Patterns in the Silence: Part VI - The Pit and the Silence After

Posted on Sun Sep 14th, 2025 @ 1:37pm by Sergeant Jace Morven

2,237 words; about a 11 minute read

USS Guinevere, 2388

The fork almost slips from my hand. For a second my chest tightens, my grip white-knuckled around stainless steel as if it might bite me back. Not the food. Not the noise of the mess. The memory pressing in, sharp enough that I can feel it before I see it.

I understand teamwork now. Or at least how to wear it well enough that others believe it. Experience carved that into me, not as a lesson but as scar tissue. I learned to make squads work the only way I could: by doing more, by carrying the slack, by bracing harder when others faltered. It took me time, surrounded by the same people, before I was able to rely on others. It takes longer for me, each transfer ends up having me start at the beginning and even now I do not know if it is teamwork as much as I move forward and others move with me.

People sometimes call that leadership. They are wrong. It is instinct, something I can’t explain or change. And with that comes recognising patterns, traits...situations. Some settle deeper than others, make more of an impact. Weakness has always pulled at me, though not in the way others think. On Turkana I felt no contempt, no superiority. At best, relief that it was not me left behind. Mostly it was nothing. Weakness happened to others. You kept moving. You survived. That was all.

The 77th changed that.

There, weakness drew predators. A stumble, a hesitation, a sign of fear…and someone stronger was waiting to grind it down, to take something from it. That was where my instincts shifted. Not to pity. Not to kindness. To intervention. The same drive that made me neutralise threats pushed me to stand between the bully and the one they circled. It was not soft. It was not noble. It was survival, sharpened in a different direction.

The 103rd had shown me something steadier. A unit that was not warm, but at least real. I never connected to them, but I learned better habits from those who still had some pulse left in them. Sergeants who saved their shouting for when it mattered. Medics who did not waste breath telling you to heal, just waited with a regenerator until you were ready to be fixed. For a while I thought I could live like that.

Then came the transfer. At the time it was just another set of orders. I did not know the 77th carried a reputation. That understanding came later, when I had already been through it, when I finally saw the shape of what I had walked into. Back then it was only the warm sharpness in the air when I stepped off the transport on Mars, the way older soldiers watched the new arrivals as if expecting the shuttle to explode.

The barracks looked like every other in the Federation: rows of bunks, lockers marked with service numbers, phaser rifles stacked in the racks by the door. Federation steel and clean lines. But the people inside stripped the shine away. No speeches about duty, no pretense of exploration, no voices rising in laughter. It felt like survival, a holding pen for something, with people in uniforms and weapons in hands that either trembled or gripped too hard.

Looking back now, if I saw someone like Sergeant Tho again, I would not waste words. I would not ask questions, I would not speak. I would raise my phaser rifle, take the shot and let silence return to what it was before he entered my life.

Federation Forward Training Base Epsilon-Kappa, Mars, Mid-2372

Orders are orders. Another transfer, another barracks, another set of faces. I step off the transport without knowing what the 77th means. Just a number on a PADD. Nothing more.

The air inside hits me first. Tense. Too tense for soldiers who are supposed to be on rotation. Troopers move through the barracks with bruises across their faces and arms, uniforms rumpled, eyes kept low. Some flinch when a sergeant passes, shoulders tightening like they expect the blow before it lands. There is laughter, but it is the wrong kind. Sharp, cruel, feeding on whoever is unlucky enough to be close.

I keep still and keep quiet. Tho glances at me once, eyes narrowing, then looks away like I am a tool he has not chosen to pick up yet. That suits me. I speak only when spoken to. I take orders fast, precise, without question. I hold myself still enough that others edge away rather than meet my eyes.

The 103rd feels far away now. I make myself not think of it, of them, and instead focus ahead. When the transfer order had come, I felt more relief than loss. I was listening more, learning names and details about those around me, even occasionally finding myself thinking about what was being said. There had been a pattern forming and I was not sure if I was ready for being a part of it.

I lace my boots on the bunk, the smell of the transport hold still clinging to the leather, and I feel eyes on me. I look up once. Across the row a trooper is watching. Calm face, dark hair, posture loose but deliberate. They do not look away when I meet their eyes. No mockery. No threat. Just steady, as if they are weighing whether I will bend or break. I do not know who they are yet. I only know I have been marked.

The first test comes fast. Around the back of the barracks, where the light falls thin and the dust sticks to sweat. Three of them wait, casual on the surface but with that same tension running under it. A few others linger at the edge, not close enough to interfere, just close enough to watch.

They expect a show, so they go one at the time. The idea is a bit of roughing, maybe a bruise or two. A reminder of where I’ve landed. I give them something else. The first swings quick, not thinking me ready, but I am quicker. Elbow drives into his ribs, a sharp crack I feel through bone. The second closes fast as soon as their squadmate is hit and I drop low, strike into his knee, feel him crumple with a yell. The third hangs back half a second too long and that is all I need. My fist splits across his jaw and he goes down.

