Not Enemy, Not Ally

Posted on Tue Jun 10th, 2025 @ 4:39pm by Sergeant Jace Morven & Captain Niun Standing Bear
Edited on on Tue Jun 10th, 2025 @ 8:01pm

2,850 words; about a 14 minute read

Mission: Prologue
Location: USS Guinevere
Timeline: 2388

While most members of Alpha shift were waking up and thinking about food, Niun was up and ready to run. Dressed in unrelieved black, loose-fitting pants and a long-sleeved shirt with soft boots and a series of thin belts that wrapped around his waist that held a sheathed dagger, Niun entered the running track and went through a series of stretches. He made a mental note to remember to thank Jackson's wife and aunts for the new clothes, home-made and based on his explanations of what he wore on Kulath, what he was most comfortable in. It pleased him, this act of caring, so reminiscent of what the Amrazi had once did for him and the rest of the Azhadi.

Between one stretch and the next, he took off, settling easily into a quick pace that he could maintain for literally hours. Easier, when he was moving, doing, to outpace the memories of that world, that life and to push aside the hunger, the need for that life.

The corridor to the running track was quiet, just the way Jace preferred it. It was quiet with no one breathing down his neck or trying to make polite conversation before 0600. The solitude wasn't just habit; it was preservation. This space was one of the few onboard where he could move without thinking, without checking his posture, his tone, his hands. Where he wasn't pretending to be something he wasn't.

Except this morning, someone was already there. He paused at the edge of the track, eyes narrowing slightly. The figure was in motion...precise, fluid. Dressed in black, all soft folds and layered belts, with something strapped at the waist. A blade. Real or ceremonial? Hard to tell from here. Most people on this ship didn't carry steel like that unless they were trying to make a statement. But for this man, it looked like the weapon was an extension of himself, not a statement, a fact.

Jace watched for another beat. The man ran like a predator at idle, smooth stride, barely wasting energy. Not showy. Not casual. Controlled. Familiar, in a way Jace felt in his gut before his mind caught up. He was trained. Dangerous. He catalogued the details instinctively, the way he always did when confronted with a possible threat. Narrower build, but deceptively so. Shoulders stayed square even at pace, balance was perfect. Not fast enough to outpace a stun burst, but if it came to close quarters...

Sweep the front leg. Target the hip. Drive in before he gets to the knife. Hope the guy's joints are carbon-standard. The assessment happened in a split second, a trait of his years living with anyone being a threat, potential or real.

Jace stepped inside, silent as habit, stretching his shoulders back with a slow roll, letting the motion loosen the tension along his spine. His gear was regulation black, body-hugging. No decoration. No meaning. He didn't have pretty things given to him. He replicated what fit and forgot about it until it wore out, when he recycled it and repeated the process. No charm, no jewelry, just him and Starfleet issued clothing. If the other man noticed, he didn’t react. He didn’t like being around unknowns. But this wasn't posturing. It wasn’t bluff. Whoever this guy was, he wasn't here to be seen.

Jace stepped onto the track, pacing himself deliberately behind the runner...two lanes over, enough distance to read without engaging. He wasn't going to give up the one of the only places on this damn ship that helped keep his brain from chewing through itself just because someone else showed up.

So he ran, muscles warming, eyes always watching. Not out of paranoia. Just practice. And maybe a little curiosity. Because he hadn't seen anyone who looked like that before, who carried themselves like that.

Niun was not unaware, his senses carried the information to him, even in the sterile confines of a starship. Breathing even, controlled. He stays back. Privacy or an attempt at maintaining the upper hand? Uncertain. Crew members generally tried to keep up which meant that he had to slow down to accommodate them; good that this one didn't bother with conventions but maybe bad that he kept his status ambiguous.

Among the Azhadi, there was no sense of competition. They trained together, pushing themselves to excel, working against their own standards. Almost without realizing it, he accelerated, moving from what was for him an easy pace to something faster. Long hair flying, his lithe form embraced the quicker pace, and he found himself smiling with the sheer pleasure of it all. Running with his brothers, moving through uneven terrain, weaving between trees, calling out jokes to one another, each footfall in unison, quiet. Waiting for the First to call them to the hunt.

Jace kept his pace. No, he kept the distance. When the other man sped up, he matched it. When he slowed, Jace adjusted without thinking. A measured reaction, automatic. Some internal thread that pulled tight to maintain equilibrium. He could have closed the gap. Could have come up beside him, made it something deliberate. That would have made it a challenge. A test. He didn't want that.

Not yet.

Not with him.

He could have fallen back. Given space. Let the man come up behind him.

No.

