Do Not Say One Word
Posted on Mon Apr 13th, 2026 @ 9:02am by Maren Malbrooke
Edited on on Tue Apr 14th, 2026 @ 4:48pm
3,875 words; about a 19 minute read
Mission:
The Mysteries of Maren
Location: Mess Hall - Deck 2 - USS Herodotus
Timeline: MD003 0755 hrs
The doors parted and the mess hall opened up in front of her all at once.
It was busy in a way that hit harder than she expected. Not loud exactly, not compared to alarms or weapons fire or the chaos she was used to, but full. Voices crossing over one another. Cutlery against plates. Chairs moving. People talking with the easy rhythm of a ship that wasn’t afraid of itself. The emotional texture of it brushed at her the second she stepped through the threshold, a low press of hunger, conversation, amusement, boredom, the ordinary pulse of people just existing near each other. It made something in her tense automatically, but not enough to stop her.
Maren slowed for half a second anyway, just enough to take it in properly before she kept going. The two security officers stayed with her as far as the entrance and then, apparently deciding that was where their usefulness ended, stopped dead by the door like decorative furniture with phasers.
She glanced back at them, one brow lifting.
“Oh, what, you’re not coming in?” she asked, dry amusement threading through the words. “Guess breakfast counts as a bridge too far.”
Maren’s gaze followed theirs before either of them had to say a word, and it didn’t take much to work out what had caught their attention. Across the room, through the morning crowd and the steady movement of people coming and going, she spotted him almost immediately. The big one. Green-eyed. Built like a tactical problem.
“Right,” she muttered, glancing back at the pair by the door. “Of course he’s here.”
There was no real annoyance in it, not compared to earlier. More the tired acceptance of someone who had already figured out that on this ship, privacy came with witnesses.
She looked once more toward the major, then let it go with a small breath through her nose and turned her attention to the actual reason she’d come. Food first. Existential surveillance later.
Maren crossed toward the replicator stations at a measured pace, trying not to pay too much attention to how many people were in here or how much easier it would have been to just stay in her quarters and eat alone. The options flickering across the interface were almost ridiculous compared to what she was used to, clean and endless and far too willing to give her exactly what she asked for.
For a second she just stared at it, then huffed softly and made her choice.
“Pancakes, bacon, scrambled eggs, and black coffee,” she said, then after the briefest pause, “the kind of breakfast that’ll take years off my life.”
“Caffeinated beverage request declined,” the replicator replied pleasantly. “Medical guidance recommends reduced stimulant intake.”
Maren stared at it.
“You cannot be serious.”
“Recommendation based on recent treatment, elevated stress markers, and age profile.”
Her eyes narrowed.
“I crossed universes yesterday.”
The replicator, annoyingly, said nothing.
Maren leaned in slightly as if that might make it less smug. “I am asking for coffee, not warp plasma.”
“Caffeinated beverage request declined.”
She looked around as though somebody nearby ought to be embarrassed on the machine’s behalf. “This ship lets me access my dead-almost-mother’s personal logs but draws the line at breakfast coffee?”
The replicator remained unmoved.
Maren let out a long, offended breath through her nose. “Fine. Then tea. But I want the most caffeinated tea you’ve got, and I want you to know this is petty.”
The replicator chimed again.
A plate of pancakes, bacon, and eggs materialised exactly as ordered.
Beside it appeared a glass of water.
Maren just stood there for a second, staring at it.
Then she looked up at the replicator like it had personally betrayed her.
“You are the worst thing that’s happened to me in at least twelve hours.”
Tray in hand and water apparently forced upon her by a machine with opinions, Maren turned from the replicator and looked out across the mess hall in search of somewhere to sit.
That hope died quickly.
Every table she could see was occupied. Some only half full, but full in the way that made it obvious people were already settled there, mid-conversation, mid-meal, woven into the easy social rhythm of a ship that belonged to them. She wasn’t in the mood to hover beside strangers pretending she didn’t mind eating with people who already knew where they fit.
Her eyes kept moving.
Then stopped.
Across the room, set just far enough off from the busiest cluster to feel deliberate, was one table with a single occupant.
The major.
Of course.
Maren stood there for a second with her tray balanced in both hands, staring at the empty seats around the big, green-eyed wall of a man like the universe had personally arranged this to irritate her. Around him the room carried on as normal, voices overlapping, chairs shifting, cutlery tapping against plates. And there he was, broad-shouldered, self-contained, and inconveniently attached to the only free table in the place.
There was really no point pretending she had another option.
