Small Wins [6/6]

Posted on Sat Jun 21st, 2025 @ 11:57am by Sergeant Jace Morven

1,211 words; about a 6 minute read

Mission: Prologue
Location: USS Fenrir
Timeline: 2388

He hadn’t minded Sergeant Brell.

The man was just another trooper, moved where the FGF wanted him. Could’ve been anyone. It wasn’t personal. Not to Jace.

He hadn’t even been offended when Command gave the stripes to someone else.

Not because he understood the politics -he hadn’t, then or now- but because it wasn’t the kind of thing he noticed. Or cared about.

Whatever conversations happened behind sealed doors, whatever names got circled or crossed out… it didn’t change what mattered.

What he knew was this: after everything, they were slotted back into the shape of a proper unit. One Sergeant. Two Corporals. A medic. The rest, troopers.
Standard structure. Standard lies. They went out. They bled. They came back. Or they didn’t. So really...

not much had changed.

Feldin-3, Outer Trenches – February 24, 2375

The ground was sand and soot and blood again.

The trench was shallow: barely worth calling cover. But it was all they had. Brell was down, shoulder shredded: uniform torn, blood slick and dark. A blast had punched clean through, shoulder to chest. Not fatal. Not yet.

But it would be, if medevac didn’t get there in time.

Above them, the sky flickered with phaser arcs and the harsh whine of Jem’Hadar fire. The enemy wasn’t pressing the line, not now, but the lull wouldn’t last.

The field behind them was littered with bodies. Four Federation. Nine Dominion.
Jace hadn’t counted until now.

Kerren was still working comms, trying to reroute a corridor. Banik had pushed ahead to clear the path. Terrow crouched close by, pale and jumpy, but doing what he was told. Martinez was at their flank, rifle steady.

And Jace knelt beside the man bleeding out.

The medic was dead. One of the four.

The kit was open beside Brell. A used hypo tossed in the dust. Jace’s fingers were steady as he kept pressure on the wound. “Medevac’s en route,” he said. Calm. Not cold. Just… present.

Brell’s breathing was rough. Pain in every line of his face. The hypo had dulled the worst of it, but not enough. His good hand pressed weakly over Jace’s, trying to help.

The dermal regenerator was gone. Jace had already checked. Most likely still clipped to the medic’s belt...what was left of it.

“You shouldn’t have pushed me,” Brell rasped. “You were supposed to be in cover. Not hauling my ass.”

Jace didn’t answer.

Brell let out a sound: half-breath, half-laugh. “Always the hero. That’s the joke, right? You don’t even know you’re not one.”

Jace’s jaw shifted slightly. He didn’t look up. Just kept working the gauze. Methodical. Tight. Blood slicked his gloves. Some of it Brell’s. Some of it not.

“You’re not a trooper,” Brell murmured. “You’re a weapon. That’s what they made. What they kept. You kill fast. Brutal. Clean. You keep people alive, sure...but they’re never gonna promote you. You scare ’em too much.”

Jace didn’t flinch.

“You’re not Starfleet,” Brell said again, quieter now. “You’re what they use to survive the shit they don’t put in speeches. But when the war ends… they won’t need you. No medals. No reassignment. Just gone. Quietly.” He coughed. Blood at the corner of his mouth. Maybe lungs, maybe a thorn cheek...there was no medical tricorder to consult. “So you’ve got two choices, Morven. Change. Or go out on your terms. But don’t let ’em box you like a mad dog.”

Jace paused. His hands stilled. And somewhere in the quiet, a memory stirred—Tho’s voice, raw and low in the back of his head: “I’ve buried your kind by the dozen.” Maybe he was still trying to crawl out of that same dirt. Still proving he could stand. Still bleeding for people who didn’t ask him to.

The beam shimmered in above them. White-blue light lit the trench.

Jace stood as Brell vanished into the transporter field. Didn’t say a word.
Not until the trench was empty again.

Martinez found him after nightfall, sitting near the perimeter beacon. Helmet off. Arms draped across his knees. Dried blood on his sleeves. Too much of it not his. They didn’t speak at first. “You always find the worst places to sit,” Martinez said eventually.

Jace didn’t look up. After a long beat, he said, “He’s not wrong.”

Martinez frowned. “About what?”

Jace didn’t answer. Didn’t need to.

Martinez stared at him a moment longer. When they spoke again, it was softer. “You saved his life.”

Jace shifted. Barely. Just enough to show he heard.

“That part never makes it into the reports,” Martinez said. “You pull people out of fire like it’s nothing.”

Still no answer. But something in Jace’s jaw moved. A quiet twitch.

Martinez stepped forward. Not close enough to crowd him. Just close enough to be there. They knelt, slow, and kissed his cheek. Not romantic. Just...a person reaching out. Then they stood. “You don’t have to say anything. Just—don’t forget someone saw you.”

And they left him there, in the dark. No reply. No argument. Just wind and silence and the weight of what didn’t get said.

Jace sat a while longer. Let the quiet settle over him like dust. Eventually, he ran a hand across his face, touched the spot where they’d kissed him.

Felt the blood under his nails.

Then he stood. Walked back toward the lights. Still moving. Still breathing.

Still Jace.

USS Guinevere, 2388

He lay in his bunk. Lights off. Eyes shut. Still awake.

That trench came back sometimes...dirt, soot, blood. Not often. Just when he was tired enough not to fight it. No memorial. No coordinates. Just the sound of Brell choking out his opinion like it was gospel. The weight of his hand over Jace’s, trying to slow the bleeding.

Brell had said a lot. That Jace was a weapon. That Starfleet would use him, then toss him. That he’d either have to change or end up dead in a hole like that one.

At the time, Jace said nothing.

Now? He still didn’t know if Brell was right.

He hadn’t changed. Not like people meant. Still efficient. Still dangerous. Still damn good at what he was made for. Maybe older. Smarter sometimes. Slower in ways that mattered. Faster in others. Adjusted.

But he hadn’t died. Not in that trench. Not in the others.

He kept going. Trained the new ones. Gave orders when no one else would. Quiet stuff. No speeches. Just enough to keep people breathing.

Sometimes that was enough. Sometimes it wasn’t.

But people like Martinez still looked at him like he mattered. Like he wasn’t just a ghost with a pulse. He didn’t always get it. Didn’t always trust it. But it was there.

So what did that make him?

Not a monster. Not a hero.

Just alive. Still here.

---

Sergeant Jace Morven
Platoon Sergeant
Alpha Squad
USS Guinevere

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