Patterns in the Silence: Part VII - What the Body Mends, What the Mind Keeps

Posted on Mon Sep 15th, 2025 @ 3:38pm by Sergeant Jace Morven

1,144 words; about a 6 minute read

77th Infantry Barracks, mid 2372

The bruises fade and the cuts close, I’ve avoided the medics as much as possible. I adapt, but I don’t fall into the feeling I had in the 103rd. Something in me stays locked in place, like the switch Tho threw never fully reset.
No one tries me again. Not directly. But Tho’s presence fills the barracks even when he is not there. The sound of his boots on metal makes spines stiffen. Shoulders tighten before he even speaks. Silence stretches thin until it feels sharper than noise.

I keep to myself, but I watch. Watching has always been enough, to see the dangers and adjust my approach to survive.

Kerren fumbles as he reassembles his phaser rifle, hands trembling just enough to betray the pressure. Banik avoids eyes, shrinking smaller with every day. Raimi limps, jaw clenched too tight, her face set hard as if holding it in will make the pain disappear. I do not need to know the details. The signs are enough.

So I move in ways no one names. I take a little more of the weight during drills so Kerren has a fraction longer to steady himself. I step into Banik’s line when Tho circles too close. I walk a pace behind Raimi so if she falters, she has space to recover before anyone notices. Small shifts, nothing you can write on a slate, but they keep the cracks from widening.

No one says anything. Maybe they do not even notice. But I do. And I keep doing it. One evening, as I pull on my gear, someone mutters near me: “You’re not as dead behind the eyes as you look, Morven.”

I do not answer. Do not look up. But my jaw twitches once. A reminder that something still lives under the armour, even if I don’t like the vulnerability of showing it. And I see them again. The trooper from the first day. Martinez. They stand apart, as they always do, watching. Not mocking or baiting, just a steady presence. Their eyes hold on me a moment longer than anyone else’s ever does. Like they understand, or at least recognise, the way I move the pieces without naming it.

The 77th teaches you early that no one will stand for you. If you falter, you fall alone. If you break, you stay broken. That lesson seeps into every silence, every bruise, every glance away.

I find I cannot accept it. Not fully. So I move against it in the only ways I can. Quiet ways with nothing spoken, nothing obvious. Just shifts small enough to pass unnoticed. Taking weight where I can, buying time where it matters, stepping between someone and the blow meant for them.

It is not about gratitude. No one here thanks you. It is not about forgiveness either. I am not chasing that. It is simpler, sharper. Leaving it undone feels worse than stepping forward. And I know too well what it is to be left to break.
So I act. Every time, to give us a chance to survive, especially once the Federation is in conflict with the Klingons. The churn has started and as always in war, you have a better chance if you’re part of a tribe.

I find myself, with the rest of the 77th, in the Archanis Sector. Mostly evacuation, shoring up defenses. A few minor fights with Klingon landing parties. Enough to whet Sergeant Tho's appetite for violence and bloodshed. He tightens his grip on us. When we're not working we are training. I am a Corporal by the end of it. I wasn't Tho's pick, but the Major in charge likes how I don't answer back.

It's how I get to know Corporal Martinez beyond the looks. The trooper who watched me in the pit, who I noticed around. Quiet and steady but when they smile it seems genuine. I don't know their first name. I know their pronouns, because they told me that, before they even told me their name. I like that. Simple guidelines to follow.

The conflict with the Klingons ends less as a battle and more like a deep intake of breath before a plunge into cold waters.

USS Guinevere, 2388

Control comes back in parts. First, I notice my breathing. It is steady again, no hitch or catch. Then the weight through my spine, the way I have been holding myself like something might break. My shoulders are locked, but I can shift them. I do it slow, easing them down just enough to let the tension bleed off.
My hands are curled. Not fists, but close enough that my knuckles ache. I open them one finger at a time. Not because it makes a difference, but because it gives me something to finish. I have done this before. It works well enough. I do not remember eating. That is not unusual. The tray is empty. That tells me enough.

I stand slowly and take inventory. No tremble in my hands. Breathing is even. There are no outward signs of anything happening. That is good. It means I have full control of my body again, and I will take it.

I walk the tray to the replicator and recycle it. I make sure that I am controlling my body, every microexpression and every movement something tactical now. I have to approach it like a mission and right now I need to get out of here. I keep my shoulders level, pace even, head up. Eyes forward. No scanning, no hesitation. The version of me that moves through these corridors looks functional. He knows where he is going. He does not draw attention.

I take the direct route to the barracks. Same stride, same rhythm. I pass people, but I could not tell you who. I am already halfway gone by then, running checks on my breathing, tracking muscle tension, making sure I will get back to the bunk before it starts.

That is the only thing that matters now. I can feel the memory coming. I know the order. One thing leads to the next. The fork triggered it, or maybe it was always waiting and it just chose the second to come. There is no use trying to stop it.

All I can do is be in the right place when it hits, somewhere no one will notice my eyes staring at nothing or little twitches of fingers.

I make it to the bunk. Lie flat on it, boots not even off. Hands empty. No one too close. When it comes, I am ready. It’s part of the pattern now and I have always been good at recognising a pattern.


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

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