A Responsive Balance

Posted on Thu Sep 11th, 2025 @ 1:28pm by Lieutenant JG Constance 'Connie' Montoya & Tavrek Harland

1,467 words; about a 7 minute read

Mission: Prologue
Location: USS Guinevere
Timeline: 2387

Connie set the last file down on her desk and let her gaze drift briefly over the room. She was still settling into it. The walls were bare of the small touches she might add in time, the shelves half-empty, and the lighting still tuned to the default ship setting. Her teapot and cups sat neatly on the low table between the two armchairs. The set was a calm shade of green, glazed smooth, with matching saucers and a small milk jug. They had followed her through postings and starbases, their presence steady, unremarkable, and never jarring. That was the point. Nothing in the tea ritual should unsettle. She had other sets of course, more delicate, or sturdier. This was the one she used the most in the office. Because she wouldn’t cry if it got thrown into the wall.

Steam curled from the pot as she poured, checking the balance between strength and warmth by sight alone. It was the first session of the day and her first with a civilian member of the crew. Not unusual, though she had been mildly surprised to see the name. A translator embedded in the Diplomatic Department still fell under her remit, at least for an initial evaluation.

She had read the brief notes on him. Tavrek Harland. Half-Vulcan, half-Human. Newly assigned to the Guinevere. A man with a long record of cultural and linguistic work, but very little on the personal side. And while he had worked with Starfleet before, this was the first proper ship he had served on as far as she could tell.

She smoothed the front of her uniform jacket and brushed an invisible crease from her sleeve. Her hair was pulled back into a sleek twist, not a strand out of place, the style chosen more for its neatness than any ornament. The precision suited her long, angular face, the high cheekbones and the sharp line of her jaw.

The chime at the door sounded. “Come in,” she called out as she straightened in her seat. Attentive, as if she was expecting a visitor for afternoon tea.

The door slid back to reveal a tall man in civilian attire, his posture straight without stiffness. His ears bore the distinct curve of Vulcan heritage, yet his eyebrows were human in their gentle arch. The set of his forehead, the shape of his eyes and the line of his nose spoke of his human mother, while the mouth and the green-grey of his eyes belonged to his Vulcan mother.

“Mr Harland,” she greeted, rising out of respect.

“Counsellor,” he replied, his voice calm, measured and without hesitation.

“Please, take a seat,” she said, giving him a small nod towards the chair. “Some tea? I have Assam in the pot, but I can replicate whatever you wish.”

“I shall try the Assam,” Tavrek said, lowering himself into the chair with unhurried precision. His movements were economical, almost measured to the breath, yet without any rigidity.

Connie poured, the liquid streaming into his cup in a steady ribbon, the steam curling between them. She set the saucer down before him, turning it so the handle faced his hand. The faint scent of malt rose from the pot, lending the room a warm and familiar note. “There is milk if you wish, and I can also replicate sugar.”

Tavrek rested his fingers lightly against the porcelain, as if assessing its temperature before lifting it. He inclined his head slightly. “Thank you, Counsellor,” he said, but he did not reach for the milk.

She nodded and retook her seat, lifting her own cup and letting the steam rise briefly between them. “Welcome to the Guinevere,” she said with a small smile that was warm yet measured. “How are you finding a Starfleet vessel?”

Tavrek let his eyes rest on her for a moment before answering. “It is…ordered. Purposeful. The rhythms are familiar enough to be comfortable, though not identical to any post I have held before.” He lifted the cup, tasted the tea, and gave a single, approving nod. “The crew appear capable. The work is...engaging.”

She caught the faint pause before he chose the word and set her cup back onto its saucer. “Engaging,” she repeated, her tone mild but curious. “In what way?”

Tavrek considered the question. “It draws on multiple disciplines. Language, certainly, but also cultural inference, context and memory. It requires presence of mind,” he said as he looked at her.

Connie studied him for a moment. He had the kind of poise and…quiet that she associated with Vulcans, but it was not the full, unyielding quiet of suppression. There was a pulse beneath it, subtle but present, like a current under calm water. “And that presence of mind...one of your mothers is Vulcan, is that right?”

He inclined his head. “Correct,” he said, the hint of a smile curving his lips.

“Do you follow the same practice of emotional suppression?” she asked, looking at him as she tilted her head a little to the side.

Tavrek’s fingers rested lightly against the porcelain, feeling its warmth through the thin glaze. “No,” he said, his tone even. “The Vulcan side of me gives me strong emotions. Very strong. Complete suppression would be unwise in my case. I use meditation to temper them, to...bring them to a more human level.” He lifted the cup, inhaled the steam, and took a measured sip. “That is sufficient. Most of the time.”

Connie tilted her head slightly, watching him over the rim of her own cup. She had met Vulcans who dismissed the question outright, and others who bristled at the suggestion of emotional life. He did neither. He answered as if the truth were a simple, necessary fact. “And when it is not?”

He regarded her for a moment, as if weighing the precision of his answer. Then he set the cup down, aligning it perfectly with the saucer before meeting her eyes again. “When it is not possible to meditate, I run. Until the breath in my lungs is all I know. Until the body has emptied what the mind cannot.”

Connie smiled faintly at that. It was not indulgent, but the kind of smile she gave when she recognised the truth in what someone said. “Efficient,” she said. “And very…human.”

His mouth curved by the smallest degree. “Balanced,” he replied instead, an eyebrow arching for a moment before he sat back.

Connie’s eyes stayed on him, measuring the word, its weight, and the ease with which he said it. “Is such a balance difficult to maintain?” she asked, holding her cup with both hands, the steam curling faintly between them.

“It is not without its demands,” Tavrek said after a pause. He studied her as he spoke. She had the stillness of someone who understood the value of letting words arrive at their own pace, and that made the conversation...unforced. “But I do not view it as a conflict. Both aspects of my heritage have value. To live in opposition to either would be to diminish the whole. There are moments when one calls more strongly than the other, but I allow that to happen. The balance is not perfect. It is...responsive.”

Connie took a slow sip, letting the thought settle. “That sounds less like a fixed state and more like an ongoing practice.”

“It is,” he agreed, his look steady. Her ability to pick out the underlying principle without overcomplicating it was, he thought, efficient in a way that appealed to him. “The work is continuous. As is the reward.”

Connie gave him a small nod, considering her next words with care. “And have you engaged in counselling before?”

“Yes,” Tavrek said, giving her a small nod. “After the Dominion War, I thought it would be wise. It helped me put some things into perspective.”

Her eyes stayed on him. “And now?”

“It is prudent to reassess one’s perspectives from time to time,” he replied. “Particularly when circumstances change.”

Connie allowed the smallest smile as she reached for the teapot. “In that case, I look forward to seeing where our conversations take us.” She topped up both their cups, the steam curling between them once more. “Welcome aboard, Mr Harland.”

Tavrek inclined his head. “Thank you, Counsellor.” He took the refilled cup, letting the warmth seep into his hands before lifting it to his lips.

For a moment neither of them spoke, the quiet filled only by the faint hum of the ship and the soft clink of porcelain as cups met saucers. The conversation had touched on what mattered. The rest, he thought, could wait.

---

Lt. JG Connie Montoya
Counsellor
USS Guinvere

&

Tavrek Harland
Translation Specialist
USS Guinevere

RSS Feed