Maren let out a quiet breath through her nose, adjusted her grip on the tray, and started across the room with all the enthusiasm of someone heading toward a scheduled inconvenience. The closer she got, the more ridiculous it felt that the only open seats in the entire mess hall were the ones attached to him, but at that point hunger was winning.
When she reached the table, she stopped just long enough to make it clear that this was necessity rather than choice, then pulled out the chair opposite and sat down. The major looked up as she did, his attention lifting from his meal with that same steady, unreadable calm he seemed to carry everywhere.
Maren set her tray down, glanced once at the glass of water like it had personally offended her, and then looked back at him.
“Don’t make a thing out of this,” she said, already picking up her fork. “Your table just happened to be the least terrible option.”
Hastios looked up from his breakfast, took in the tray, the glass of water she clearly regarded as a personal insult, and then her expression.
For a moment, he said nothing. Then one corner of his mouth moved.
“I’ll try to survive the honour,” he said dryly.
His eyes flicked once to the water, then back to her face. “Though I’ll admit, watching you lose a fight with the replicator has improved my morning more than it should have.”
He cut into his food with the same unhurried calm he seemed to bring everywhere, giving her the space to eat without turning the moment into an interrogation. When he spoke again, it was milder.
“For what it’s worth, this table’s usually the least terrible option for me too.”
Maren gave him a look over the rim of her water glass that suggested she was still deciding whether he deserved to be included in the category of “least terrible.”
“It was an ordeal,” she informed him, with all the solemnity of someone reporting a genuine crisis. “Your two hallway gargoyles were standing outside my door like I was about to make a break for a shuttle bay.”
She stabbed at a piece of bacon with her fork before continuing, clearly warming to the subject now that she had an audience.
“One of them just stared at me like he was waiting for me to confess to something, and the other one,” she added, pausing to point vaguely with the fork for emphasis, “the other one nearly derailed the whole thing because I said I wanted pancakes and apparently that launched him into some kind of personal health campaign.”
Her expression flattened theatrically.
“I swear, between Captain Wine Cellar, Major Giant, and the breakfast police, I’m starting to think this ship just doesn’t want me to have a normal meal.”
She finally took a bite, chewed, then added almost as an afterthought, “Also the replicator gave me water out of spite, which feels like something you should address as a command issue.”
Hastios looked up from his meal and let her finish.
“You’re alive, fed, and sitting down,” he said plainly. “I’d call that a successful morning.”
His eyes dropped briefly to the glass of water, then back to her. There was a faint trace of amusement there, but his tone stayed steady. “And the guards are there because you’re a security concern until we know otherwise. Don’t take it personally. Or do. They’ll still be there.”
He cut into his food, unhurried. “As for the replicator, it follows medical guidance. If you’ve got a complaint, take it up with Sickbay. I’m not court-martialling a machine because it gave you water.”
A beat.
“That said,” he added, a little drier now, “calling the captain ‘Captain Wine Cellar’ in public would be a poor survival instinct. So maybe save that one for breakfast.”
Maren looked at him for a second, fork halfway to her mouth, her expression settling into the particular kind of teenage disbelief reserved for adults who thought they were being completely sensible.
“Wow,” she said flatly. “You all really do hear yourselves, don’t you?”
She took the bite anyway, mostly because she was hungry enough now that even being annoyed had to work around breakfast, then pointed vaguely at him with her fork. “‘You’re alive, fed, and sitting down,’” she repeated, doing a dry impression of his tone that was only just exaggerated enough to be rude. “That’s not comforting. That’s the kind of thing people say right before they tell you to be grateful for basic rights.”
Her eyes flicked to the water again, still personally offended by it, before returning to him. “And I am taking it personally,” she added. “You had two armed officers outside my door before I’d even had breakfast, and I’m pretty sure one of them nearly had an emotional crisis over pancakes.”
The corner of her mouth twitched a little despite herself. She took another bite, chewed, then glanced at him properly across the table.
“And for the record,” she said, lowering her fork, “you’re exactly as subtle as I thought you’d be. Big, silent, stands in corners like a tactical wardrobe, sends guards after people and then acts surprised when they notice.” Her gaze drifted briefly over his broad frame and back up again, entirely shameless. “Honestly, if you stood any more like security, they’d have to install you by the door.”
She let that sit just long enough to enjoy it before leaning back slightly in her chair, some of the edge easing out of her now that food was finally doing its job. “So,” she added, less prickly now and finally nudging the conversation forward, “are you always like this, or did I just get the full ‘mysterious giant with trust issues’ welcome package because I fell out of a broken shuttle?”
