A Different Kind of Armor

Posted on Sun Apr 27th, 2025 @ 9:32pm by Crewman Mateo Gardel

657 words; about a 3 minute read

Personal Log – Crewman Mateo Gardel
Medical Science Specialist, USS Fenrir

So... that happened.

Wasn’t planning to spend half my shift accidentally getting psychoanalyzed by a crate delivery. One minute I’m minding my own business, trying to clear some samples, and the next thing I know, some civilian’s walking through the lab door like he owns the air around him. Not in a bad way. Just... different. I noticed him at Valhalla the other night, too. Tried not to. Failed spectacularly.

It’s weird. I’m used to people fading into the background. Me fading into the background. Noise. Static. Easy to tune out. Temas wasn’t like that. He’s not loud or flashy — actually kinda the opposite. Quiet. Steady. But somehow, when he’s around, it’s like... like everything else gets quieter, and he’s just there, standing out without even trying. No idea why my brain decided that was worth cataloging, but here we are.

I thought it would be simple. Get the crate. Hand it over. Get out. Standard protocol for human interaction: minimal engagement, maximum avoidance of emotional landmines. Except he started talking. About books. About identity. About belonging. Like he actually meant it. And because apparently I have a death wish now, I talked back. Not because he pushed — he didn’t. Somehow... I wanted to. And I have no idea why.

I don’t do that. Not really. Not like that. I have a system—keep it shallow, keep it safe, don’t hand over anything you can’t afford to lose. But there I was, sitting on the floor of the lab like some idiot, telling a near-stranger about how distance is my armor. Like it’s normal conversation. Like I hadn’t spent most of my life building walls thick enough to keep a warp core explosion out. And the worst part? I didn’t even hate it.

And he didn’t make it weird. He didn’t try to fix me or pity me or look at me like I was broken. He just... accepted it. Accepted me. And said thank you. Like I’d given him something instead of screwing everything up the second I opened my mouth. I didn’t know what to do with that. Still don’t. I probably looked like I was malfunctioning.

He left me with a book. Said we could talk about it later. Like that’s a thing I know how to do. And stupidly, recklessly, hope-against-every-instinct-in-my-body... I said yes. I meant it, too. Even if I have no idea what I’m supposed to say when "later" actually shows up. Knowing me, I’ll overthink it, panic, and end up complimenting the font. Or the page count. Or how the cover feels. Real smooth, Gardel.

I don’t know what this is. I don’t know what I’m doing. All I know is I’m sitting here in a half-lit lab holding onto a book like it’s a life raft, and for the first time in a long time, the idea of talking to someone again—really talking—doesn’t make me want to bolt for the nearest airlock. And not just anyone, either. For reasons I don't understand—and probably don't want to look at too closely—I want it to be him. Temas. It doesn’t make sense, but it’s there, humming low and steady under my ribs like some broken piece of instinct trying to rewire itself.

I guess we’ll see if I actually show up when it counts. Or if I find a way to screw it up before it even starts. Wouldn’t exactly be out of character. But maybe... maybe not everything has to fall apart just because it’s different.

End log.

 

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