He couldn't.

He didn't trust himself like that. Didn't trust what his body might do if it caught movement in the corner of his eye. A shadow coming up from behind, pacing too close. His reflexes were wired differently. No leash here. No handler watching from the edge of the field, calling him back. That restraint had to come from him now. And some days, that was harder than it should be.

He pushed the thought down and focused on the now. The rhythm. The tension in his legs. The slow build of heat behind his ribs. The sweat beginning to cling to his shirt, weightless and familiar. He knew how to live in a body that didn't ask for comfort. He didn't expect to stop, so he didn't stop.

Breathing was even. Controlled. Just another system to monitor. Every movement calculated, placed. He'd been trained for endurance, to feel the burn and keep going. The ache didn't matter. It just was. Like heat. Like gravity.

And ahead of him...the other man. Not just a runner. Not just some officer keeping fit. The way he moved. The way he ran. There was purpose in it. Something trained. Disciplined.

Warrior. Fighter.

Jace had catalogued him already, continued to do so now he had time to assess him in detail. Without trying. If it came down to it, if things turned, he'd need to go low, drive through the hips, unbalance him before the reach came into play. Disarm first. Disable second. Don't give him time to recover. But it wouldn't come to that. Not unless something changed.

So he kept running. Eyes forward. Thoughts locked down. Let the distance stay exactly where it was. Safe. Measured. Controlled.

Niun sighed inwardly. No joy then. No sense of community or fun. This was ... other. His mind slid back through time and he was again, for a moment, the Azhadi warrior who never accepted defeat, never backed down, and always, always had a plan. Assume that training was equal, play to Mri advantage. What Niun had, that far excelled humanoid standards, were reflexes and a quickness of movement that served him in good stead in the years of service to his I'mai, cursed be her name.

Know your enemy.

No, he thought. Not enemy. No. Crew member. No. Other.

The Starfleet officer at war with the Azhadi warrior. A possible danger. Definitely unknown. Unacceptable. And so, the Azhadi warrior took control and spun, running backward for a moment, studying his enemy (no, crew member). A frankly assessing gaze. He spun around again, resuming his formerly leisurely pace. Known now. His memory supplying the details from his earlier studies. As First Officer, it was his duty to know, to understand, to lead. Not a threat unless it was in the other's mind.

Not a threat. But if the other stepped up, offered threat, the Azhadi warrior would accept.

Jace saw it coming...the adjustment in gait, the way Niun’s shoulders rotated just slightly ahead of his feet. Subtle. Controlled. A decision made before the movement even began. The other man turned, running backward now, eyes on him. Not a stumble. Not a mistake. A deliberate look. Jace didn't flinch. Didn't blink. Just let the gaze hit and slide over him like rain off armour, expression neutral, steps steady.

But his body had already started to shift. The same way it always did when someone watched him like that. Like a handler. Like a rival. Like prey. Muscles tightening, blood sharpening. That old instinct, 'show no weakness, meet the gaze, hold your ground', rose unbidden and hot under the ribs.

The man wasn't showing teeth. It wasn't a threat, not exactly. It was a read. A scan. A statement. 'I see you' and worse: 'I understand what you are.'

Jace felt the snap in his mind. That hair-thin line he didn’t cross unless someone made him. It pulled taut. He could close the gap. Push forward. See how fast this guy really was. Could find the limits of that grace, test the weight behind the blade on his hip. Part of him wanted to. But if he did...

If he did, someone would bleed. Maybe not here. Maybe not now. But the dominoes would fall, one after another, until someone stepped in with orders and containment protocols and his name written on the incident report. And it would be the end of him here, another mark against him, showing him as the attack dog.

He didn't have a leash anymore. But he had something else.

Choice.

So he pulled in a breath. Let it out. Slower this time. And he peeled off, veered quietly off the lane, let his steps slow, kept his head down but posture calm...not retreat, not submission. Just...pulling the plug. Cutting the wire before it sparked. The running stopped. That familiar rhythm fractured. The fire in his muscles started to cool, the strain settling into his bones like memory. He moved to the edge of the track, rolled his shoulders, not looking back. Turning his back to the other man was one of the hardest things he could do, but he did it as he went to replicate himself water to drink.

It wasn't defeat. It was discipline. A long time ago, he'd been taught how to win. Later, he'd been taught how to survive. But this, this was different. This was learning how to live in a place where neither option had to come first.

Even if it burned.

He stayed there, breathing in the recycled air, letting his heart slow down. Letting himself come down from the fight that never actually happened, as he drank the tepid water to stop himself from coughing, or acting. It hadn't been a threat. Not yet. But the gap had narrowed, just for a second, and that was enough. Enough to know he'd have to keep his edge sharp. Just in case.