Hastios let her finish, took a measured bite of his breakfast, and set his fork down before answering.
“You do have a dramatic streak,” he said, not unkindly. “And for the record, I’m a marine more than security. There’s a difference, even if you’ve decided I’m a piece of furniture with opinions.”
There was a faint dryness to it, but his tone stayed level. He wasn’t rising to the bait, just trimming it back.
“I’m also the one who carried you to Sickbay when you collapsed in the shuttle bay,” he added, meeting her eyes properly now. “So no, this isn’t me being mysterious for effect, and no, you didn’t get guards because I enjoy making your mornings difficult.”
He leaned back slightly, broad shoulders still making the chair look smaller than it was.
“You’re under guard because you came out of a temporal rift in a damaged shuttle, fired a torpedo at my ship, and arrived injured, armed, and convinced we were lying to you. From where I’m sitting, that earns supervision until we know what we’re dealing with.” A beat. “It doesn’t mean anyone’s trying to punish you.”
His gaze dropped briefly to the water glass and back.
“So eat your breakfast, complain about the replicator all you like, and call me subtle as a bulkhead if it helps. Just understand the guards are there because that’s the sensible call, not because anyone here wants to make a spectacle of you.”
Maren listened with the sort of expression that made it very clear she did not enjoy him making sense.
By the time he finished, she’d slowed a little with her breakfast, the first edge of hunger finally taking the worst of her mood with it. Her fork moved through the eggs for a second while she stared at her tray, then she let out a quiet breath through her nose and looked back up at him.
“Okay, Muscles,” she said at last, like the concession itself was doing him a favour. “I get it.”
She took another bite, chewed, then pointed at him lightly with her fork.
“Still annoying, though.”
Her eyes flicked toward the mess hall doors for a second before coming back again.
“I open my door and there are two armed babysitters standing there before I’ve even had breakfast. You can call that security or supervision or whatever makes you all feel better, it’s still a bit much from where I’m sitting.”
She reached for the water, looked at it, and set it back down again with quiet offence.
“And yeah, yeah, I know. Temporal rift. Broken shuttle. Torpedo. Terrifying teenage girl.” She waved the fork once, dismissing the whole list. “I heard you.”
That got the faintest twitch at the corner of her mouth before she tilted her head at him again.
“And ‘marine’ still sounds like security with better branding, so I’m not sure that helps your case.”
She let that sit for a second, then leaned back a little in her chair.
“So what’s Captain Wine Cellar’s deal, then?” she asked. “Is he always like that, or did I just get the special version with the dramatic speeches and the ancient wine?”
Her mouth twitched faintly.
“Which, by the way, I’m pretty sure he wasn’t even supposed to give me, considering I’m not old enough. So either your captain’s mysterious and dramatic, or mysterious, dramatic, and a really bad influence.”
Hastios let her finish without interrupting, the way he usually did when someone needed to get the edge off before they were ready to hear anything back.
“The captain is… himself,” he said after a moment, and there was no mockery in it. “He has his own way of handling people. A bit dramatic, sometimes. But he meant what he said in that bay. He was trying to calm the situation, not make it worse.”
He glanced once at the untouched water, then back to her. His expression stayed steady, plain.
“And for what it’s worth, I understand why all of this feels heavy-handed from where you’re sitting. You wake up on a ship that shouldn’t exist, in a place that doesn’t make sense, and before breakfast you’ve got guards outside your door and a machine deciding what you’re allowed to drink. I wouldn’t enjoy it either.”
He let that settle for a moment.
“But none of it’s being done to punish you. You came in hurt, armed, and expecting a fight. That puts everyone on edge, including you. We’re adjusting to each other. Clumsily, maybe, but we are.”
He picked up his fork again, then paused before taking a bite.
“So leave the captain’s wine habits alone for five minutes,” he said, with the faintest trace of dry humour, “and tell me this instead: what do you need right now that isn’t being given to you?”
Maren was quiet for a second, her fork hovering over the plate before she finally gave a small, reluctant nod.
“Yeah,” she said, not exactly warm, but no longer fighting him on it. “Okay.”
She took another bite, chewed, and let the silence sit for a moment before glancing back up at him.
“I get it,” she added, more honestly this time. “I don’t have to like it, but I get it.”
That done, she seemed content to let the point rest rather than keep circling it. Her attention dropped back to her breakfast for a few seconds, and when she spoke again it was with a quieter kind of curiosity.
“So what’s your deal, then?” she asked. “You always this calm, or is that just because I’m apparently everyone’s problem this week?”
Hastios’ expression eased a little at that, some of the strictness leaving him.