It is not anger. Not pride. I do not know how to hold back. I only know how to end it. Instinct written into me too deep to unlearn. When it is done, the three of them are on the ground and the dust hangs still in the air. My chest stays steady. My hands are bloodied, bruised. There's nothing to gloat over, it's trained brutality and dirty fighting. I walk back through the gap as if nothing has happened, even if I know something had. I just do not yet understand that I have made it worse.

Sergeant Tho makes sure it does not end behind the barracks.

The pit comes next. I do not know it exists until I am ordered there. A fighting circle carved into dirt, half-hidden but known by everyone. A tradition, they call it. A way to test the new transfers, break them down, see who is worth keeping. To me it feels like ritual. Twisted, but deliberate.

The ring smells of sweat and Martian dust. Boots grind the earth into powder. The sound is worse: voices pressed close, soldiers circling like it is entertainment. The first one comes at me hard and fast. He thinks size will be enough. It is not, not with me. I drop him quick, instinct and muscle taking over before thought can follow. The crowd groans, then jeers, then laughs.

The second one takes longer. He knows more, hits sharper, digs in until pain spreads white through my ribs. I give as good as I can and eventually he folds, but it costs me. My chest burns. My arms feel heavier than they should. The voices around the pit rise louder, impatient for the next.

The last one is different. Tho chooses him with care. Bigger, heavier, built on a world where the pull of gravity made every bone thick and every muscle dense. He steps into the pit and I already know this is not about proving anything. This is punishment dressed as ritual.

The crowd goes quieter. No jeering now. They know what Tho has set up.
The first hit knocks the air out of me. I roll, push back to my feet. Another comes, harder, and I taste blood. My body screams for stillness but I stand again. It is not strength. Not anger. Not pride. It is the only thing I know. Stand until you cannot.

Every time he drops me, I rise. The dust clings to sweat and eventually blood, the sound of boots shuffling around the circle keeps pressing close. Pain fades into something else, something raw and endless, but I keep moving through it.
Then the moment comes.

I tell my body to rise. I know the command. I have done it a hundred times before. But nothing answers. My legs will not push. My arms hang heavy. The breath shudders out of me and there is no draw back in.

It is not fear that keeps me down. Not surrender. Just the sudden stillness when the current cuts out.

The ground feels close, too close, the dust sticking to the sweat on my face. I see the ring of them above me, their eyes sharp, some smiling, some flat. And then I find the one that is not like the others.

The same trooper from the barracks. Standing apart. Watching. Not cheering. Not smiling. Just steady. The rest blur, but that face stays clear. And then even that fades.

Tho crouches beside me. Close enough that I smell the dust shifting off his boots. Up close he is all sinew and sharp lines, cheekbones carved under skin hardened by years in the field. His hair is cropped tight, streaked with grey at the edges. Eyes pale, cold, steady in a way that feels worse than rage. A body built lean, not heavy, the kind that can keep moving long after bulk would burn out. His voice is the worst of it. Calm. Measured. Too steady for the words it carries. It does not need to rise to be heard. It cuts clean through.
“I’ve buried your type by the dozen,” he says, conversational, as if this is nothing more than small talk over rations. “Tough-looking bastards with nothing going on behind the eyes. Think being mean makes you strong.”

My jaw throbs. Blood stings hot in one eye. I listen because I cannot do anything else. My body has switched off and his voice fills the silence left behind. “You think pain makes you special? You’re meat,” he says and there is conviction behind the words.

I wait for anger to rise. For heat to burn away the shame pressing cold against my chest. But nothing comes. Just stillness. Empty space. A beat. A breath. A heartbeat. A breath. Stay still. Do not move.

Then he straightens, shadow peeling back from me, and walks away.

I lie there. The dust clings to sweat on my face. The ache spreads deeper, ribs sharp, arms heavy. For a while all I can hear is the sound of my own lungs forcing air in and out, raw and uneven. Slowly, the rhythm steadies. Slowly, the weight in my limbs shifts from impossible to bearable. I turn, press a hand against the ground, push until my arms hold me. Pain fires bright, nerves sparking back into life. I bury it. Push again until I sit, until I stand, until I can limp from the circle.

No one helps. No one offers a hand. The 77th does not work like that.

USS Guinevere, 2388

The appetite is gone. The tray in front of me might as well be stone. Protein, grains, something the computer swears my body needs, but the thought of swallowing any of it makes my chest tighten. My stomach feels hollow but not hungry. Just empty in a way food cannot touch.

My hands curl tight on the table, knuckles aching, tendons straining. The sound is small but I hear it, the creak of my own grip. The mess is still full of voices, clatter of cutlery, but it comes to me like noise through a wall. I stare at nothing. If I let my eyes focus they will find the tray, and if I look at the tray I will have to admit I cannot eat. So I keep them unfixed, locked on the blur.
Movement feels dangerous. If I shift, even a little, something inside might spill out. So I go smaller instead. Pull myself in, tighten the edges until I fit inside the space of breath and heartbeat.

One breath. One beat. Count them. That is all I need to hold. Stay quiet. Stay small. The pressure will ease. It always does.


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Sergeant Jace Morven
Platoon Sergeant, Alpha Squad
Federation Ground Forces
USS Guinevere

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