Quiet Corners

Posted on Thu Jun 19th, 2025 @ 7:52pm by Sergeant Jace Morven & Ensign Magnus Daire

1,715 words; about a 9 minute read

Mission: Prologue
Location: USS Guinevere
Timeline: 2388

Deck 20 of the Guinevere breathed differently.

Maybe it was the lack of regular foot traffic, the absence of departments keeping time with routine, of doors opening and closing, of people milling in and out with coffee cups and purpose. Deck 20 wasn’t a place where anything lived. No quarters. No labs. Just auxiliary systems, conduit access, half-forgotten storage units. The in-between spaces. The bones under the skin.

That made it perfect.

Jace Morven moved with the deliberate weight of someone who didn’t just pass through a space...he measured it. Each step was quiet, boots worn down by terrain more hostile than carpeted decking. His gaze swept corners and shadows, not for aesthetics or curiosity, but for function: Where someone could hide. Where someone could strike. Where someone could vanish.

He wasn’t exploring.

He was preparing.

He’d been working his way down the ship for days: deck by deck, blind spot by blind spot. Not for a mission. No one had sent him. But then, no one ever had to. Jace didn’t need orders to get ready for the next fight. He just needed space.

His fatigues were standard issue...drab, practical, impersonal. Only the combadge and the rank gave them a name. His posture was straight-backed, but loose. A FGF trooper’s ease. A predator’s economy.

No phaser. Not today. He wasn’t on duty, and walking around armed in peacetime drew too many eyes...and worse, too many questions. His knife was still with him, small and boot-sheathed. Habit. These days it was more likely to be used on fruit than flesh, but that didn’t matter.

The pockets of his fatigues carried small, essential things. In the left, a tin of dry peppermint leaves...sharp and grounding. In the right, a field ration bar. Dense. High in calories. He always carried one. Didn’t matter where he was. Didn’t matter if he ate it. Some habits never stopped making sense.

He paused, let his breathing settle. Inhaled once, slow and even. Eyes scanned the corridor as he stood still, mentally sketching the lines...vent access overhead, junction nodes on the wall, a ten-step dead zone around the next bend.

Soft spot. Partial cover. Blind angle.

Another piece of the map in his head. Another place to remember.

[One of Those Forgotten Corners | Deck 20]

First rule of survival. Multiple places to go. If you sleep in the same place every night, they know where to find you. Second rule of survival (personal), finding a quiet place to think, away from the sheer volume of noise that a ship's complement produced in a day, was equally essential.

An analysis of the deck-by-deck diagram of the ship revealed thirty-five potential spaces. Ten were eliminated the first day by virtue of being way too close to populated areas. Another five were frequented by those wishing to spend time with each other where non-fraternization rules between officers and enlisted didn't matter (going on the theory that if an officer kisses a crewman and no one sees said kiss, it didn't happen).

From there, it was a matter of testing each one; tonight, he was sitting in a curved section of what was probably meant to be an entrance to a Jeffries tube. The other end had been blocked off leaving this tiny bit of unused space that fit Magnus' lean body perfectly. A small backpack lay on the deck, emptied now, and a bottle of hot tea sat on the deck where it flattened out with a filled cup beside it. He'd thrown a light blanket over him and, with his knees drawn up, had his PADD (the personal one) resting on his thighs.

He'd skipped dinner; food didn't interest him not when Rook had a problem to sort out. He was only a third of the way through salting the manor house with clues, a few valid, some to provide background, and a few to throw the 'detective' entirely off track. He lay back, mentally visualizing the scene, while his agile mind sorted through possibilities. If someone were to see him (and that would make this spot unusable), they might think he was asleep or daydreaming. Let them. Magnus worked best in the times when people forgot he was there.

[Corridor | Deck 20]

Jace moved on.

The corridor turned, narrowed. Another ten steps brought him past the blind corner: partial cover, poor line of sight, just wide enough to hide someone standing flush against the wall.

That’s when he caught the glint.

It was small, subtle. The way a PADD screen reflected low ambient light when someone forgot to dim it. Not enough to draw attention...unless you were looking for it. Or unless your eyes had been trained to notice things like that.

