Residual: Part VII – Promised, Not Replaced
Posted on Fri Nov 28th, 2025 @ 6:36am by Sergeant Jace Morven
1,754 words; about a 9 minute read
Four Days Later, 2375 Operation Sentry Hook -- Dominion Pressure Front
The brief had been stripped down to the bones. Recon and hold on the west flank. An old Dominion outpost burned half into the ground by orbital fire. Check the tunnels. Clear what’s left. Pull the uplink if it still runs and send the code so the sweep can finish it.
I know what those words mean. Recon and hold is never simple. It means you go forward first and if it breaks bad you hold until there is nothing left to hold with. It’s not our first one. The entire battalion’s used to it. We got a nickname now. Black Ash. For how we leave things, nothing except ash behind. It’s what’ll happen to this place, whether we’re inside of it or not.
The ground under my boots is loose, pebbles shifting, sand grinding under the weight. It sounds dry but it clings, and every step echoes back off the stone. The air carries the same stale bite I remember from Turkana’s tunnels, grit mixed with metal and dust that never clears no matter how deep you go. I keep the phaser rifle high and close, eyes moving fast, ahead and back again, faster than thought, faster than instinct. It’s like stepping back in time and my jaw hasn’t unclenched since we headed inside.
Behind me the squad’s rhythm drags and shifts. Kerren’s breathing is too loud, rough, fighting against his revulsion of enclosed spaces. Terrow whispers under his breath, words low, meant to calm himself, steady enough to be a pattern I can almost hear. Talvis clicks the comm unit again, the third time in twenty minutes, nerves showing through routine. She is new, slotted into Raimi’s place. That is what I notice most. She does not fill the gap, no one could, but the shape of Raimi’s absence is loud around her. She moves careful, too careful, like the ground might break under her. The medic, a more seasoned offering from the Federation, stays behind us. Not covering our retreat as much as making sure we’re between any Dominion forces and him. It’s smart. I’ve seen too many dead medics to treat them like Ground Forces troopers.
Martinez is silent. They’re always quiet when things are tense but there’s a grimness there now that wasn’t there before. It sits in their shoulders, it darkens their eyes and there is a permanent tightness around the mouth.
The tunnels close in tighter the deeper we go. Scorched walls crumbling where the fire gutted them, struts jutting like broken ribs. Pebbles grind under every step, louder than it should be. Tricorders are near useless in the interference, just static on the readouts. Terrow has not been able to get a clean sense either, not since Raimi. He says nothing, but I can see it in the way his face draws tight, the way his eyes keep flicking down. Too much grief bleeding through the rest of us, muddling what he feels.
Three corridors, two sub-chambers. Only scattered Jem’Hadar fire, bodies left behind to slow us. Not the real fight. Not yet.
It comes in corridor six.
The blast hits without warning. Grenades shatter against the stone, throwing grit sharp into the air, the sound folding in close. A full squad floods out of a side alcove, rifles already high.
I drop low, phaser rifle braced, firing tight bursts. To my left Talvis jerks as the beam hits her shoulder, spin thrown off, body slamming the wall before she drops hard to the floor. Smoke rises from the armour and she grips her shoulder on impulse then cries out at the unexpected heat through the glove. Kerren swears loud, teeth bared, and grabs her by the harness, dragging her back with one arm even as his other hand snaps shots down the line.
“Cover right!” The words tear out, but I know I do not need to check. Martinez is already moving, rolling into position, rifle up. They lay fire down like a drill pulled straight from a manual, only sharper, cleaner. Anger drives it but it is not frantic. Every shot is controlled, precise, like the fury has carved them into focus.
One Jem’Hadar breaks through the left, blade raised, charging hard. Martinez does not give ground. They move into him, quick and low, catching the strike on the butt of their rifle. The jolt runs through the weapon but they hold it steady, all leverage, not brute force. They drive the stock up into his gut, sharp and fast, then kick out, boot finding his knee. The crack is loud enough to cut through the rest of the fight. He folds with the sound, heavy armour hitting stone.