“It’s mostly just who I am,” he said. “I’ve had a long time to learn that getting loud or rattled usually makes things worse, not better.”
He took a slow sip of his drink before setting it down again. “Age helps with that. I’m pushing three centuries now. After enough years, enough ships, enough bad days, you either learn patience or you make yourself miserable. I found patience easier to live with.”
A faint, quieter smile touched his mouth.
“That doesn’t mean I don’t feel things. Just means I don’t see much point in throwing them all over the table the moment they arrive.”
Maren had just lifted the glass and taken a drink when he said it.
Nearly three hundred.
The water went the wrong way immediately.
She choked, coughed, and sprayed a fine mist of it straight across the table onto Hastios before she could even turn her head. The second she realised where it had gone, her eyes went wide with absolute horror.
For one horrible second she just stared at him, coughing into the back of her hand, looking like she wanted the ship to open up and swallow her whole.
“Oh my God,” she got out at last, voice wrecked. “I’m so sorry.”
She grabbed a napkin in a blind rush and leaned across the table before her brain had a chance to catch up, dabbing quickly at the front of his uniform where the water had hit.
Which was a mistake.
Because that was his chest.
And unfortunately for her, the stupid nickname had not been an exaggeration.
He was solid. Not just in the general big-person way she’d already noticed, but properly, unfairly, absurdly solid, and the second that registered her whole face went hot.
“Okay, no, that is not a normal thing to just casually drop into breakfast conversation,” she muttered, still trying to fix it and only making herself more aware of what she was touching. “You can’t just sit there and be like, oh yeah, by the way, I’m basically three hundred.”
Her eyes flicked up to his face for half a second and then right back down again.
“And now I’ve sprayed you like an idiot, so that’s great,” she added, cheeks burning. “Amazing, actually. Love that for me.”
For a second, Hastios simply sat there, eyes closed against the spray, water clinging to his lashes and the front of his uniform.
Then he exhaled slowly through his nose.
When he opened his eyes, the look on Maren’s face did more to settle the moment than the apology had. He caught her wrist lightly before she could keep dabbing at his chest and making herself more embarrassed.
“It’s fine,” he said, calm and plain. “You’re not the first person to choke when I mention my age.”
There was the faintest shift at the corner of his mouth, enough to say he was enjoying this at least a little. He let go of her hand and took his own napkin, blotting once at the water on his shirt before accepting that the damage was done.
“You’ve made your point,” he added mildly. “I should be less reckless at breakfast.”
He pushed his chair back and stood, broad frame unfolding with its usual unhurried certainty. “I’m going to go dry off before this shirt starts clinging in places I’d rather it didn’t.”
Then his eyes flicked toward the two security officers still stationed near the door, and his tone turned drier still.
“You two may want to stand a little further back. She’s got a surprising amount of range on her.”
Only then did he look back at Maren, giving her just enough of a pause to let the teasing land.
“I’ll leave your gargoyles in place,” he said, almost casually, as though the thought had only just occurred to him. “Can’t have you terrorising the mess hall unescorted.”
With that, he gave her a small nod and turned to leave, taking the whole thing so calmly that the only real injury left behind was to her dignity.
Maren stayed exactly where she was for a second after he stood up, napkin still in her hand, the full weight of what had just happened finally catching up with her all at once.
Mortified didn’t even begin to cover it.
Her face had gone properly hot now, the kind of heat that made her want to crawl under the table and stay there until the end of time. She watched him go with the rigid stillness of someone who knew that if she moved too quickly she might actually make the whole thing worse, which felt impressive considering how catastrophically she had already managed that on her own.
When he made the comment about the guards, her eyes shut briefly.
“Oh my God,” she muttered under her breath, this time with all the quiet suffering of a girl whose dignity had just been dragged behind a shuttle at impulse speed.
Only once he was already turning away did she find enough life in herself to glare weakly after him.
“I hate this ship,” she informed his retreating back, though even she could hear there wasn’t much force behind it.
Then she looked down at her tray, at the water glass that had started all of this, and at the two security officers still by the door who had absolutely seen everything. Her shoulders lifted in one small, helpless motion before she covered her burning face with both hands.
“Do not,” she said through her fingers, voice muffled and full of pure teenage humiliation, “say one word.”
A beat later she dropped back into her chair, snatched up her fork, and stabbed viciously into her pancakes like they had personally betrayed her too.
A Joint Post By:
Maren Malbrooke
Civilian, USS Pioneer
Major Hastios Eilfaren
Chief Security & Tactical Officer
Second Officer
USS Herodotus DTI-30656
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