Niun continued to run, lost in thoughts about the Sergeant now on the side of the track, and found himself more than a little curious. His agile mind, buoyed by eidetic memory, viewing the brief encounter from differing angles. In the moment, he had known/felt the precipice the man had figuratively stood on, had read the chances in posture indicating the beginnings of threat, and understood that this was a predator and not a warrior.

Other.

The run had soured for him and the Azhadi within him could not relax when there was danger in his vicinity. Predators attacked. Sometimes they waited for their moment, sometimes they tried to take their prey unawares. Always they were not to be trusted. Both sides of his personality, his being, called for him to protect -- his crew, his captain.

Other.

He came off the track and headed for the exit, nodding to the predator as he left, and letting his see in the chill expression and in the way he moved, the warrior willing to meet the predator's threat.

Jace tracked the motion without turning his head, without seeming to look. Peripheral. Always peripheral. He caught the shift in Niun's stride, the change in cadence...subtle, deliberate. The man came off the track like he was exiting a sparring ring, not ending a workout. Not tired. Not finished. Just done.

He passed close enough for Jace to feel the tension still radiating off him. Not explosive. Not loose. Coiled. That nod...cool and precise, it wasn't a greeting. It was a message. Cold and hard, I see you. I know what you are. I'm not afraid.

And that was the part that hit Jace.

Jace had lived a life where fear was a kind of currency...subtle, unspoken, but useful. He didn't need to threaten anyone. He didn't need to raise his voice. Just his presence...quiet, still, observant, paired with his physical appearance and cold eyes, was enough to make most people move around him. Hesitate. Recalculate. Give him space. Space he needed, so he could stay safe.

But the other man hadn't flinched. Hadn't pulled back. Hadn't treated him like a threat to avoid, but something beneath him. He'd marked him. And walked away.

Jace didn't return the nod. Didn't move. He kept his hands loose, his breath measured, every nerve dialed back to baseline like he was coming down from a near-fight.

Because that's what it had been. Not physical. But a space where Jace had met someone with the same, if not better, skillset as he himself had. Someone who could hurt him. And he'd made the right call. Backed off. Stepped out. Let the tension bleed out into space instead of escalating into something... unmanageable.

Still, it lingered. That whisper-thin edge of something inside him that hated being read so clearly. Being seen as a wolf. Not a person. An animal.

Something dangerous to avoid.

That’s what the stranger had seen.

And the worst part? He wasn't wrong.

Jace didn't need the reminder. He lived with it. The reflexes that had kept him alive on the worst days, in the worst places, weren't noble. They weren't born of discipline or purpose. They were forged from survival. From needing to be faster, meaner, less human than the thing coming at him.

Sometimes, even now, when he moved too quickly, or caught himself watching someone too long, he could feel it: that buried thing under his ribs, the one with teeth and no name.

And a part of him hated that. Not all of him. Just enough to twist something inside of him. Jace shifted, exhaled slow. Rolled his shoulders and dropped into a low crouch near the edge of the track, elbows braced on his knees, gaze fixed on the floor.

The stranger had seen him. The way only someone who knew could see...another trained creature, another weapon, but the impression that Jace got was that there was something more noble in the other man than he himself possessed. And maybe that made them the same. Or maybe it made them a danger to each other.

Either way, something had been exposed. And not just to this stranger. It made Jace want to keep running. He wanted to push until his muscles screamed, until thought dissolved into rhythm. That's what the track was for. What mornings were for. But now?

Now the space felt thinner. Less safe. Less his.

So he sat. Let the sweat cool on his skin. Let the hum of the ship bleed into his bones. Tried not to think about what it meant that he'd walked away. Or what it meant that a part of him wished he hadn’t.

Niun made the walk back to his quarters lost in thought. Away from the situation, the Starfleet officer held the upper hand but the Azhadi warrior would not be silenced. Predator. Dangerous. And because Niun trusted his instincts, he decided to investigate this individual further and perhaps order a psychological evaluation.

No perhaps. Predator. Dangerous. To himself? Maybe. To the crew? Possibly. To people we met on away teams, very possibly. No proof. Only instincts honed through service to the traitorous I'mai. Nowhere near enough.

Okay, then, Niun thought. Have to get him to a counselor and as soon as possible. I need to know if he can be trusted, if I'm off or I'm right, and I'm going to make a point of running with him in the mornings because what happened this morning? That can't keep happening. Warriors need control and this man, if he's a predator and not a warrior, then he's not someone I can trust.

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