He slowed. He didn’t change posture. Just stepped quieter, shifted his centre of balance, let his breathing drop to silent. Cautious, not hostile. A few steps closer and the source came into view...a figure, folded into the narrow crook of a sealed access alcove. Wrapped loosely in a thin blanket. Slender frame. Barely more than a shape, but the profile clicked together in Jace’s mind with crisp efficiency.

Young. Male. Thin.

No combat stance. No tension in the limbs.

Just... lying there. Half-curled. Knees drawn up beneath the fabric. A bottle of something resting on the deck beside him, cup balanced beside it like the whole thing had been arranged with care. A rucksack sat open and emptied nearby.

A nest.

Not a tactical position. Not a trap.

A hideout.

Jace didn’t step forward. He didn’t need to. He saw the edge of the PADD resting on the man’s thighs, the dull light reflecting against high cheekbones and a narrow jaw. The face was familiar...not a name, not yet. Just someone he’d seen on the ship, who he had noticed for their stillness.

The blanket caught his eye. Not the colour...just the way it was pulled. Tucked in. Protective. The kind of covering you don’t arrange for comfort. You arrange it to disappear.

That hit something old in him, a bruise he did not like to poke.

Tunnels. Rusted metal. Kids sleeping half-buried under rags in the junction hollows of Turkana IV. Not out of laziness. Out of necessity. Out of fear.

[Hiding Spot #1 | Deck 20]

Not alone. He didn't move because (a) you don't give away an advantage if you have one and (b) he wasn't exactly in a position to bolt, now was he. Still, a hunch was a hunch. He remained still and a memory slipped into his mind. A night when a gang of thugs were looking for kids to roust and he'd had to wait it out in a tunnel, on a narrow ledge, with sewage below and rats scurrying along. The memory was real but for a moment, there were rags and others ... and that well, that was never true.

Jace didn’t speak. Didn’t move closer. Just stood there a moment longer, eyes skimming the details...body language, bottle, cup, open bag. No weapons visible. No immediate signs of threat.

Not a fighter.

A survivor.

And one clever enough to pick a spot no one else would check.

[Hiding Spot #1 | Deck 20]

Not a threat. But this spot would move down on his list to maybe first alternate. He'd wait a few days and come back, see if whomever this was, returned. And if so, it would be crossed off. Shame though because it was quiet and comfortable enough though he'd bring a thicker blanket next time. If there was a next time.

He made a few notes on the pad. That method of making artwork from hair. When had that started and could it be used by the killer? Maybe differences in color, locks from each of the victims. A gown with a torn bodice in the maid's room for mending. Would need to determine period clothing so he could replicate it properly.

Still there. Hunches had been part of his life for as long as he could remember. These sudden bits of information that came to him and he'd learned, and rather quickly, to rely on them. Err on the side of caution because that's how you stayed alive on Freecloud. That's how you made it to adulthood with enough credits saved to buy passage on a rusty transport vessel heading for Sol System.

Jace took a step back. Quiet. Controlled. No sudden movement.

He reached into the pocket of his trousers and pulled out the emergency ration bar. The weight felt comforting...familiar. He glanced at the man.

Decision made.

He’d seen enough. Been reminded enough.

He crouched, just briefly, and placed it on the edge of a low wall bracket near the alcove. Not close enough to startle. Just within reach. Easy to ignore if it wasn’t wanted. Easy to pocket if it was.

No words. No weighty silence. Just a quiet, deliberate gesture.

He straightened, cast one last glance at the figure under the blanket. Then turned without pause.

No lingering. No explanation.

Gone. Magnus breathed out slowly and continued jotting down his thoughts. When he was finished, he packed up, returning the tea to the bottle, and left the spot reluctantly. Didn't feel safe enough to stay longer, having been found so easily, and that meant spending the night in his quarters. As he came around the corner, a lifetime of situational awareness told him that something was different; he quartered the area and his hazel gaze locked onto the ration bar almost immediately.

Observed. Seen. Gone. The seen part was hard but the ration bar, well, that said something. He nodded his acceptance, resolved to check for surveillance devices anyway (because that was just smart), and put the bar in his backpack. Sighing, he headed toward the turbolift. His quarters, on Deck 9, didn't feel safe but for tonight, they would have to do.

--------

Ensign Magnus Daire
Quartermaster
USS Guinevere

&

Sergeant Jace Morven
Platoon Sergeant, FGF
USS Guinevere

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