Martinez is already on him before he can recover. No wasted motion. Rifle swings back into place, phaser burst to the head, clean and final. No hesitation between steps, everything carried through with precision. It is not how I fight. I put weight into my blows, muscle and force. They strip it down to timing, to angles, sharp enough to carve him apart before he can get a second move.
I take it in, the whole shape of it, profile sharp against the haze of smoke and grit. Then the noise falls away, sudden, leaving only the press of silence in its place. Martinez stands there, breathing hard, head tipped forward but cocked to the side, as if they are listening for movement that isn’t ours.
I push up from cover, rifle high, eyes scanning each angle of the corridor until I know we are clear. I signal an all clear, glancing over to the squad.
The medic works fast over Talvis, sealing the wound, keeping her breathing steady. Terrow holds the perimeter, pale in the face but his weapon is up, eyes fixed on the dark. Martinez stays where they dropped the Jem’Hadar, chest heaving, rifle still tight in their hands.
Their eyes meet mine. For a moment they seem impossible dark and then something eases. The tightness eases and a small smile pulls their lips. I don’t say thank you. I just give a small nod. From what I see, we are both alive.
They give me a nod back and shift their stance, straightening, before they walk over to me. Their voice cuts through the silence, firm and sharp, but the breathlessness of it shows that their heart is still racing. “You owe me a drink.”
My mouth pulls tight at the idea. I don’t understand it. But I also know it isn’t a trap, so instead I shift the grip on my rife. “I don’t drink.”
They raise a brow, steady even with their breath still rough. “Then mint tea, arsehole.”
It breaks the edge of the tension, just enough. It’s not about getting drunk, I realise. It is about a promise. I nod once, deciding that I can offer that. I can share my mint tea with Martinez, somewhere quieter, where we aren’t breathing in the tunnel air and ozone smell. “Fine.”
An hour later mission is completed and we fall back before the Starfleet pilots reduce the tunnels to rubble and ash. We’re bruised but upright when we come in and the medic hands Talvis over to the medical team. She is alive, pale and shaking but on her feet. The squad is quiet, but they are still moving, and that is what matters. Food, water, rest. It’s all they need right now.
Martinez walks the line with me, checking the ground, marking the angles. I always do it, no matter how fortified a position is. Martinez doesn’t always join me but right now, they stick to my side. I watch them more than I should. How they move, how steady their hands are. How something has changed in them, small, but they look better for it. Martinez looks at me and gives me a small smile before it fades and they sweep the angles again.
I register it in the same way I mark a threat, or a weakness, or a pattern on the field. Only this is different. It is not another fracture waiting to open. It is the opposite. For the first time in longer than I can measure, something else moves in me besides the grind of duty. Small. Fragile. But there.
I think it might be hope.
USS Guinevere, FGF Barracks, 2388
The tea is gone. Only the cup left, cooling in my hand. I hold it anyway, staring at it too long, as if waiting might fill it again.
Martinez.
I miss them, though I would never say it out loud. It comes in the quiet, when I let myself slip. They were sharp, steady, the one who could move through fire without losing their footing. Better than most. Better than me, if I am honest. They knew how to read the things I never could. The looks. The pauses. The little shifts in tone that meant more than the words. They gave me that without ever making a show of it, like it was second nature to translate what I could not name. When the reports came in, they read them out for me, no questions, no pity, just the facts in a voice I could trust. It was the kind of thing that kept me steady, even when nothing else did.
I wonder if they are still alive. Still fighting. Still themselves. Sometimes I think about reaching out, but I never do. Too much time. Too much change. I have been shaped harder, sharper, into something that does not hesitate. And if they saw me now, if they looked at me the way they once did, I do not know what they would see.
I set the cup down on the floor and lean back on the bunk, eyes following the cracks in the ceiling until they blur.
Some memories stay close. They do not fade. They live in me, part of the body as much as the scars on my skin. Most are not the kind you would want to keep, but they keep themselves all the same.
I gave up trying to pretend I was anything else a long time ago.
---
Sergeant Jace Morven
Platoon Sergeant, Alpha Squad
Federation Ground Forces
USS Guinevere
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