncle's an actor and my Dad makes fun of him for it...he says he is playing life as a shadow. It's only playful, but...I think Uncle Jaq likes it that way. Not being quite real in life. I've been thinking about Starfleet...and Dad used a...colourful expression that is something like the human 'over my dead body'..."

Mateo sat with that for a moment, his gaze lingering on the sketchbook where Laeon’s fingers brushed the charcoal lines. “It is real,” he said softly, not looking away. “The picture. The feeling behind it. That’s as real as anything else people build. Just ’cause it doesn’t come with a uniform or a title doesn’t make it less valid.” His voice stayed calm, steady—not pushing, just offering. “Science isn’t that different. We’re all just trying to explain the world. Some of us use math. Some of us use ink.”

His lips twitched faintly—more breath than smile. “My family didn’t really get it when I joined Starfleet. They thought I’d be better off at a university—someplace quiet, structured, academic.” He paused, letting the silence underline the truth of it. “They weren’t wrong, exactly. They just didn’t understand why I needed to leave. Why I needed to go.” The humor in his tone was thin, but not bitter—more worn-in, shaped by time. “They still think this life doesn’t fit me. Sometimes... I think they’re right. But I stayed anyway.”

He rolled his head to the side, gaze drifting toward Laeon. “You don’t have to know right now,” he said. “Anyone who says they’ve got it all figured out is lying—or about to get knocked on their ass.” The dryness in his voice softened with warmth, just enough to feel safe. “You’ve got time. Shadow or not.”

Laeon couldn't help a soft chuckle at the way he'd put it...'knocked on their ass'. Yeah, life was pretty good at doing that when it felt like it. Although, some people were pretty good at doing that sometimes too. "The pictures help me make sense of everything," he admitted with a half shrug, looking over one of Mateo's tattoos. Like the skin ink did for Mateo, perhaps. "Different words from different languages and different people and things, merged into a single vision," he wasn't sure if that would make sense. "I know I'm lucky though. Where we're from, once we develop talents, we are assigned careers. That's how Dad became a doctor. I'd bet you'd still be a scientist..."

Mateo didn’t answer right away. His eyes flicked to the inside of his left forearm, where a minimalist tattoo curved along his skin in clean, deliberate geometry. A series of black dots and fine concentric arcs flowed like the gravitational pull of celestial bodies—anchored between a downward-pointing triangle near the elbow and a hollow circle near the wrist. The shapes were simple, but their arrangement felt precise. Balanced. Purposeful.

He traced the design absently with his opposite hand, the pad of his thumb brushing over ink he’d worn for years. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “I get that.”

“They look like decoration,” he added after a moment, “but they’re not. Not to me.” His voice was soft, not defensive—just honest. “It’s how I hold onto things. Thoughts. People. Stuff I don’t always know how to say out loud. I guess it’s the same for you, with the pictures.” He glanced toward the edge of Laeon’s charcoal-sketched page. “You make meaning out of chaos. So do I. We just use different tools.”

He shifted slightly, drawing one knee up. “If someone had tried to assign me a career,” he said, the corner of his mouth quirking faintly, “I probably would’ve done the opposite out of spite. Even if it was the right one.” There was no apology in the way he said it—just quiet self-awareness. “Maybe I’d still be a scientist. Maybe not. But I know I wouldn’t have stayed if it wasn’t a choice. That’s the only way it ever meant something.”

Laeon grinned at the words, clearly admiring them. He couldn't help it, the streak of defiance was irresistible. He bet he'd gotten into plenty of trouble growing up. That was pretty delightful too. He looked to his art, trying to figure out if he'd have been brave enough to do the same when the time had come, if things had been different and they were still on his home world. Or more to the point, would he be brave enough not to fall back into his people's teachings when the time came now? And if he was honest with himself, he truly wasn't sure.

OFF:

Crewman Mateo Gardel
Medical Science Specialist
USS Fenrir

Laeon Wylde
Civilian Dependent
USS Fenrir
(PNPC Blake)

 

RSS Feed